Sunday, I missed the thunder storm. I was watching "10,000 BC" with my headphones on while proofing some patterns. My neighbor said the sky opened up with peels of thunder and then formed something that looked like a small funnel cloud. I just thought that I had good headphones. Parts of Brooklyn flooded with streets that looked like white rapids. But Saturday brought particularly decent weather for Mooney's — a warm summer evening with a cool breeze, the scent of Silver Linden blossom, sweet, almost cloying.
Mooney's, an old Brooklyn watering hole, will not be re-newing their lease as their rent had more than doubled. But they close their doors with a smile. Mooney's, O'Connors, Freddy's — the emerald Triangle is broken. Is it now just a green line?
The last time I was by was for the Freddy's v. O'Connor's post-softball game drink (OC's v. Fred's: 9 to 8). I admit I'm not a Mooney's reg, but this was an occasion not to be missed, so I brought my camera.
I met up with Owen, Steph, Mike, Don, Nancy, Kevin, Tom, G.R ., et al— all the townies and Brooklynite bartender royalty. Some folks came from as far way as Harlem for their last drink at the bar.
The bar was packed to the walls but Shuhei spotted me and handed me an ice-cold Bud right as I walked in. Scott, Ben, and Shuhei were busy behind the bar but they didn't miss a beat.
Generations of the Mooney family sat at the back table held up in conversation. As far as I know, Mooney's Pub had been around since the 70's here on Flatbush.
There was glad-handing and musing of days past. Everyone toasted the good times and good people.
Old friends hugged amidst the sound of clinking glasses and the buzz of conversation.
Before the night was over a melancholy drone grew louder and hushed the din of the room.