8.5% ABV on draught

I’m always excited when the Brooklyn Brewery’s Garrett Oliver releases yet another of his wonderful, and unfortunately limited and tap-only, Brewmaster Reserve beers and I always hightail it to whatever bar has them available.  Such was the case last weekend when I was “forced” to make my first visit to a now new favorite bar of the Vice Blog, Rattle ‘n’ Hum, to try this most unique brew on tap.

I had thought it was going to be a saison, Brooklyn Brewery calls it a spiced wheat ale, and Rate Beer and Beer Advocate a Belgian Strong Ale.  Whatever the case, the inspiration for this beer is quite interesting, take it away stuff I didn’t write:

Our brewmaster is fond of pointing out that his closest peers, after other brewers, are chefs rather than winemakers. Brewers, like chefs, start with an idea and then build that idea into a reality through the use of ingredients and technique. A few years ago, Brooklyn brewmaster Garrett Oliver, an avid home cook, attended a class on spicing conducted by Floyd Cardoz, the Executive Chef of the justly famed Indian-inflected New York City restaurant Tabla. And a few new beer ideas started to form…

Now chef and brewmaster have combined their inspirations to bring you Brooklyn Cuvée de Cardoz. This golden wheat beer starts with a base of malted barley and unmalted wheat and then builds upon it a delicate balance of exotic spices selected by Chef Cardoz and then toasted and ground in the kitchens at Tabla. Ginger, tamarind, mace, black pepper, coriander, fennel, fenugreek, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and chilies are added in the kettle, and then the beer is infused with toasted coconut after the fermentation. Combined with our yeast and light hopping, these spices give the beer a gentle, complex perfume, a full fruity palate, and long, drying finish with a very faint prickle of heat.

Nicely written.  Now back to some words from the hack…

I love Mr. Oliver’s obsession with making beer a part of the entire culinary experience (watch this great video!) and while I drank this without a pairing of Indian food, I could tell it would be a swell match.  Hell, it was swell just by itself.  Spicy, yeasty, and a favorite description of mine:  dangerously drinkable.  I don’t even know what exactly most of the above spices in the beer even are, but the corriander, cloves, and especially chilies shine through nicely.  I’m not going to advise you to sprint out to get this one, it’s certainly not as great as Garrett’s previous effort, the Intensified Coffee Stout, but this is still another stellar, inventive effort from one of my beer idols.  A great, refreshing, yet still potent beer for summer.

A-/B+

Note:  I’d also like to say how cool it is that Garrett Oliver makes a special beer for several Danny Meyer restaurants.  The Cuvee de Cardoz for Tabla, the Blue Smoke Blend for the BBQ joint of the same name, and the Shackmeister for the vaunted Shake Shack to name a few.

9.6% ABV from a growler

This beer was so hot off the presses when I tried it last week while watching the NCAA national title game that it still did not yet even have a Beer Advocate entry.  I’m not saying it lacked a single review, I’m saying it did not yet even have a placeholder for future reviews.  Now a week later, its internet presence is still pretty meager as it finally has a BA entry with just two reviews anda few more on Rate Beer, yet not a single mention of the brew on Sixpoint’s own website.  In fact, I’m not even one-hundred percent certain what this beer is actually called as in some places it pops up as “Dubbel Trouble.”  I prefer the more clever and elegant neologistic rhyming name which heads this post.*

If you’re one of the many people that sift through my Vice Blog entries like an archeologist, dusting aside the dirt of the staid beer review in order to get to the true gems, tales of humiliating dates, late night mayhem, transgressive behavior, french fry analyses, or funny technical terms for coital acts like “bag-piping,”** then I have to apologize, for you won’t find any of that here today.  Yep, this is just a boring old beer review.  But not to fear, I have a slew of tales to unleash in the coming weeks.  March Madness was madness indeed.

My friend forced his wife to pick us up a growler of this at the legendary Whole Foods Bowery Beer Room.  A 64 oz. growler ran a stiff $22, but it ended up being pretty much worth it.  Poured out in the nice “standard” dubbel raisin color.  A potent smell of dried fruits, dark cherries, and just a little spiciness.  Added tastes included Belgian candi, cocoa nibs, some banana esters, and a thick yeastiness.  Very boozy.  The beer was good, a success even, but ultimately just a little “off” for my tastes.

Sixpoint has emerged as one of the newer breweries to watch in America–though I should note that with Dubbel Trubbel this “newer” brewery was amazingly commemorating its 4th Anniversary–and they already have quite a few stellar creations.  I only wish they’d actually bottled stuff.  Hmm…I wonder what their predicted 5th Anniversary tripel will be called?***

After halving this, I was so drunk when I left my friend’s high-rise ’round 1:00 AM that I spent a good twenty seconds trying to open the front door before the doorman was forced to yell at me.

“PUSH!”

Ah yes, free at last.

Why is it always one’s natural inclination to pull when he’s drunk?

Something to ponder.

A-/B+

*I’ve never really understood why the brewery is Sixpoint as opposed to Six Point or Six-Point either.  Sixpoint what?  Where I’m from the logo is just a Jewish star tipped on end.  Ah, perhaps it’s a drunken Star of David that fell on its side from all the 6 point ABV and higher brews?  Har har.

**Axillary intercourse.

**The Tripel Crippel?  Trippel Nippel?  Trippel Rippel?  Nope:

Sixpoint Tripel Tippel.  Natch.

My Super Sweet Sixteen (Not Featuring Annoying Little Twats*)

I went to the college with the best sports journalism program in the nation, but I never had any interest in the industry.  Nevertheless, my outsized ego still leads me to believe I’m a better analyst that any one in the field.  And, being that sports is one of my great passions, it’s about time I occasionally discuss them on The Vice Blog.

My breakdown of the upcoming weekend and the tournament in general as it’s the only thing on my mind right now.

WEST

Much like their insanely talented 2005 team that got upset by George Mason, I thought this year’s UConn squad simply didn’t have “it.”  Now, that’s not the most rigorous or intellectual of analysis, but sometimes these indescribable things just stand out:  a seeming lack of heart, a seeming lack of interest, a clear lack of a coach that isn’t a huge fucking asshole.  More specifically, I thought the injury to Jerome Dyson deprived UConn of their best non-AJ Price outside shooting threat and halfcourt player.  Then, when Calhoun missed their 1st round game with a mystery ailment (a brutal case of crabs?), I was sure UConn’s team was not long for this tourney.  Instead, they’ve been the most dominant squad of the first two rounds and should have no problem dispatching with Purdue despite the manly-cocktail-named team being well-coached by Matt Painter and featuring a solid back line with Hummel and Johnson.

