I write from what is surely the loudest Starbucks in the world.  The life of a writer can be solitary, boring, us existing for most of the day only in our minds, on our paper, the computer screen, perhaps our only words spoken aloud for eight straight hours being, “Large coffee, black.”*  That is why so many of us go to coffee shops, simply to be around other humans.  We don’t want to talk to them–each other–or even mingle with them, we simply want to be near other living breathing folks to let us know we are not alone, perhaps to have a fleeting exchange of half grins, head nods every so often.

Now, I kinda detest Starbucks coffee–too charred and unflavorful–but I can’t deny that they provide a splendid atmosphere for getting work done in public.  Usually.

Not so though at the ‘bucks closet to my house.  Yeah, the interior is just like any other:  a near-romantic level of dimness perfect for my sensitive squint eyes and oft-hungover brain, nice comfortable wooden chairs and tables, a clean interior, smooth jazz on the overhead Muzak system, and an abundance of space.  But the pleasantries stop right there.

[Mind you, this Starbucks is in what Forbes magazine rates as one of the top 100 richest zip codes in America.**]

Firstly, this particular Starbucks is overflowing with UWS housewives–the real Real Housewives of New York City except these bitches are legitimately rich–wheeling around SUV-sized Bugaboo and Stokke strollers that are triple the cost of the computer I currently write on, yenta-ing it up with their friends as they swig frothy caloric coffees and allow their asses to exponentially expand (sure hope they didn’t get roped into a prenuptial).   Or, these same housewives’ Jamaican nannies, everyt’ing irie-ing it with fellow babysitters, neither of these parties paying attention to the warbling children sleeping in the luxury beds on wheels, to the crying toddler who just pissed his expensive “organic” diaper connected to their wrist via leash.

There’s the little school girls that don’t seem to ever go to school, Double-Dutching it up loudly in front of this Starbucks’s countless windows, you can’t help but pay attention to them, constantly in your eyeline.  They occasionally even entering the coffeeshop to play Hop Scotch–I shit you not–as their faux-gangster boyfriends make clumsy passes at them.  Why are just Bat Mitzahed girls in an adult coffee shop?!  I didn’t become addicted to the substance til my early twenties.  Oh, that’s right, because no one drinks coffee any more, hell, barely serves it even; everyone now drinks what is essentially a milkshake acting under the guise of a coffee drink.  That’s why everyone’s so fat.  And, I’m the weird one that always gets a look when I only want a large coffee black.

The place is also overrun with bums.  No, they don’t hang in the Starbucks or even panhandle inside, but they visit the public bathroom like it’s a goddamn peep show and they hold more quarters than a dormitory laundry machine.  I swear, these motherfuckers either masturbate more than can even be imagined or they have the bladders of a college sorority girl that just played five straight games of beer pong using Natty Light.  They stink to high holy hell as well, a single file line of them currently snaking through the floor area, culminating inches from my table.  A man only wearing what appears to be a burlap sack looking over my shoulder trying to read my screen as I write this fucking word.

Behind me is a door, the “employee’s only” entrance to the back–no clue what goes on in “the back”–that slams with the force of a bank vault every single time an employees goes in there.  Which is literally every two minutes or so.  They must surely be doing some back room coke.  The door is in desperate need of an air break.

The lone male barista just returned from his smoke break with a Subway $5 footlong which he is now inhaling, in my sight and every other customer’s sight, right behind the counter, next to the lemonade machine, the overflowing bed of discolored lettuce cascading out from the poorly sliced Italian loaf and onto the floor.

But that’s OK, because the other male employee is on nonstop mop duty.  After much observation I think I’ve figured out his scam.  Him casually and slowly mopping all day so that he may never be assigned more taxing work.  Admittedly, the floor is always clean enough to eat off of–I haven’t, don’t worry–only problem is this guy is always in the way, especially with his nappy mop head which he has no compunction in tossing its wet, sudsy tendrils right under the table I sit at, dowsing my Nikes in the process.  I’ll remember next time to wear my boots that could use a good polishing.

The three other baristas are these fat fucking bitches.  They gab non-stop and laugh so much you would think Chris Rock was a co-worker.  Not quite.  Nothing funny is happening, or being said by them, believe me.  I now understand why painfully unfunny Tyler Perry movies are packed to the gills with guffawing crowds and have made him a $100millionaire.***

My head is about to fucking explode.  I can’t take it any more.  I’ve gotten no work done for at least an hour.  I am fuming.

