O Say Can You See The Wharf Rat

The Wharf Rat, on the corner of Ann and Lancaster, is a picture-perfect nautical bar. Far from the warfare of faux-iconography that assaults you at a Joe's Crab Shack, the colors here look like they were probably bright at some time but subdued now, faded by salt water air and further darkened by the establishments' apparent distaste for any light brighter than a lantern. On the walls, paintings of ships and their captains accompany wooden mermaids and tarnished brass, all dusted with history.

The history gets dustier on stormy nights when the inevitable power failure causes the bartenders to break out the candles. That's as good of a time as any for this story.

In 1807, Great Britain was at war with France so they naturally imposed trade restrictions. As the Brits were fresh off the American War for Independence and probably had a problem with that, they decided to stop United States merchant ships right off the coast of Maryland and tell the seamen on board to get to work for His Majesty. This rightly pissed off a bunch of people who had gained all of their power and money from shipping things. Well, few places had more of those very pissed off rich people in power than Baltimore.  So, the U.S. declared war on Britain in 1812.

I might be simplifying it a little but I've got a point to get to. Read more here.

Right away, the British Navy realized that Baltimore, specifically Fell's Point, was second only to Tortuga for skilled and morally degenerate sailors. Even worse, these salty dogs had been given a license to capture foreign vessels by the U.S. Government, which gave angry business owners a legal right to fund the privateers into going straight gangster. Even worse? These privateers had a personal hatred for the British Navy so it wasn't all, "Ahoy mately! Pony up all yer booty! Thanks a lot and we'll see ye around..!"

..."see ye around Davy Jones' f'n Locker, we will."

The people of Baltimore knew an invasion was coming so they headed over to Fort McHenry, a leftover port defense from the American Revolution, and stocked it with serious firepower behind some newly reinforced walls.

In September of 1814, the Brits headed to Fell's Point for a party. A landing party. They planned to sail right into the harbor and capture that "nest of pirates".

The difficulty of which largely depends on how drunk they are.

Twenty-five hours, 15,000 mortars, and tons of hurt feelings later, the British sailed the hell away from Baltimore, unable to get past Fort McHenry. Once those bright, crimson rockets and the bombs exploding in the sky ceased, the fort put up the biggest middle-finger Mary Pickersgill could make and broke out the rum. Francis Scott Key saw all this as the sun came up, wrote a poem, and set it to the tune of a drinking song.

A month later, a Baltimore actor sang  Key's song in a D.C. bar and by November it was a bonafide hit. For the next 80 or so years, "Defence of Fort McHenry" was to Independence Day what Paul McCartney's "Wonderful Christmastime" is for us in December today.

By week two, just hearing the opening synthesizers
makes my heart shrink two sizes too small. 

 In 1901, the landlord of the Wharf Rat bought a gramophone and, from some accounts, only one record, The Star-Spangled Banner, which he played loud as hell over and over, driving people crazy.

On a quiet morning, there was just one customer in the tavern and he was just about done hearing about how broad the stripes and bright the stars were. He told the landlord to stop playing that damn song or he was going to come back with his brother, and a gun, and kill him. Turning up the volume a little more, the landlord continued to sweep out the huge fireplace in the back, pretty much telling the customer if he didn't like it, he could move to England.

In a surprising turn of events for a hundred-plus-year-old story about a heated argument that took place in a seedy bar, the drunk customer went out, got his brother, got a gun, and shot the landlord dead, right inside the front door.

Right where the oddly out of place British
telephone booth stands today.

Next time you visit the Wharf Rat, head to the back, past the second bar where the argument took place, and check out the huge fireplace. It's still lit during the coldest months and, if the bartenders haven't cleaned up the ash, there'll be boot prints tracking through it.

If not, just order a drink, have a seat nearby, and wait. Because there will be.

Safer Spaces

While out walking around and looking for things to write about, I hear a lot of things that I don't hear otherwise: stories about ghosts, news about the city, and straight-up harassment at women.

While I often don't hear the harassment directly, even second-hand accounts make me uncomfortable. Sometimes, the woman telling the story is laughing about it; however, mostly she's rolling her eyes, getting a little angrier as she goes.

In a place like Fell's, there's plenty of opportunities to see drunk people try to hook up. It doesn't take an expert in body language to understand when someone's not interested, yet, it seems like some guys still think it's a game of hard-to-get and it gets kind of scary when they don't get their way.

Turns out, there's already a group whose call-to-action is to address exactly this situation. As Hollaback! Baltimore states on their website:

1. If you’ve been harassed, you’re not alone,
2. Street harassment is used to exert control over others by making them feel scared or uncomfortable. It is much more than individuals just acting inappropriately.
3. There are street harassment “hotspots” in most cities often centered around high pedestrian traffic areas.