In the region’s other game, every one will be taking Memphis, but recall that Mizzou will be the first “decent” team they have played since squeaking by mediocre Tennessee (can you be “decent” and “mediocre” in the same sentence?) in late January and the first truly good team they have played since losing to Syracuse in late December.  Memphis has arguably the best defense still in the tournament–I prefer Louisville or Team Thabeet–and also one of the best lead guards in Tyreke Evans, but I think the major conference Tigers not coached by a weasely cheater will prevail due to their ability to dictate the tempo and get a lot of transition buckets while lacking the turnovers that are crucial to poor-shooting Memphis’s game.

UConn will take Missouri down in the Elite Eight as the Tigers’s solid bigs in DeMarre Carroll and Leo Lyons will face bigger and better players in Hasheem Thabeet and Jeff Adrien.

UCONN

EAST

My pre-tournament favorite, I thought this was surely the year Pitt wouldn’t choke what with the second most dominant center in the tournament in DeJuan Blair, a great veteran point guard in Levance Fields, and a top-notch athletic swing in Sam Young.  This would be the year they’d finally beat a team better than a six-seed, the year they’d finally advance past the Sweet Sixteen–and admittedly they obviously still have the chance–but I’ve never seen a #1 team look so lackluster in the first two rounds.  Nevertheless, they should be able to slip by Xavier in a very low-scoring defensive bore-fest.

Nova/Duke will be a fascinating game as both teams play similar multi-guard, dribble-drive, kick-for-the-three offenses.  Nova has the vastly superior athletes–not to mention a mid-range threat in Dante Cunningham–but Duke pays the refs, so this one has to be a toss-up.  Jay Wright is one of the finest coaches in the game and should be able to get by a cryin’ and cursin’ Coach K.  (By the way, any one notice Krzyzewski saying a silent prayer before Duke’s matchup with Texas?  Weird.  I wonder who he was praying too, I thought he already sold his soul.)

In a rematch from earlier this year cheaply played at the Spectrum so that the Wildcats would be allowed to play in Philadelphia in the first two rounds, I again think the better coached, better skilled, less grabby Nova will take out Pitt as the Panthers struggle to match them score-for-score.

VILLANOVA

I’ll be back tomorrow with my analysis of the Midwest and South regions and how embarrassing CBS’s coverage truly is.

Sierra Nevada Torpedo

7.2% ABV

Sierra Nevada’s first new and regular release since the company began in 1980, I was stoked to try this “extra” IPA.  And it was pretty solid.  Citrusy with mild hops and a thinness and smoothness which made surprised at the ABV.  Drinks like a single IPA which I suppose can be a good thing.  Ultimately, I found it not even as tasty as their iconic Celebration.  I guess you got to admire Sierra Nevada for not trying to go “extreme” like all the other breweries are going nowadays.  Unfortunately, I like extreme.  I like hop bombs that numb my tongue.  Still, it’s refreshing to know I can find this in most every single bodega and deli in my neighborhood so now, even in a pinch, at any hour, walking just a block or two, I will always be able to get a decent IPA.

A-/B+

*Save Greg Paulus.

9% ABV bottled

Argue with me if you must, and I roundly encourage it, but Queens is clearly New York’s most fucked up borough.* And, by “fucked up,” I mean it’s the borough where you are most likely to encounter some crazy “Am I in a movie?” “Did I just see that?!” oh-I-wish-I-had-my-camera-on-me bullshit. Now don’t get me wrong, I think this is a good thing. You may not, however.

Last time I was in Queens was a month or so ago. A girl had just ejected me from her apartment at 5:00 AM and I was drunk, banged-up, stuck in the middle of nowhere, and had no clue how to get back to Manhattan. After ten minutes of stumbling around looking for a cab, my savior arrived. A gypsy limousine. Literally I suppose.  The Egyptian driver rolled down his window and all but ordered me: “Get in. Front seat.”

A weird request if you’re sober, but not when you’re drunk and lost. I sat down, “What a night, have I got a story for you,” I lamented. The driver interjected, “No, brother, have I got a story for you.” As we drove back toward Manhattan he lit up a joint which we passed back and worth while he spun the tale of his previous passenger. Seems he was chauffeuring around a married couple having a night on the town. Midway through the evening, the husband told the wife he wanted a divorce, they argued, he hopped out of the limo, and hailed another cab.

So, of course, she did the only natural thing one would do in that situation…she told the driver to pull over so she could fuck him as an act of revenge toward her husband. “Happens all the time,” he lasciviously smiled at me.

By the time we had crossed the 59th Street Bridge, the joint was finished. “How ’bout another?” said my new friend. I nodded. So, of course, he did the only natural thing and pulled off to the side of the 2nd Avenue where he proceeded to roll another doobie and soon we were again feelin’ groovy. Finally, dropping me off back at my apartment, my spirits were buoyed. So were his. “This ride’s on me, partner,” he winked as he drove away.

Most Manhattanites are snobs that refuse to ever leave our borough. I’m a snob, but I’m always willing to leave the borough, especially if adventure is promised. And, I rarely turn down an offer from my friends in Queens because in that borough depravity is all but guaranteed.  So much so that I can’t visit it too often less my already suspect morals get even more corroded.

It was Saturday afternoon and I was bored. It was cold out and I had no plans. I had no personal initiative either.  Thus, beer was in order.  Carpe diem?  Fuck that.  That’s why alcohol is so awesome.  It helps you seize the day.  It helps you come up with plans.  It is nothing if not “decisiveness juice.”**

I went with a bottle of the semi-rare winter special collaboration from master breweries Stone, Jolly Pumpkin, and Norway’s Nøgne Ø. It’s been my favorite winter beer this year and it is surely one of the most unique “warmers” I’ve ever had. Tastes of ginger, juniper (making it have some gin-like qualities, nice!), chestnuts (never heard of that in a beer before!), white sage, and caraway. Spicy, delicious, and goes down easy. Perfect for a cold night.