But where else can I write?  The McDonald’s next door?  I actually like their coffee, but the interior is just so goddamn bright.  The overhead fluorescents could grow hydroponic marijuana and the place wreaks of ketchup.  Dunkin Donuts?  Again, superior coffee to Starbucks but too many Munchkin-poppin’ fatsos hogging the booths.  Public library?  Ick, don’t get me started.  Bums, mega-nerds, old folks, and cheapskates, the dirty stench of decades old paper and people that chronically shit in their pants.  Plus, they close at like 4.  And I certainly can’t write at home.  Too many things to do that are far more interesting than writing:  television and Netflix to watch, video games to play, beers to drink, music to dance to, and a dick to jerk off.

The final straw has just occurred, the entire crew now loudly singing along and dancing no less (!) to the song that has just come on the Muzak.  Oh, and it ain’t fucking “Build Me Up Buttercup” either.  Unbelievable.

Look, if I wanted to try and write while fat, uncoordinated, and ugly employees danced to music, I’d be currently sitting in a booth at motherfucking Johnny Rockets.

That’s it, after I hit “publish,” I’m slamming my laptop shut and heading out for good.  I’m gonna go write at a bar down the street.  Can’t be more annoying than this.

Wynona’s Big Brown Ale

7.3% ABV from a bomber

My new buddy from the best beer podcast (”brewcast” ahem) around, Should I Drink That?, hooked me up with this beer in a recent trade.  I had been reading a lot about the Voodoo Brewery from out of Meadville, PA and was curious to try some of their stuff, none of which makes it to the Tristate area.  Here’s their version of a brown ale, a style I generally enjoy but am never that blown away with as it’s usually executed in a most basic way (save DFH Palo Santo Marron of course!)  And, indeed, this is a solid, well made brown that I enjoyed drinking quite a bit.  Mildly hoppy, a shit load of smooth brown malt with the feintest hints of chocolate.  Well crafted, I’d certainly drink it again, but it’s not a beer I’d bend any one’s ear in talking about.  Nevertheless, I very much look forward to trying further Voodoo brews, specifically their award-winning stouts.

B

*I don’t say “venti.”

**For the record, I live in the just two-blocks-away yet different zip.  It’s not in the top 100.  And I’m certainly not rich.

***Lest you think that was a racist joke, the employees I refer to are a veritable Rainbow Coalition of colors.  In fact, most of these loathsome employees are white.  Sure, “urban” white, whatever that means, but still “Caucasian” is what these people most definitely check on their law school applications (har har).****

****OK, that was “classist.”*****

*****But funny.

9.5% ABV from a bomber

For the first thirty seconds after you eat a habanero chili nothing happens.  You’re confused.  You’re like, “This is it?!”  Instead of being quizzical though, you should savor the moment.  Because the next six to twenty-four hours of your life are going to be one giant ball of misery.

It was Sunday afternoon wrapping up a weekend in Syracuse.  That Friday I had taken the Cave Creek Chili Beer Challenge and lived to tell about.  My friend Dean–who actually enjoyed the vile brew–and I had spent all weekend relishing in our love of spicy foods, wherever we went trying to indulge in spicier and spicier foods both as acts of machismo and to impress and repulse our tamer tongued friends.

I had recently seen a television special on the habanero, purportedly the hottest pepper in the world, chalking in at some forty times the heat of a standard jalapeno.  Both Dean and I were determined to find one and try it.  Our dream finally became reality at the end of the weekend as we stopped at Wegman’s for a bite before heading home*.

I’m a fast eater so I finished my sandwich before my friends and excused myself from the table to check out the store’s newly revamped beer selection.  I was quite impressed, especially from a Central New York point of view and grabbed a few things, including a bomber of Druid Fluid from Syracuse’s own fairly regarded Middle Ages Brewery.  I continue to be stupefied that I lived in the ‘Cuse for four years without even realizing a brewery resided there**.  Unfortunately, I found the Druid Fluid a tad sub-par.  Barley wine is probably my favorite style of beer so I expect greatness and when you’re comparing Druid Fluid to say, a Stone Old Guardian, a J.W. Lees Harvest Ale, even a Lagunitas GnarlyWine, it simply doesn’t stack up.  Too weak and sissy for a barley wine. Like they’re trying to make one normal folks will like.  Lacks complexity, lacks sweetness, lacks flavor.  Although, I will admit, the more I drank it the more I enjoyed it.  (Perhaps I was just getting drunk and my tastebuds were loosening.)

Heading to the register to pay for my beers, I stumbled upon the chilis aisle and, wouldn’t you know it, I found a bag of dried habaneros.  Giggling like a little girl, I returned to my friends and handed the package to Dean.  We had to try them.  He concurred.  We were excited.

