I was walking through the West Village when a summer squall came over the Hudson. In a matter of minutes, it went from hot, sunny, humid, and hazy to 3 a.m. I ducked into the Kettle of Fish on Christopher Street just as the first rain drops caught the top of my head.

The Kettle of Fish has been a venerable Village Gin Mill for nearly 50 years. Its largest claim to fame would be that, at one point, it was Bob Dylan's local. Over the years, it has moved from West 3rd Street - two different locations - to its present location on Christopher Street, right off of 7th Avenue South, where it took over for another beloved Village bar named the Lion's Head - a favorite bar of neighborhood writers for 60 years. Behind the bar on this soon to be rained-out Saturday afternoon, is a guy I came up with, called Terry 'The Pirate.'

"Well, well…the thunderstorms bring in the worst elements," he smiled.

"That's an awful nice 'Boy Howdy'. Fuck you too," I said. We shook hands and he put a bottle of Budweiser in front of me. "C'mon, Terry, Bud?"

"Nothing quite like it when the summer rain keeps the temp over 80 and the humidity at 100%." He knocked on the oak in front of the bottle. "Enjoy."

There were three groups of five sitting in the corners, trying to follow the Belmont Stakes on the Satellite TV, which kept freezing and bringing howls of indignation and demands that the owner go back to Cable.

"Busy afternoon?" I asked.

"The usual."

"Any pools going on?"

"No. After the Derby nobody really gives a shit."

"Not after Steinbrenner's horse lost."

"There were a shit load of happy Mets fans on that day, my friend," I smiled.

"You been out in the neighborhood?" Terry asked.

"Yeah. The usual places." I replied.

"I take it you've heard about O'Donnell's I take it."

"Another old school joint down the drain." I shook my head sadly.

"What's left of the old neighborhood we moved into?" He asked.

"Barfly, Molly's and McSwiggan's, I believe."

"McSwiggan's has always been a starter joint for the 22-26 set." Terry spat.

"Remember Carty's?"

"How can you forget that place, Alex? We'd walk in there when we got off shift just before last call." He smiled at the memory. "Who was with us again?"

"Shit. Me, you, Dave B., Quinny, maybe Joey Kellough."

Terry threw back his head and laughed. "The Dream Team. I remember walking in there to three other bartenders, seven strippers, six off duty hookers and 28 cops between shifts."

"If you played your cards rights, you might be able to get one of the Hookers horny enough to blow you before you left."

"And when would we leave there again?" Terry asked.

"Rarely before the sun came up." I said.

"Aren't we a little young to be waxing nostalgic over a youth that only 12 years ago?" Terry said. He pumped in a couple of drink onto a check.

"Nostalgia is the surest sign of a dying culture."

He turned from the cash register and glared at me. "Where the fuck did you come up with that one?"

"From some punk rock CD's liner notes."

"What?"

"There was a time when I thought the secret of life could be found on those liner notes."

"The secret of life can be found behind three feet of oak." Terry said sagely.

"I quote a Husker Du record and the best you can come up with is a line from that shitty movie Cocktail?"

"I'm working here. I save the show for the paying customers."