Around 7:00 I got a text from Stanton:  “come to queens im trying to hit rock bottom tonight.”

I thought he was joking.  Maybe not.  But whatever the case, it sounded like a plan.  “carpe diem” I texted back.

I put on my most disposable clothing, stuff I’d wear when painting a house, helping a friend move.  I could tell this evening had the potential to be “one of those nights.”  I own so little decent clothes, I couldn’t afford to ruin or lose the few decent pieces in my closet.

Queens is a quicker jaunt than people think.  I can get there far speedier–from Hell’s Kitchen–than I can get to Brooklyn, Hoboken, Jersey City, or even the Upper East Side.  Has any one ever done a “currency exchange rate” between the boroughs?  If not, it should be calculated.  Now, Queens isn’t exactly Oklahoma City vis-a-vis Manhattan but it’s significantly cheaper than it is in Manhattan.  Getting off the N train stop in Astoria–site of another legendarily fucked up Queens adventure–I found a craft beer store cum deli cum Indian adult video shop.  I was impressed with the selection, and amused when I had to wake up the shop owner who had fallen asleep watching a humiliation porn DVD at full volume so that I could purchase a sixer of Hop Devil for a mere $9.99.

Getting to Stanton’s apartment, I realized he had begun “Operation: Rock Bottom” without me.  He was already quite toasted, ten beers deep.  We aggressively dove into the Hop Devil as Stanton made me watch some “It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia” season four episodes, yet again trying to convince me of the greatness of the FX comedy.  Look, I know it’s considered sacrilege in many circles, but I just don’t think the show is as funny as everyone claims.  I watched all of season one and most of season two and, while I found it decent and semi-amusing, I didn’t think it was as iconoclastic as people so claim and it usually only gave me a medium-sized chuckle or two.  Eventually, my DVR started stacking up with unwatched episodes and soon I quit the program altogether.  Trying to prove the show’s worth, Stanton played me his favorite episodes from the most recent season, but again, I simply didn’t see any greatness.***

After the sixer was polished off, we went to watch my friend’s band at a legit Queens Irish pub.  Irish pubs in Queens are quite different from how they are in Manhattan.  It’s not something I can put into words, just a certain je ne sais quois, a visceral sensation.  There is both less and more happiness among the denizens.  There’s both more normalcy–like you’re just drinking in some one’s living room–and less–like you’re in some major sin den–it’s quite paradoxical.  There, after countless beers and Jameson shots we came to realize something:  it was literally impossible for the two of us to ever hit rock bottom.

You see, we may be drunkards, perhaps even borderline, semantic “alcoholics,” but we will never screw up our lives.  At least completely.  In totality.  We’re smart enough, savvy enough, seasoned enough, and wise enough to be full-blown tipplers and still maintain jobs, incomes, solid health, and relationships.  Yeah, we’ll get in mild trouble every so often, ruin entire Sundays sleeping it off, perhaps even miss a day or two of work, occasional offend those around us, send a dumb drunken e-mail or two, maybe even tarnish a friendship for a day or two, perhaps even get in trouble with an “authority” figure out two, but nothing large scale.  You could say this behavior is why we don’t have wives, children, mortgages, even pets.  But has it ever occured to you that we intentionally don’t have those things because we don’t want to bring any others into our selfish and decadent morasses?

It was both an enlightening eureka! moment and a bit of a depressing discovery.  What to do when you realize you can never hit rock bottom?  That you only have “warning track power” in the ruin-your-life game?  Did Chuck Yeager feel this way before he punched through the clouds and hit Mach 1?

Thus, we had no choice but to cancel “Operation:  Rock Bottom.”  Now what to do?  A shitcanned Stanton told me he knew of a Mexican dance club nearby, The Black Donkey.  Hot Latino women galore.  Only problem is, no gringos allowed.  “Operation:  Desert Shield” became “Operation: Desert Storm” and “Operation: Rock Bottom” became “Operation: Gringo Infiltration.”

I’m a swarthy Jew which makes it somewhat tough to completely pin down my ethnicity.  I’ve been thought to be Italian, Israeli, Middle Eastern, Greek, even black (!), and from countless Latino countries of origin.  Aside from my near six-foot height and liberal use of Yiddish argot, I could easily be confused for a Chicano. I wish I had a funny story about the infiltration of the club.  Something that involved me standing on Stanton’s shoulders and using a huge trench coat ala Alvin, Simon, and Theodore to sneak into the club.  Nope, we just ducked our heads down and threw out a quiet “hola” as we breezed by the bouncer and then passed through the metal detectors.  Aye carumba!  Unlike Plaxico, I typically have a rule about entering drinking establishments that see a need for friskings, but, when in Queens…

While Stanton got a bucket of the only beer available, I began ogling the women.  Good lord!  The club was like 70% female and all the girls were like Latino models.  Hour glass figures with huge asses and fake breasts oozing from their leather tops.  Why…if I didn’t know better…

“Stanton, is this…a strip club?”

“Not exactly.”

Here was the deal, the bar was neither a strip club nor a brothel and there was no nudity whatsoever, but it was a “pay-to-dance” club.  As in, ten bucks to simply dance–grind that is–with the hot women.  Absurd!  I loathe strip clubs, detest lap dances, and have no use for prostitutes, and now I’m going to pay to dance with a strange woman?  I don’t even like dancing with women I love!

Stanton was wasted though and has a Latino fetish of a sort, and is actually a semi-accomplished drunken hoofer, so he perused the line-up of chicks to find one to dance with.  Humorously, he was shot down by all of them.  “Gringo too wasted,” they all muttered.  We sat down at a dance floor side table to drink and begin surveying the scene for some further hijinks.

The next dance begun and all the minuscule Mexican men began to drag their purchased women to the parquet.  And then, I saw one of the strangest sites I’ve ever seen in my life.  I wish I’d had my camera on me, I wish the club wasn’t so dark that my cameraphone was rendered useless, because what I saw cannot be done justice in words, it was so fucking unbelievable.

The dozen or so men lined up hip to hip to hip to hip, etc. on the back wall as if pissing at a sports stadium urinal trough.  But, instead of relieving themselves, their $10 women got between them and the exposed bricks and they all began to grind on the women’s asses.  With authority.  My jaw was so far to the ground, I was so amused, that I didn’t notice Stanton methodically removing each Corona from the beer bucket.  I could not remove my eyes from the scene.