You might ask, “Aaron, why do you do these things?  Why do you put your body and health on the line for these dumb enterprises?”  It is because I am a man that loves novelty.  A man that loves to be able to say, “I have done that.”  It’s not about enjoyment necessarily, it’s about climbing that mountain and slaying that dragon.  I also like to see what unexpected things will happen.  It’s why I drank Chelada, why I drank the chili beer, why I was about to eat a habanero.

Dean was ready to bite into the habanero right in the middle of the food court, but I stopped him.  I explained that we had no idea what would happen to us and the last thing we needed is to be projectile vomiting amidst families enjoying some buffet bar sneeze-guarded General Tso’s chicken after a pleasant church service.  He agreed we best head out to the parking lot.

I noted we should have some cold fluid ready too, mentioning how I’d heard that, surprisingly enough, milk was the best savve for a hot tongue and throat wound.  Both Dean and I had no interest in milk–as Arnold Schwarzenegger once said, “Milk is for babies.  When you grow up you have to drink beer!”–so we decided to go with something similar.  Dean bought a sack full of those milky frothy Starbucks bottled frappuccinos.

We headed to the parking lot and stood in the frigid cold mentally preparing ourselves.  Dean laid the numerous bottles of frappucino on our car’s hood, loosening the caps for quite access.  Meanwhile, I studied the habanero packaging where there was literally this warning: “Do not directly touch with hands, may burn.  Do not get anywhere near eyes.”

Christ.

We were finally ready to eat the hottest spice on the planet.

Holding only the stem of a habanero, Dean and I each took a full bite of our respective pepper.  Nothing.  Dean and I looked at each other, confused.  This was it?  We are both incredibly arrogant about our ability to handle heat so we weren’t surprised.  Heck, I was about to pop a second habanero when–

Fire!  My whole head was on fire!  I was like one of those cartoon characters who has fire shooting from his ears.  I couldn’t control any function on my face.  It was like I was a stroke victim.  My eyes were watering, it felt like my ears were bleeding, snot was rushing like Niagara Falls from my nose, and phlegmy froth was coming from my mouth.  I grabbed a frappucino and chugged it.  I tried to speak to my friends but my tongue was anesthetized.  I couldn’t even feel it.  Correction, it felt like my tongue had become a giant airy inner tube hovering inside my mouth.  Words were not coming out of me, just slurs and babbling as my non-habanero eating friends cracked up and took pictures of me.

Dean was in worst shape.  His habanero kicked in a few seconds after mine and he jetted out of the area, now finding himself pacing madly some fifteen yards from where we stood.  After about ten minutes of misery, we both had somewhat calmed down.  We were in massive pain but finally able to somewhat talk, somewhat able to get in the car and head back to New York City.  I could barely recall what had occurred in the several minutes after eating the habanero.  It was as if I had entered a blackout fugue of spiciness.  They saw traumatic events are often repressed and this one was instantaneously.

The Audi was packed with five adults of varying girth and shoehorned into the back, Dean and I again found ourselves in a new sort of pain.  Like an hourglass, the habanero pain had left the northern extreme of our bodies and was now slowly creepy down.  Our esophagi felt like a tunnel of flames, each exhale, each burp god forbid, coming out like a fireball, as if we were dragons.  The floor of our stomachs feeling as if some Boy Scouts had kindled logs in our belly.  We were in too much pain to read the newspaper, too much pain to even listen to music.  And we had four hours of driving to go.

After thirty minutes of driving I could take it no longer.  “Pull over, pull over!”  Like a cosmic joke, at the instant, we passed a sign:  “Next Rest Stop:  22 Miles.”  We had no choice and the car was pulled over to the edge of the highway where I began projectile vomiting the entire insides of my stomach–eighteen inches of sub, several bottled frappuccinos, a whole Saturdays worth of pitchered beer and gin & tonics–for the next ten to fifteen minutes.  Eventually, my insides were ravished, the pepper poison rejected from me, only bile now left inside of me, and I was able to get back in the car.

Yeah, I felt good.  I smiled.  The pain was over.  I started laughing at my foolishness.  Only problem now was–having just upchucked lunch–I was starving.

Hubris be damned, thirty minutes later more pain would come.

Now, some hour and a half after the habanero indulgence, I’d finally cleared my head of heat, finally cleared my torso, but the pesky heat had one final southern stop.  I won’t get into details, but you guessed it.  We were forced to stop at the next rest area where I did something more foul in the public bathroom than anything Larry Craig has ever even considered.

