My first apartment in New York was conveniently located right across the street — well within stumbling distance — from the dive bar Fubar at 305 East 50th Street.
I always wondered how the reputedly rowdy tavern — which the doorman warned me about on move-in day — got its trade name past the liquor board.
As the Times glossed over today: “It is a military term that, in its polite form, stands for fouled up beyond all recognition.” Or, as anyone who has seen the film Saving Private Ryan (or the Stallone classic Tango & Cash) would tell it: “Fucked up beyond all recognition.”
The term was an accurate descriptor of the place — even before Saturday’s horrifying crane collapse, which literally pulverized the whole building.
The no-frills menu consisted of two things: alcohol and popcorn. So patrons got properly smashed. And special signage was required to remind boisterous sidewalk congregators to come indoors every once in a while: “IF YOU ARE NOT SMOKING PLEASE SOCIALIZE INSIDE THE BAR.”
Needless to say, many neighbors were not fans of the noisy joint. But it was well patronized, especially on weekdays.
Owner John LaGreco told the Post he had planned to open early that fateful day for a pre-St. Patrick’s Day party but luckily changed his mind. Only porter Juan Perez was inside at the time and was dramatically rescued.
According to the Times, “Mr. LaGreco is already thinking about reopening in the same spot.” Now, that’s fucked up.