“How hard up are these dudes?  Paying money just to grind on a hot woman?  Seriously?  How long do they get?”

I turned to Stanton just as he put the beer bucket to his face and ferociously threw up into the melting ice.

Pulling his mug back up he smiled, he must have felt great, like a new man, a Phoenix coming out of the drunken ashes.  He answered my pre-barf question in the most matter-of-fact way.

“Well, they get to grind until they come, of course.”

Now it was my turn to barf.

“We better get out of here, Aaron.  Last time I came I got 86ed and we’re on the verge of that now.”

As we stood I noticed several men peeling off the grind wall, each Chino with a most indiscreet speckle of crotch wetness on their chinos.

I awoke the next day on Stanton’s couch, still fully dressed from the night before, my wallet and cell phone even in my jeans pockets.

Looking and acting like one hundred million pennies, Stanton informed me that it was now time for “Operation: Find a Wii.”  He planned to spend Sunday driving all around Queens and Long Island, hitting up Best Buys and gaming stores until he found the coveted video game system.  It sounded like more adventure was in store, but, unfortunately, I had a lunch date so I had to leave my pal.

The next morning, I received an e-mail from Stanton:

Played some awesome Tiger Woods Golf last night on our new Wii. The guy we bought from was such a characture (sic) of what you would think someone in Queens who sells hot Wiis would look like. Met him in the back of a Steak House called Charlie Brown’s. He claimed he’s in the Adult Entertainment industry and if we ever needed any Blu-ray DVDs he could hook us up. He then gave me his card. His name is Lou Bricate. Get it? Lubricate? You have to see this guy’s business card. I had a hard time keeping a straight face when he was talking to us.

Queens is so fucked up.

A-/B+

*My anecdotal rankings:

1. Queens
2. Staten Island
3. The Bronx
4. Manhattan
5. Brooklyn

**For that matter…alcohol is also bad idea punch, intellect intoxicant, insolence nectar, fighting fluid, boastfulness booze, smartass sauce, injury water, agressiveness aqua vitae, felony-committin’ firewater, and–of course–maybe above all else…depression drink.

***The greatest comedies of the past, let’s say, five years would be, in order:  “Arrested Development,” “Extras,” “The Office” (British), “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” “30 Rock,” and “The Office” (U.S.)

7.7% ABV bottled

“Get up, Aaron! Get up!”

I was being shaken awake courtesy of a whispered yell from a female voice I did not recognize. I could barely open my eyes, a wicked hangover permeating my skull. I squinted trying to read the alarm clock. 6:00 AM.

I rose my head from the pillow. I was naked under the covers. Standing beside me, shaking me, was a girl freshly showered, hairdo done, makeup made up, and in a nice but woefully unfashionable dress. She was either going to a funeral, a wedding, or Reagan’s first term presidential inauguration. Around me, on the floor of the swank hotel room were six other young women, sleeping wherever they could.

“It’s 6 AM…” I’d forgotten her name, “What’s the problem?”

“Don’tchoo remember what I told you last night?”

Of course I didn’t. I was visiting friends in Boston and we’d gone out drinking near Fenway. There were six of us and we played a game with the waitress called “Bring-us-two-pitchers-of-beer-every-five-minutes.” We were tired of flagging her down and asking. She was seemingly impressed by our machismo and Beerculean drinking abilities and told us if we could keep that up for an entire hour she’d give us a free pitcher. Only days later did I realize, “Huh…she pretty much just convinced us to drink $200 of shitty beer in sixty minutes in order to get a free $10 pitcher.” Smart girl. Er, dumb boys.

Blotto by 10:00 we headed to a dance club slash lounge for God knows what reason. Oh, wait, I remember. It’s because in Boston the only girls in taverns, pubs, and normal watering holes are hooded-sweatshirted fatties that can easily drink you under the table despite the fact that they’re spending twenty minutes out of every hour outside smoking and purchasing sidewalk sausage.

I typically avoid dance clubs at all costs because dancing is stupid and my seduction skills need a little bit of quiet so I can actually speak, but when in Rome….

At the dance club I was bored with the long lines to get an overpriced and watered down cocktail and by the terrible club music. Then, I noticed one of my favorite drinking sites: a tiarred women leading a group of girls in matching t-shirts into the bar and onto the dance floor. Yes, it was a bachelorette party.

I always feel sorry for bachelorette parties. It’s like, if your ceremonial final night as a single woman is in the same bar where I’m drinking, well that’s just pathetic. If she only knew what her soon-to-be-better-half was doing at the same moment. Come to think of it, he was probably just sitting in a piece of shit Chinatown strip club, doing Kamikaze shots, and trying to muster the courage to tip a dancer’s snatch with his teeth while his douchebag Southie friends cheer him on. OK, that’s not so cool either.

My always supplicating friend had just been approached by two of the more raucous and boisterous members of the bachelorette party (read: two fatties) who had revealed that during the night of drinking they were simultaneously taking part in a scavenger hunt of sorts and could they have his underpants in order to check another box off their list? As he pathetically retreated to the bathroom for underpants removal, I studied the girls in the group, all loud, all drunk, all ugly, except one. She was decent looking, downright hot for Boston, and stood off to the side sipping on her Cape Codder with a look of mild disdain, mild shyness.

I approached her, “You part of this group?” I said, overly stressing “this” to denote that I had little respect for them. She confirmed that she was though revealed that she was a high school friend of the would-be bride while the rest of the girls were college friends. Thus, she knew none of them and had been excluded all evening from their reindeer games. I told her big deal, those girls were annoying and ugly any how. She agreed and I whisked her away from the group and to a side bar.

Remember fellas, in big groups of women there’s always at least one that pretty much hates the rest of the group. Find that woman and use that fact as a fulcrum to pull her away from the group and into your arms.

So for the next few hours we got drunker and drunker and more and more insulting toward the rest of the bachelorette party. By closing time, it was evident we were going to hook up. And, as I had lost my friends I had no choice but to go home with her.

Women are quite different from men. My friends upon departure most likely saw me in the corner, huddled up with each other for about five seconds (”Should we tell him we’re going?” “Leave him alone.” “Fuck it.”), before leaving me. And that’s fine. Men know that other men want to seize the night and may the morning be damned. We’ll all deal with finding a way home when we need to deal with it. Women on the other hand will all but drag their friends away, both hating the thought of their friend scoring while they are going home empty-handed…and, well that’s about it. All women are like the Gore Vidal quote: “Every time a friend succeeds, I die a little.”