Truth be told, Fell's Point is definitely a hotspot. From talking to a few women, it seems like they already understand this and, even more disappointing, they try to mentally prepare for creeps beforehand. That's unfortunate.

Hollaback! recently launched a campaign to identify Safer Spaces, places where someone can go if they feel uncomfortable or threatened. Again, from their website, a Safer Space agrees to:

• Post the “Safer Space” poster provided by Hollaback! Baltimore in a prominent place for all employees/staff/volunteers and attendees/customers to see
• Take complaints of harassment, discrimination, and violence against customers or staff seriously
• Remove any offending parties from our space
• Ensure our staff, particularly those responsible for security, are aware of our policies
• Use the resources given to us by Hollaback! Baltimore to better understand the issues at hand as well as the best methods for dealing with them
• Inform victims of their right to share their story publicly and anonymously on Hollaback! (via the website or free phone app) by handing out informational postcards

Poster Design: Kristen Argenio at Ideal Design Co.

It'd be pretty great if all the bars in Fell's agreed to become Safer Spaces and even better if they  promote it as a joint agreement with the residents of the community.

Who's up for some leafleting?

Get Off My Lawn: Fell's Point Natives Don't Want You (Or Me, Really) There.

This neighborhood has attracted people to its pubs since the first shipyard was built here in the mid-1700s. In 2013, very weekend sees a line of cars, backed up all around Broadway Square and down Thames Street (pronounced around here exactly how it looks) for hours, packed with Johns Hopkins students and professionals alike, all looking for a parking spot. Hundreds more are on foot, pushing in and out of bars, their footsteps becoming more unsure as the hour gets later. Did I say Friday? I meant any day at all.

When I moved to Fell's in 2008, I was attracted to both the historic seaport and the dangerously fun energy, which rises and falls depending on weather, sports, or if yesterday was a special event that everyone already went out for. I like both the rowdy pub crawlers and the quiet day-drinkers. I like the tourists who I see listening to the same stories that I've heard for years about ghosts, murder, and Edgar Alan Poe. In fact, by this point, some of those tourists are likely telling new visitors the version they heard from me.

Friends of mine who live in the French Quarter say they're constantly asked by visitors how they can stand all the noise, to which the answer is always, "Frenchman Street sounded like madness at 3 a.m. long before I moved here." I feel the same way about Fell's.

But some of my neighbors don't like what they say has happened to the area. While not as infected with frat boys and party girls to the degree of its neighbor across the harbor, Federal Hill, Fell's has become, inexplicably to longtime residents, a bar scene. A tourist attraction. Even worse, an upscale residential area.

Reading our local newsletter, The Fell's Pointer, you'd get the feeling that the influx of younger professionals is the worst thing that's happened since Hurricane Isabel. The writers often remark, in print as well as in person, how yuppies are always "checking their Rolex" and "rushing to work with a briefcase". Even if the story is about a local church's architecture, a jab is often worked in about "a 3-piece suit".

By the way, isn't that just "a suit" these days? Did Fell's Point get all its yuppies from the 1980s?

Other than their chronic desire to apparently be on time, I'm never sure what it is the yuppies are doing to ruin the integrity of what I've been told was, up until about 30 years ago, a rotting hive full of unsavory characters and break-ins. Sure, it was quieter, less expensive, and fewer college students were peeing in the square but there were way more fighting with drunks and getting stabbed for your wallet.

I live on a side street, "the alley", with people who've lived here for 80 years, a few young families, and some people who, like me, haven't been here long. Unlike the elite who write for The Fell's Pointer, no one's putting on airs in the alley, so, for the most part, we're thrilled when construction starts on brand new, mega-rowhomes, some of which sell for $460,000, because that's an investment our new neighbors are making in our community. There's still plenty of criticism in the alley, make no mistake, just not for what someone wears to work.

They even say hi.

One of my neighbors, Earl, an 86-year-old former longshoreman who has lived in the same tiny house for the last 65 years, thinks it's crazy that anyone pays that much to live here.

Actually, what he said to me was, "You know what I paid for my house? Those people are god-damned idiots. Who the fuck wants to live down here for that? Stupid. No god-damned sense."

$460,000 does seem like a lot for a house compared to what Earl paid; however, in all fairness, houses tend to cost much less when you buy them in 1948, they're 900 square feet, and they're in an area that no one wants to live in anyway.

The Pubs Are Our History

And here it is, the first of several reasons why I've been MIA lately: all illustrations, photos, copy, and layout are my own.

It turned out pretty well, considering the three week time allotted to complete it, plus the other articles assigned during those three weeks, some freelance work coming in, and the regular 40+ hours spent actually making money for doing work.

Sorta kinda feel invincible. And like I could use a drink.