However, that was luckily the final step.  And though I was a sweaty, stinky mess, like I’d just been in a record-breaking gang bang, I was finally free of pain.  Poor Dean, though, poor Dean who had yet to vomit or defecate, was pale as Casper and would remain that way the rest of the day.

Any time I do something stupid, no matter how much pain or indignity it gives me, I usually still admit that it was worth it.  It gave me a good story.  It allowed me to look back fondly for the rest of time and say, “I did that!”

Uhn uh.

Not this time.

Not this time at all.

I will never eat a habanero again.  I don’t care if you offered me $5000.  Not worth it.

Likewise, I would never even play a “prank” on someone–even my most mortal enemy–and secretly Mickey them with the vile pepper.  That’s just too cruel, bordering on felonious.  It really is some of the most pain I’ve experienced in my life and, considering that a newborn will never slide out of me, I think it will remain the worst pain of my life.

B

*You say, “Why would one stop at a supermarket to eat lunch?”  Well let me tell you, friend, that Wegman’s has some incredibly fine food of all cuisines which they serve up in a nice food court setting off to the side of the grocery area.  I prefer their Danny’s Favorite foot-long sub which is actually more like eighteen inches in length and near impossible to finish in one sitting.

**Then again, the 7 & 7 was my drink back then.  Yeesh!

~5.5% ABV bottled

I heard all sorts of negativity and skepticism from my friends.

“You’re really going to do it?!”

“Heh, you got bigger balls than me, pal.”

“That’s disgusting! I can’t believe you.”

“Seriously–DON’T. You’ll only regret it.”

And what was this scorn and derision directed at? My goal to one day take down a fifteen pound cheeseburger? Maybe a newfound sploshing curiosity? Perhaps my belief that should I ever get married I would like to sport a tailed tuxedo?!

Nope.

I was simply going to drink a homebrewed beer mailed to me from a Minnesotan semi-stranger.

It’s odd, we aren’t amazed when a normal person, a so-called “layman,” cooks a halfway decent meal. We aren’t floored by an average Joe that can fix their own car, paint their own house, write their own hilarious and informative vice blog. But brew their own beer?! Good lord! Why that’s impossible!

You’d need a giant facility, a label-making machine, probably a forklift or two, tons of weird ingredients, and all sorts of beefy bearded guys like in those Sam Adams commercials to stir giant vats.

I will admit, even to me, it’s an impressive feat, almost bordering on alchemy. Why does it seem so impossible to believe that some normal dude, with some normal job, can, as a hobbyist, just for kicks, in the evenings and weekends, make a fermented liquid that is drinkable, enjoyable, and gets one drunkable?

I suppose because we simply don’t understand the concept of beermaking. We don’t come home from elementary school to find our mother pitching some yeast. We don’t know any kids whose dads can make a mash. We don’t know what hops look like or what terms like “carboy” and “original gravity” mean.

It seems so much like prohibition-era bootlegging to just make your own beer. It reminds people of their alcoholic uncle that had to whip up moonshine in the garage washing machine while his wife was at bingo. But that isn’t what modern homebrewing is like in the least. There are plenty of skilled craftsman making beer every bit as good as what is sold commercially, better in most cases. You aren’t surprised by an amateur chef that makes brilliant meals, nor should you be surprised by an amateur brewer that does likewise*. Remember, they aren’t necessarily amateur cause they don’t have the skills. They’re amateur only because they don’t get paid.

Nevertheless, my friends were still leery. Still somewhat skeptical. Still thinking it possible I’d get a tainted–if not poisoned!–batch of beer.

Seriously, I have to say, if The Captain was going to poison me, it was a genius and highly disciplined stroke on his part. Begin reading my blog months ago, befriend me over e-mail and Facebook, frequently comment on my blog, create his own beer blog which I enjoy reading and commenting on, orchestrate several successful beer trades with me, pretend to be a homebrewer, and then finally send me his “prized” homebrew (dum, dum, dum!) in order to kill me! Diabolical!!!

Sadly, the fact is, I’m just not important enough to be assassinated. Any how, after my foodtaster Stevie sipped the stout and didn’t die, I dug in.

The Captain’s Oatmeal Coffee Stout opened with an impressive pop from his own bottling job. It smelled fantastic. Like a Guinness Extra Stout. Poured dark like a Coca Cola with a decent half-finger creamy head. Taste is nice. No hops I can detect, just clean and very drinkable. Using mathematical homebrewing equations I still don’t understand, The Captain estimated the ABV to be around 5.5%. But I got drunk at about an 8% level. Perhaps it was because I had a light dinner or it might have been due to a yeast starter which had been super efficient in consuming all the sugars and therefore upping the ante.