Women will literally remove their friends from a guy’s face and arms, refusing to allowing her to make her own decision like a grown-up. I usually just sit back and watch, trying to intervene only exacerbates the friends’ furor. While acting aloof only makes your pick-up desire you more.

Should a women finally convince her friends to let her be, to let her go home with the guy, at the least they will give her all sorts of warnings and instructions, “Call me when you get to his place so I know you’re safe,” “Text me every hour so I know you’re well,” “Here’s ten condoms,” “Here’s an on-the-spot STD test be sure and gets a cheek swab for later analysis,” “Here’s a google map I’ve printed out and safety-pinned into your underwear so you can find your way home afterwards,” “Here’s some emergency cash in five different currencies…”

But guys aren’t like that. And though that’s usually a good thing, it wasn’t this time.

As Laura shook me awake and began dressing me as I struggled to orientate myself, she re-explained the circumstance. She was from Albany–this now made a lot of sense in light of her bad bangs of a hairdo, her accent, and her promiscuity–and had to be back in town to attend her sister’s baby shower brunch–and this made sense in light of her garb–by 10:00 AM.

We went to the hotel parking garage to retrieve her car, my head ringing, and she confirmed that I knew how to get back to my friend’s place so she could drop me off en route out of town. “I sure do, ” I told her, though I didn’t even know my “friend”’s full name, much less where he lived. You see, I am a rare man that is terrible with directions. I can never remember street names, I can never orientate myself north/south, east/west, I never take the correct highways, I’m just an absolute train wreck when it comes to directions. And that’s why I’m usually taking trains and never driving and why I live in New York City. You’d have to be a retard to get lost in Manhattan, what with its beautifully designed grid and near exclusively numbered streets. I rarely even venture below Houston lest I get lost on some “name” street. When I do, I’m forced to hail a cab to bail me out of my jam and drive me back to numbered street civilization.

But this time I wasn’t lying. Though I didn’t know the street where my friend lived, I was pretty sure I knew from memory how to get back there. The drive from his apartment post-pre-gaming to the bar had seemed so simple. We backed out of the driveway, a right turn there, a left turn onto that major street, drive past that big building, and park. Surely I could reverse the directions and get us home–despite being simultaneously drunk and hungover, a most horrific state of existence–I was certain of it.

We left the garage and there was that turn, ah yes, and that turn, everything seems swell, and, here we go, I recall that long road, and, I’m positive the turn will be on the right in any second now, Laura, where is it, OK, now it should be coming up…

But that turn never came. I had surely forgotten something. We were lost. It was 6:30 AM and we were lost. I was tired, I was drunk, I was hungover, we were lost, and Laura was quietly seething. At least I thought she was. She was indeed very shy.

We aimlessly drove around the “area” where I thought he lived for the next half-hour. Everything looked so familiar yet so unfamiliar.

“Let’s go get breakfast.  I could go for some hash browns.”

She glared at me.

“Well what town does he live in?” she asked.

“Town? He lives in Boston.”

I was a 23-year-old yutz back then and Laura had to explain that pretty much no one actually lives in Boston. It was a city of only about half-a-million. Most everyone in the metro area lives in small towns surrounding Boston proper. After the quick geography lesson, I had to admit I didn’t know what town my friend lived in.

“Can we call you friend?” she used the royal we like a condescending grammar school teacher.

“I don’t have his number.”

She was incredulous. “You don’t have your friend’s number?”

“He’s a friend of a friend.”

She was looking angrier as she pulled into a gas station and parked at a pay phone booth. “There’s a phone book, go look him up.”

“I don’t know his name.”

“You don’t know his name?!”

“Everyone just calls him by a nickname.”

She wasn’t as mad as I would be in dealing with such buffoonery. “Well do you know any one in town you can call?”

Yes, I did, but that guy was a world-class alcoholic and he wasn’t picking his phone up after some fifty calls. He was probably sleeping it off in an alley somewhere.

At this point, I was absolutely certain that Laura was just going to drop me off in the middle of an Arby’s parking lot and speed away. Luckily, women can be so much nicer than men. I would have surely dropped her ass off on the side of the road if I had somewhere important to be.

And then my cell phone died and I could no longer even call my one friend.

We drove around in concentric and ever-larger circles for the next four hours before finally I saw something I recognized and led us back to my friend’s home.

It was 11:00 AM. Laura had already missed the baby shower.  She had said about three words to me in the previous three hours. It was kinda remarkable.  A quiet woman can be quite frightening.

As we sat in the driveway of my friend’s house, I didn’t know how to end things. A kiss on the cheek was quite inappropriate after the morning’s events. A handshake was too formal, as if we’d just played a round of golf. So I was simply honest:

“You really are the sweetest girl I’ve ever met,” I said as I got out of the car, slammed her door, and never looked back.

She peeled rubber out of the driveway, loud enough that my besotted friends finally awoke.

“Why are you hanging on the porch, Aaron?” they wondered, Laura’s car long gone by now.

I just smiled and went inside to sleep.

I still think about Laura. That was truly one of the nicest things things a stranger has ever done for me.

Something about the name Hell Hath No Fury reminded me of the Laura events.  Maybe because I had some selfishly scorned her.  My friend had gotten me a bottle of the ale as we don’t get Bell’s beers in New York.  I was excited to try it but it has one of the worst labels I have ever seen.  It’s almost so bad it’s good, like the cover to a goofy Hallmark card some lame adult is so proud they got you.  (”Isn’t it great?!”  “Yeah, real impressed you spent two minutes instead of thirty seconds sifting through the trite cards on display.”)

Luckily, the beer is quite good.  Roasted with the typical line-up of dark fruits:  plum, cherries, and raisins.  I really enjoyed it and though only 7.7% it seemed to pack a bit of a punch.  A nice tingly mouthfeel and went down smooth.  I would definitely look forward to having it again.

I’m almost positive Laura hasn’t forgotten me.

