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I met people from my connections there that will last a lifetime, and most of us were brought together in that bar by that wonderful man. Bill’s Hideaway - at that time, with those people - made me a better, more honest performer. He took me under his wing and made me better because he always believed in me. I was a musical theater actress Buddy made me comfortable as a cabaret singer. We had an immediate bond, a friendship that would last until his passing. And it wasn’t that I was good enough, because I was scared to death. I sang for him, and he offered me a job right then. To look at Buddy - his unruly mop and his quirky mannerisms - you couldn’t imagine how much genius was hidden inside. But I couldn’t imagine how my life would change when I came in that Sunday night to sing for The Maestro: Buddy Shanahan. They made me feel at home from the first time I walked through that door. How could I know then that my first visit would lead to me singing a song… and that would lead the bartender, Chris Lamaynce, talking me into coming back on Sunday to “meet Buddy.” That was just the spirit of that bar. I was a mom with two kids - I didn’t go out on Tuesdays! But I succumbed. I was doing a show at WaterTower Theatre with Amy Stephenson and Mark Mullino, and they hounded me for several weeks to stop by a little bar on Buena Vista on a Tuesday night to hear them sing. There isn’t another coffee establishment in town I’ve found that offers the energy and hope for those struggling with addiction like Java Jones did. There are more than a few of us in long term recovery that reminisce about how Java Jones played a role in our ability to find recovery. In the evenings, they often had acoustic 2-3 person ensembles strumming out folk and old country covers as the crowd sang along, played games, or cried into their coffee as they talked with others about their struggles with addiction. You could always find someone from a local recovery group, reading a big book or doing their step-work. At any given time of day, no matter your mood or appearance, you could find hope at Java Jones.
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With its shelves lined with books from all genres and games for anyone to play, it was a safe place for those of us in the LGBTQ community who needed a somewhere to go free from drugs and alcohol but didn’t want to miss out on the shenanigans of Cedar Springs nightlife.
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Situated where Green Papaya stands today, before there was addiction treatment readily available for all, Java Jones was a beacon for many LGBTQ in recovery from substance abuse. Eventually Patrick’s gave way to other cabarets, as my kir royale did to pinot grigio, but for me in the ‘80s, that’s where I liked to get away. RSVP would go on to play nightclubs, showrooms and theaters around the country.
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One of the biggest draws at Patrick’s was the top-notch talent that performed there, and the top of that notch was the superb RSVP, a four-part harmony vocal group (think Manhattan Transfer) that raised the roof at every appearance: Ernie Ritchie, musical director/arranger David Rogers, Carol Farabee (Blackwood), Julie Johnson and Michael Justis brought the house down nightly, while my pals and I drank the house down. I’m not sure how I survived… my regular drink of choice then was kir royale (champagne and Chambord), and I threw them back with abandon and, astonishingly, never woke up with a hangover (ah, youth). The clientele was fun, the bartenders were friendly and the drinks were strong. There was Rob Webb, Isaac Bryant, Patrick Smith - all gone now - who joined me bellying up to the bar on a regular basis we kicked up our heels and always had a hoot. Typically, waiters are thirsty and have cash, so we’d often hightail it to Patrick’s to let off steam and drink (heavily). Patrick’s was the tastefully-appointed, go-to watering hole for me and several of my co-workers after we finished our shifts waiting tables at (the then newly-opened) Dakota’s. For me in the mid-1980s that place was Patrick’s, a cheeky piano bar located on Oak Lawn Avenue at Brown Street, where Fast Signs now sits. Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name. We asked various people from across the community to reminisce on what is no longer physically present anymore, but which lingers in the memory. Many have left their marks on the folks here who survived them. We have had our cultural centers - baths, bookstores, bars… restaurants, coffee shops and galleries … businesses, fundraisers and groups … and, of course, people, have come… and gone (and sometimes stayed). Dallas’ gay community, which Dallas Voice has been privileged to serve and document for 35 years this week, has changed a lot over its lifespan. And as a result, parts of it die off - whether people or places or things. RSVP An oral history of the gayborhood of the pastĪ ny thriving community is an organic thing.