September 11, 2010 - Nine short years ago on this date almost three thousand people got out of bed, had a cup of coffee and headed off to work. These people, the majority of whom were American citizens, did not return home that evening due to the actions of twelve evil, fanatical cowards. Among the victims were firefighters, cops, electricians, plumbers, attorneys, physicians and clerical workers. Some were unemployed while others were retired. They were a lot like you and me.

Regardless of your political persuasion, religious beliefs or ethnicity please do not ever forget what happened to these mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins and friends. On this day force yourself, as uncomfortable as it may make you, to watch replays of the planes crashing, the buildings burning and the horrendous human suffering that we all witnessed on September 11, 2001. Recall the horror, sadness, helplessness and anger you felt. Remember the valiant efforts of the emergency workers and private citizens who worked tirelessly to find and treat the injured and to recover the remains of the deceased.

Despite being battered, bruised and weakened by the greed and misguided agendas of a few, we are still the greatest nation in the history of mankind. Fly our flag proudly and say a prayer for the souls of the murdered and their families. Don't ever forget this date.
God bless America.
-Mike Young

Thank God this hasn't happened since!

Labor Day 9-3-2001: The Ark jumps the shark

In the nineteen sixties, the Ark Lounge, a small watering hole located in an historically challenged area of Charleston, SC, defined the word "dive" as it pertains to bars. From the tattered linoleum bar top that matched the well worn linoleum floor, to the rickety wooden bar stools with green vinyl seats highlighted by dingy white padding peaking out of numerous rips, to the floor which slanted to the front southeast corner of the little frame building, the same corner that was occupied by the jukebox, this place screamed DIVE. Every guy who stumbled into and tilted the jukebox blamed the floor, thus absolving himself of any responsibility to reimburse the generous soul who had ponied up a quarter to provide music for all. The air was permeated by a funky smell that can only be achieved by marinating the essence of stale spilled beer with the stench of cigarette smoke for a minimum of ten years, a familiar odor instantly identified by wives, girlfriends and mothers. Clientele included salesmen, craftsmen, dockworkers, politicians, a few lawyers, a doctor or two and damn near every cadet who ever attended The Citadel. Needless to say I loved the sixties version of the Ark.

Today I went to the Ark for the annual Labor Day party.

Sadly, the Ark as I knew it had “jumped the shark”. The phrase “jumped the shark” describes the moment when something that was once great has reached a point where it can now only decline in quality and popularity. The origin of the phrase comes from a Happy Days episode in which a thirty something Henry Winkler, dressed in jeans and leather jacket as the perpetually cool Fonzi, jumps a shark while water skiing. Game, set, match. Richie, Potsy and Ralph Malph had reached the point of no return.

I sipped my first draft in the Ark in 1962 and for the first time since then I knew fewer than half of the patrons. Maybe if I had stopped in a little more often over the past couple of years I would have seen it coming. I didn’t notice as many strangers at the New Years Day party but that was a much larger crowd. Maybe it was hearing several Yankee and Midwest accents that contrasted sharply with the gullah/geechee patois that is native to the old Ark. Maybe it was the uneasiness I felt when two women from off approached me more than once offering to sell me a two dollar raffle ticket on a twenty dollar prize. What the hell was that all about? Surely this couldn’t be the same Ark where we played shuffleboard and pool for short beers. Where we rolled dice for the privilege of playing the jukebox. Where Herman Mappus and Zeke Pye got loaded in the afternoon and played against one another in the Bishop England/ Charleston High basketball game that night. Where a guy named Sparky and his nephew came to a New Years party and got in a helluva fight … with one another. Where Rudy fell off of his stool every Friday and where hundreds, maybe thousands of Citadel cadets drank their first beer. In retrospect there were many events that led up to this moment. Maybe it was when women were first allowed in as something other than bachelor party entertainment.

Prior to women obtaining keys the Ark had been a great place to get away from the wife or girlfriend (or both for some members). A safe house of sorts. It was a place where you could go after being banished from your home by a fed up wife. It was the first stop for you and your Puerto Rican suitcase (Scrib’s (the owner) definition of a hastily packed Piggly Wiggly bag). It was a place where you could use the words that drinking men use without looking around to make sure you didn’t offend someone. Maybe it was when Scrib stopped bartending. To this day it seems unnatural for him to be on the stool side of the bar. Maybe it was when I quit drinking. I had my last adult beverage in the Ark. I left there severely over served on an August afternoon in 1989. I fell asleep at the wheel forty miles later on highway seventeen and proceeded to park my Saab in a ditch near the ACE Basin. No injuries and minor damage to the car. I thanked the Lord for watching over me once again and swore off booze. To my surprise I have yet to take another drink. Maybe it was the passage of almost forty years. Things do change in that period of time, even in Charleston. It was a sad day for me but I’ll probably be back. Maybe it was just one of those days when many of the old regulars had other plans. Maybe it wasn’t. Hell, maybe I’ve jumped the shark.

Letter to the Editor May 2005

Charles “Scrib” Johnson, co-owner of the Ark Lounge on Grove Street from 1958 to 1998, passed away last week. He was seventy-five. Charlie pulled the tap for my first draft beer in the early sixties and my last in 1989. I figured I might as well stick with a pro until I was full. Scrib also poured thousands of Citadel cadets their first draft in the tiny building across the street from College Park. The Ark was the nearest access to alcohol when leaving campus, a short walk down the railroad tracks and a slightly longer stumble back. Many cadets who remained in Charleston after graduating became regulars while others placed the Ark high on their itinerary when coming back for a visit. The three generations of satisfied Scrib customers were a mixed bag of dockworkers, attorneys, politicians, salesmen, and construction tradesmen. There were also more than a few characters who had no visible means of support yet always seemed to possess or have the ability to hustle beer and cigarette money. Scrib had to be tough yet have a good sense of humor to deal with a clientele that included folks with names like Naughty, Gator, Coon, Strawberry, Hack, Grumpy, Horse head, and Wing nut. He was always up to the challenge. It also helped that he was smarter and better informed than most of them, although he’d insist that wasn’t much of a compliment. Scribby was not a warm and fuzzy sort of guy; it was just not in his nature. It can be safely stated that there was not a politically correct bone in his arthritic body. Whatever was on his mind came out of his mouth … unfiltered. What he was, however, was a good and loyal friend to his friends and customers. Over the years he loaned what must have amounted to thousands of dollars to those of us who always seemed to be running short. Most loans were five or ten bucks at a time and matured on payday. The Ark was as good a first stop as any for you and your Piggly Wiggly suitcase should you be banished from home by an irate wife or landlord, as long as you didn’t whine or cry in your beer, that is. More than once someone trying to start a pity party was given directions by Scrib as to where to locate sympathy in the dictionary. Those directions cannot be printed here. Over the last couple of years as his health deteriorated he had ample reason to complain but stuck rigidly to his own advice and chose not to. Although Scrib has had his last call and is off to meet the Ark angels who predeceased him, he’ll be remembered fondly and missed by the Johnson family and his family at the Ark. Pour me a short one Scrib.