A-/B+

6.5% ABV canned

On Friends With Anti-Game and the Myth of “Cockblocking” or Maybe Just a Spurned Man’s Bitter Missive

Tim Wakefield winds up and throws but his pitch doesn’t knuckle, instead fluttering to the plate at a mere 58 MPH, fodder for a big leaguer. But rather than crushing it out of the park, your teammate brutally swings and misses, embarrassingly striking out. Even worse, his strike out immediately causes you and your other teammates to whiff too. Besides being the complete antithesis of what the Rays did to the Sox last night, this serves as a metaphor for what it’s like to try and hit on girls with a friend that has anti-game.

The above scenario typically isn’t a problem for me. All my friends are cool, funny, witty, handsome, debonair…OK, well at least they know how to talk to drunken women without causing them to reach for their pepper spray key ring. Likewise, living in New York evolutionarily forces a man to hone his inveigling prowess. This isn’t fucking Tulsa or Little Rock, this is the majors, son, survival of the fitness, and if you don’t quickly develop some competent skills of seduction you will be self-sentenced to a lifetime of celibacy.

Being that I moved to the greatest city in the world, a rarity amongst the populous where I grew up, whenever any sort of former acquaintance, of even the sometimes most minor sort, comes to town on business or vacation, I am searched out. And in this era of Facebook and MySpace that ain’t too difficult to accomplish. Thus, a few times a month and countless times a year, being that I’m always up for an adventure, especially if that involves drinking, I will agree to go out with what is essentially a stranger. A person I often haven’t seen or even spoken to since I graduated high school in 1997, if not earlier than that.

Several weeks ago, I was bombarded with three faces from the past over a string of five separate nights. The first two old chums were an absolute joy to hang out with and we drank and got into trouble until the sun came up. The third…well…

The night started out fine enough. We casually drank at Stout, a could-be-so-much-better beer and skank megaporium* near Penn Station. My New York friend and I quickly became kinda bored and for entertainment purposes decided to get the out-of-towner’s easily provoked goat by continually telling him–only half-jokingly-in-delivery-but-really-not-jokingly-at-all-in-our-heads–how much hotter the women are in Manhattan than in his barely top 50 in population metro area.

We’d notice the typical fat friend and…

“You see her? Cankles over there? That’s a SEVEN in your burg.”

We’d noticed a mediocre, early-thirties, twenty-pounds-overweight barfly and…

“You see her? She’d be a NINE in your city.”

The out-of-towner was apoplectic, hemming and hawing and “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Aaron, you just don’t know the right places to go in my town. The women there are soooooooo much prettier than in New York.”

And then we saw a classic butterfaced skank with a legit bod and not much else going on and…

“You see her? In your city…?”

Histrionic pause.

“…she’d probably be like a FIFTEEN.”

“OUT OF TEN?!?!?!? You guys are caaaaaaaa-razy!”

But we weren’t. From firsthand experience we knew those also, also-rans in New York would be the belle of the smoky tavern in his town. Yes, we were being a bit cruel, but we mainly did it to entertain ourselves, to wink-wink, smirk-smirk at our friend’s indignatious outrage.

Our former friend was a nice guy no question, perhaps a “nice” guy at worst. Oh, there’s a big difference believe me. One of those fellows that plastered-on smiles and talks to everybody, flirting at any life form with a pussy in the same asexual way your grandpa goofs around with women four times less his age. The kind of guy that reads a waitress’s nametag and condescendingly calls her by her name before she’s even introduced herself.

“Hi Wendy, I’ll have the chicken fingers and a Guinness and when you have a chance could you be a doll and put the Cardinals game on…(looks around and finally points) that screen?”

Later, after a few drinks, my New York friend and I, still both stone-cold sober, and the out-of-towner, now buzzed in that goofy begins-to-act-giggly-like-a-girl way, decided to head to some new haunts.

Tonight’s your night, out-of-towner, so where do you want to go we asked?

“Where ever I can get laid,” he said, emphasis on the last word and without an ounce of bad-80s-movie irony.

Well OK. My eyes rolled so much in my head that I think I saw behind me. I couldn’t possibly imagine a scenario in my mind where the out-of-towner could land a lady. That is, unless she was absolutely wasted. Thus, I somewhat selfishly suggested my hood, land of the alcoholic, easily wheedled floozy.

We bounced from place to place in Hell’s Kitchen, the out-of-towner never satisfied with the scene. The scenes were solid in your author’s humble opinion and I fucking hate barhopping. I was getting bored and when I get bored I always steer my party to a place where I can play “Big Buck Hunter.” And thus I did.

En route, we saw a quite attractive young girl returning from happy hour and trying to unlock the front door to her apartment building.  One thing led to another and soon we were talking to her and eventually I had convinced her to join us at the bar.

Before I go on, a disclaimer. Even sober I am cocky and arrogant, but with a few drinks in me my confidence and self-assuredness reaches Caesarean, Odyssean, GeorgeClooneyan levels of hubris. So when I say I think our picked-up girl wanted me, take that for what it’s worth.

The out-of-towner didn’t take it for much, as people with anti-game have some of the worst interpersonal read-and-recognition skills this side of an Asperberger’s sufferer.  Instead of relaxing and just sitting back, a group of four people drinking and conversing, he decided to immediately try and steal the show.  He locked arms with the girl and marched her to the bar, gallingly ordering him and her pints (the wretched Steeeeeeeeella!) while ignoring me and my pal.

From there, the out-of-towner led her to a crammed corner seat where he proceeded to angle her in a way that blocked her from any sort of conversation with us, using his arms braced against the exposed brick wall as a gate locking her in like a roller coaster contraption.  Over his 5′7″ shoulders I could see her often make eyes with me, but I knew it was over.  Predictably, the out-of-towner dominated the conversation, doing the opposite of regaling her with boring anecdotes about the life of a middle manager on the road.  You can’t defeat anti-game like that.  You simply have to ignore it, know your chances have been foiled, and get on with your life.

Thus, my friend and I went to the corner to get drunker and play “Buck Hunter.”  I had my first ever Dale’s Pale Ale and was floored.  I typically don’t like pales, thinking they are boring and unadventurous but had heard good things about this one and goddamn was it good.  An almost IPA level of hops, solid malts, a great little sweetness and citrusness, and extraordinarily drinkable.  Maybe the best pale ale I’ve ever had and I could see myself downing these all night long.

