Tonight I'm going to my first Brewpub. Now, gone are the days of smoky, standing room only dirty toilet drinkeries, and welcome are the days of soft leather chairs, British delicacies and beer with enough hops that it could kill you.
Wostyntje...
Fantome Saison...
Hansje Drinker Tripel...
These are the new beers that are entering my life. I'm not going to lie, I'm totally ok with Shiner, Kronenburgs and Stella Artois. Especially Stellas. Very cold, crispy Stella Artois (a great memory is sitting in a darkened theater, The Inwood, and watching Stella Artois advertisements).
Now, I will try beers in which I can't pronounce, but taste amazing. This is coupled with Erin and Ryan turning the apartment in Bushwick into a microbrewery so much that the smell lingers. Their beer is very tasty though, and I'd drink a lot of it. Wait, I drink a lot of it anyway. Free beer in NYC? Doesn't matter what it is. FREE BEER.
This is where I am going tonight.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Local Booksellers Union 582
Fucking cold weather. I can't feel my hands as I walk down the street.
I left my gloves somewhere, or they fell out of my pocket in Penn Station, or they're just missing. Fuck.
So, the contest with Erin is holding up well. I've gotten through three novels so far:
Paul Auster- Moon Palace
Upton Sinclair- Oil! (basis for There Will Be Blood- the newest PTA film)
Patrick McCabe- Breakfast on Pluto
and currently reading One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
The roomates are practicing and it sounds fucking amazing. Heartrapers would be jealous.
At work we've been listening to the Dethalbum (Dethklok) nearly everyday, at least twice a day. I think I need to make a grindcore/death metal mix, and I need suggestions.
And since Netflix is still my best friend forever (sorry Jacob.) This is my current queue:
Prayer of the Rollerboys (1991)
Swampthing (1982)
Freaked (1993)
Critters (1986)
The Gate (1987)
Tapeheads (1988)
It's very Proustian for me to watch these.
I left my gloves somewhere, or they fell out of my pocket in Penn Station, or they're just missing. Fuck.
So, the contest with Erin is holding up well. I've gotten through three novels so far:
Paul Auster- Moon Palace
Upton Sinclair- Oil! (basis for There Will Be Blood- the newest PTA film)
Patrick McCabe- Breakfast on Pluto
and currently reading One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
The roomates are practicing and it sounds fucking amazing. Heartrapers would be jealous.
At work we've been listening to the Dethalbum (Dethklok) nearly everyday, at least twice a day. I think I need to make a grindcore/death metal mix, and I need suggestions.
And since Netflix is still my best friend forever (sorry Jacob.) This is my current queue:
Prayer of the Rollerboys (1991)
Swampthing (1982)
Freaked (1993)
Critters (1986)
The Gate (1987)
Tapeheads (1988)
It's very Proustian for me to watch these.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Tastes like New York.
As I type this from my penthouse view of Central Park, watching women push strollers down the large, clean sidewalk and the multitude of joggers as they weave in and out of the foot traffic, I think to myself, "How lucky can one guy be?"
I return to my living room, set my tumbler of some expensive scotch I've never even heard of but tastes like paint and admire my TV. So fucking big, and it has channels they don't show in America. Channels where I can watch people compete for household items, or television shows in Moroccan French, about saucy young people who's lives rival mine as they sit and complain about the increasing prices of muffins.
And then I think of my expensive sports car parked somewhere in Midtown, probably between 5th and 6th avenue, and the doorman downstairs that always calls a my favorite cab for me to drive me to my car. Dinner tonight is probably going to be Goat Cheese and Wild Mushroom Blinchiki or Braised Rabbit Pelmeni downed with an expensive glass of Chardonnay as I nonchalantly fall in and out of consciousness with whatever my date is talking about.
Afterwards, I'll return to my penthouse, check my e-mail, my blackberry, my Venus phone and my regular mail that's been presorted into corresponding piles (thank you to Lisa, my personal assistant) before retiring to bed so In the morning I can do 5,000 situps and stare at my thinning hairline.
I return to my living room, set my tumbler of some expensive scotch I've never even heard of but tastes like paint and admire my TV. So fucking big, and it has channels they don't show in America. Channels where I can watch people compete for household items, or television shows in Moroccan French, about saucy young people who's lives rival mine as they sit and complain about the increasing prices of muffins.
And then I think of my expensive sports car parked somewhere in Midtown, probably between 5th and 6th avenue, and the doorman downstairs that always calls a my favorite cab for me to drive me to my car. Dinner tonight is probably going to be Goat Cheese and Wild Mushroom Blinchiki or Braised Rabbit Pelmeni downed with an expensive glass of Chardonnay as I nonchalantly fall in and out of consciousness with whatever my date is talking about.
Afterwards, I'll return to my penthouse, check my e-mail, my blackberry, my Venus phone and my regular mail that's been presorted into corresponding piles (thank you to Lisa, my personal assistant) before retiring to bed so In the morning I can do 5,000 situps and stare at my thinning hairline.
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