From afar I noticed the out-of-towner making ways with the girl.  Her body language seemed to indicate that she was into him and indeed she was no longer glancing my way.  Good for him.  Perhaps I had been wrong in my assessment of her vis-a-vis me.  It’s certainly happened in the past.

A half hour later, the out-of-towner came over to inform me and our friend that he was going back to the girl’s apartment to fuck her.  I was a bit surprised, but New York women are certainly not known for being coy.  And then…nothing happened.  The girl refused to leave with him.  She finally came over to us.  “You guys should come back too.”  Her eyes bolding, italicizing, and underlining the TOO.

Really?

I didn’t believe her nor did my friend.  We’ve seen this behavior before.  Girls too embarrassed to leave for a one-night stand so they act like everyone’s invited back and then when everyone correctly plays their part by turning the offer down she can simply say, “Well, I invited them.  Guess it’s just me and you, huh?”

But she wasn’t playing any games.  And eventually the out-of-towner came up to us playing “Buck Hunter” and embarrassingly explained, “Look guys, you really have to come back TOO.”

He explained she had a roof and we could drink her beer and her hot roommates would be there too.  Alas, we turned him down.  He was going to have to accomplish this mission on his own.

He left and five minutes later he returned.  Seems he got to roof and unceremoniously went in for a kiss and she even-less-ceremoniously pushed him away.  She wasn’t “feeling it.”  She then immediately went to her bedroom, leaving the out-of-towner alone on the roof, forced to find his own way downstairs and back to the bar.

The girl may or may not have liked me but anyone with even a modicum of game could have quite easily picked her up.  She was drunk, willing, bored, and had already predetermined the outcome to her night once she had entered the bar with three strangers–she was sleeping with (at least) one of them.  The only thing that could torpedo the chances of group success was a person with anti-game.  And that’s what happened.  If he had simply sat there quietly he would have had a better chance with –probably ultimately succeeded with her!– than he did in trying to impress and “be himself.”  Oh well.

The last indignity of the night came when I went to the bathroom and the out-of-towner pulled my friend aside to utter the final salvo of the loser: “cockblocker.”  Indeed he was calling me a cockblocker due to his own personal failures.  Remember, children, people with anti-game can’t look within themselves, can’t conceive, can’t accept that something they do or did could be the reason why they didn’t succeed with a woman.  And thus they have no recourse but to cavalierly call someone around them a cockblocker.  But the fact of the matter is that cockblocking simply doesn’t exist among adults.  If a woman wants to fuck you she will, and there ain’t nothing another man can do to stop it.

A-/B+

*Arguably the greatest single drinking “space” in Manhattan, the place has a respectable enough beer menu but they haven’t updated it once in the half-decade the place has been open. They have tons of terrific TVs but they always have them showing something like minor league cricket or the Greg Schiano Show. Tons of attractive woman go for happy hour but Stout blasts completely inappropriate techno music so loud that one can barely speak or certainly build rapport. Not that the bartenders are ever near your premises to get an order what with the fact that the place has a bar longer than a bowling lane but at best two drink slingers working at even bustling times. The food is pretty good but comes out slowly and cooled to a sog. And buybacks? You got to be kidding me. Go to the nearby Ginger Man+ instead. Everything Stout wishes it could be if its management wasn’t so obviously lazy and resting on its laurels in operating something I statistically know to be a major cash cow.

+Then again, Ginger Man has some issues nowadays too.

8.5% ABV from a bomber

Today brought the news that a wealthy and apparently eccentric man from Alabama is offering to pay $50,000 per for Jewish families to move down to his shitty unpopulated mega-Christian town. I guess he needs some like-minded buddies. The relocated Jews will have to agree to a five-year stint in the Heart of Dixie during which they have to actually act as committed Hebrews, attending shul, wearing yarmulkes, hanging mezuzahs, and…I guess eating corned beef sandwiches and quoting Woody Allen movies. Who knows?

$50,000?! Shit, I wouldn’t move to the Upper East Side for a lowly $50K. And to shlep to middle-of-nowhere-Alabama I’d have to be paid a least $10 million lump up-front. Probably more.

You think I’m kidding? I have certain needs. People often wonder why a human would put up with all the bullshit, all the chaos, all the dismay, stress, crampedness, filth, and overwhelming expenses to live in New York. They oddly think, “Does he like museums and Broadway theater and Lincoln Center ballets and operas that much?!” Of course not. Actually, I’m not even that big on culture. “Culture” meaning stuff that hasn’t been truly relevant and exciting since “A Tale of Two Cities” was on the new release rack at Ye Olde Barnes & Noble.

My reasons for living in the Moneymaker are far more pedestrian and mundane. Here are all of them, in decreasing importance though they are all crucial factors to me.

1. Public transportation — I fucking hate driving. I like to walk wherever I can and in fact do so for any journey under thirty blocks north/south or any distance cross-town. Above that, I love to use public transportation. I abhor sitting in traffic jams listening to shitty classic rock stations while wasting my life away. With public transportation, while some high school drop-out on potent union wages does the “driving,” I’m able to read, write, do crosswords, sleep, or just ogle hot women, which brings us to…

2. Hot single women and plenty of ‘em — Self-explanatory. Besides the fact that most cities have ugly women, most of them are married-by-24 with several-kids-by-28. No thank you. I could handle dealing with having to try and pick up potentially cuckolding wives due to a lack of sexy singles, but not when they’re all so fat and ugly.

3. Terrific food — We all know New York is the best dining city in the world, but it’s not like I can afford to eat at per se, Gordon Ramsey at The London, and Alain Ducasse every night. Or ever. No, in my opinion, New York is also the best city for cheap eats. From $4 Halal “street meat” platters to of course pizza and bagels to mind-blowing cuisines from more countries than are even in the worthless U.N. You can eat better for cheap here than you can eat for a gorgeous penny in most other American cities.

4. Bars open all hours of the night — I hate to temper the hero worship, but you may be surprised to know that the Vice Blogger doesn’t stay out til dawn four times a week like he used to when he was a young lad. In fact, he’s lucky to do that once a month these days. But he still likes to have the option. Nothing worse than being in a subpar city drinking subpar beers at a subpar bar when at 1:30 the lights go high and the bouncers start yelling, “Get the fuck outta here! LEAVE!!!” It’s ridiculous. The difference between cities that stay open til 2:00 and ones that stay open til 3:00 are immense. That is such a crucial hour. And New York stays open many hours more. Plenty of time to get in trouble.

5. Movies — Being a film buff, if not a full-fledged cinema geek, I need to know that every single movie that is made and put into theaters will screen in my city. And, not only that, screen in my city on the absolute first day of its release. It was murder when I lived in places such as Oklahoma and Syracuse and had to wait months upon months for more obscure pictures to make it to my city — if ever.

6. Pro sports — I couldn’t live in a town that doesn’t have an MLB, NFL, and NBA team. It doesn’t hurt if there’s easy access to college football and basketball watching too.

7. Access to obscure beers

With the exception of just a few American breweries (Russian River, Lost Abbey, Three Floyds, Founders, etc), pretty much every other breweries’ beers are stocked in full in New York. I hear about a great beer and I basically just need to leave my house and walk five blocks to find it.

And my supermarket across the street, which isn’t even particularly great, sells stuff such as Delirium Nocturnum. You think the fucking supermarket in Dothan, Alabama has Delirium? You think they even have Bud Light Lime?! Doubtful.

Delirium has a great, borderline offensive name to the PC crowd–delirium tremens of course referring to the severe manifestation of alcohol withdrawal which causes symptoms such as tremors, insomnia, nausea, hallucinations, confusion, and “the shakes”–and absolutely iconic bottle labels, the pink elephant logo a harbinger that you’re about to get done fucked up good.

Nocturnum has a great dark chocolate pour with a nice slightly medicinal alcohol smell. Tastes of cranberry and fig, perhaps some apple and caramels. Nice spiciness with some balanced yeast. Goes down easy. Not mind-blowing or exactly sui generis, but a good beer that’s well-crafted and incredibly drinkable.

A great way to spend an evening in the greatest city in the world.

Thanks for the offer Mr. Blumberg, but I’m staying put in my beloved Manhattan.  Your state’s beer laws are retarded.

Don’t you see the rest of the country looks upon New York like we’re left-wing, communist, Jewish, homosexual pornographers? I think of us that way sometimes and I live here. –Alvy Singer “Annie Hall”

A-/B+

7.8% ABV from a bomber

I’m a bad estimator of how much I plan to drink in an evening. Luckily, my eyes are bigger than my liver and I always overestimate, often causing a stockpile of beer to…well, stockpile. Pre-barring Friday night I knew I wanted my first two beers to be the pricey and potent Westmalle Dubbel and Hair of the Dog Fred. I thought I might need just a tad more beer before I headed out so I opted for the Rejewvenator. Why? For three reasons:

1. It was only $3.99 for a bomber and after having spent an incredibly pretty penny on 12 ounce bottles of the Dubbel and Fred I needed some bang for my buck.

2. Jewish pride always gets me. Seinfeld, Woody Allen, Hank Greenberg, Ryan Braun, Neil Diamond, Pauly Shore…if you are Jewish I will most certainly overrate you.

3. I’ve never had a fig beer before. Hell, I’ve never heard of a fig beer before. Fuck, I think I’ve only had figs before in Newton form. This could be interesting.

Of course, I was already kinda in the tank after the brilliant Westmalle Dubbel (review later this week), so I decided to pass on the highly acclaimed Fred for another time (review next week), and head straight for the marginally acclaimed Rejewvenator to “get the job done” before heading out on the town.

Rejewvenator came out in a ruby red pour. Does it taste figgy? Eh, not exactly. At least I don’t think. But it has a unique flavor and a good one at that. I taste chocolate, malts, a little hops, and a bit of a sour finish. It was tons better than I thought it would be. Very flavorful, pretty complex, nice bite.

I was really digging this beer early on in the bottle but by bomber’s end I had grown a bit tired of it and wasn’t liking the pronounced alcohol taste.

Having said that, for the most part, I had a really enjoyable time drinking this one, especially considering I bought it as a bit of a goof.  L’chaim.

A-/B+

10.1% ABV bottle from 2007 (Beer Advocate lists the ABV as 11.8% but my bottle said 10.1%. Hmmm…?)

I still can’t believe that I didn’t realize that one of my favorite breweries, my “home” brewery no less, made my favorite style of beer, barley wine. I could understand if I’d never had it before, but how had I never even heard of it?! Any how, I found a six-pack this weekend and I jumped right on it, fully expecting a masterpiece. Unfortunately, that is not quite the case.

This is far too alcoholic for my tastes. I like high ABV beers with a lot of kick, but the alcoholic taste of this just isn’t well masked. Tastes of sherry, lotta hops, a little fruit, a little chocolate, and a sour finish. Great smell, but not very drinkable. Didn’t stop me from having four from the six-pack, but I would advise amateurs that they might enjoy this more as simply a single after-dinner dessert drink.

Only later did I learn that this wasn’t the kind of barley wine I’m used to. The kind that all my favorite American breweries make and that I adore, but rather Brooklyn Monster is an “English” barley wine. I’ve had countless American barley wines, but I think this is my first English. According to Beer Advocate:

English varieties are quite different from the American efforts, what sets them apart is usually the American versions are insanely hopped to make for a more bitter and hop flavored brew, typically using American high alpha oil hops. English version tend to be more rounded and balanced between malt and hops, with a slightly lower alcohol content, though this is not always the case.

Not what I found at all. I found Brooklyn Monster to be more potent in taste and far less rounded than American barley wines. This is decent and I will have it again, but I don’t find it world-class like, say, a Stone Old Guardian or a Great Divide Old Ruffian.

A-/B+

9.5% ABV on draught

Another Valhalla selection from my recent trip there.

The bartender told me this was a brown ale and indeed it kinda tastes like one, but one on steroids. It’s actually a Belgian strong dark ale, technically, and thus is slightly different. Nevertheless, if you like brown ales and are not a pussy, you’ll probably like this one. Most brown ales are solid, and there really aren’t any bad ones out there that I have tasted. Perhaps because it wouldn’t be very lucrative to mass-produce a watered-down brown. Best to just produce a crappy lager if you want to attract the masses.

Not the best brown ale, or strong dark ale, I’ve ever had, but it’s still good. Tastes too alcoholy, but at 9.5% what should I expect? I wish they had done a hair better job of masking the potency. Could use a sweet component or two. Just a hint. Nothing more. Just enough to make it a tad more quaffable as they say.

A-/B+