I think this would be a stout that your typical non-stout drinker would love. As it warmed almost to room temperature, the Starbucks Breakfast Blend coffee inside popped and I really begun to enjoy the booziness of the brew. It has a thinner mouthfeel than I’m used to, but that’s probably my problem. I rarely drink stouts, usually only going with bigger, badder, bolder imperial stouts. Likewise, The Captain mentioned the thin mouthfeel could be due to his having topped off his primary with a half gallon or so of water.

That’s the thing about homebrewing, it’s an inexact science one must constantly tweak. I get it. And I bet his next attempt at this will be even better, though this one is quite good. I’d even pay money for it.

So read his blog and if you’re a rich venture capitalist send him some money to start a brewery. It’ll benefit us all. Or at least him. And probably me too, since I would no doubt beg him to let me do something at the brewery. Or at least give me free beer for life.

B

*I’d love to homebrew too, only problem is I live in an apartment as big as a Piercing Pagoda kiosk at the mall. Plus, I got a lot of other stuff on my plate. And by “plate” I mean DVR and by “stuff” I mean “Pushing Daisies” episodes I’m behind on. I’ll get into homebrewing in my twilight years, when I live on a golf course with my 25-year-old trophy wife who I married while wearing tails.

9% ABV bottled

Here’s to the idiots that order stupid drinks.

To the drunk buffoon in Murray Hill who approached the bartender and nonchalantly asked for a round of Starry Night shots.  “And what the fuck are those?” eye-rolled the bartender, humiliating the fellow enough that he amended his order to straight tequila.  After the guy went back to his group of undesirables, the bartender and I snickered at the order, before realizing, hey, that shot probably looks pretty cool when executed correctly.  For the record, the recipe is Goldschlager floated on a Jaegermeister shot.

To the just-out-of-college girl I played the game of seduction with on the Lower East Side.  I thought I was successfully hitting on her, especially when she suggested we leave her group of friends and head to the bar to toast our near-future fornication with some Redheaded Slut shots, her treat.  I didn’t really enjoy them but we had several.  The girl was a Brunettehead and by the end of the night I learned that either my game was not that tight…or she just wasn’t a slut.

To the thirtysomething chap at a recent wedding who claimed “his” drink was a White Russian.  Seriously guy?  That’s no one’s drink.   Except The Dude’s.  And we all know you’re just trying to copy him to be cool.  But that’s not cool, because everyone’s seen “The Big Lebowski” and everyone–the Vice Blogger included–tried to make and/or order him or herself a White Russian in the days after first seeing the legendary picture.  And that was like a decade ago.  Now true, it’s a solid enough cocktail, no question, but it’s no one’s “drink.”  No one could possibly spend all evening drinking cocktails full of heavy cream, Kahlua, and vodka.  Get real.

To the girl I saw just last week at The Ginger Man order a vodka martini with “alotta olives, please.”  When she got handed her cocktail, the bottom of the glass was so full of olives, at least a dozen of them, that I was forced to sardonically remark:  “Jeez, ya’ trying to steal a free meal to go along with your drink?”  She coquettishly laughed, thinking I was flirting, staying near my side for a few seconds longer, expecting me to continue conversing with her, to further slay her with my alluring repartee.  I, however, turned back to my drink without a follow-up, leaving her to walk away confused.  “That girl liked you, why didn’t you keep hitting on her?,” asked my equally confused, and desperate, drinking buddy.  He didn’t understand either, that line, delivered as I delivered it, would have indeed been flirtateous in nature were it hurled toward an attractive woman.  But it was nothing but pure scorn when said to the kind of disgusting fat bitch that eats an entire glass of bar olives marinating in a splash of Stoli.

And, finally…

To the girl I was on a recent drinking date with, our first time out together.  We entered the pub and sat at a table in the far back.  The place lacked waitress service so, in a rare bout of chivalry, I offered to go up to the bar and get our first round.  I told my 24-year-old companion that I was in the mood for bourbon, and what would she like?  “A slippery nipple,” she shot back.  I pinky-cleaned some excess shower water from my ear canals before asking, just to be sure, “HUH?!”  “A slippery nipple, with ice,” she replied.  I smiled wide at her without saying anything further, turned to head to the bar, then bypassed the bartender, walked out of the establishment, and sprinted up the street to the Russian Vodka Room.  I’m getting too old to spend my time with idiots, I thought to myself as I turned off my cell and ordered two shots of infused vodka.

Come on people, you’re adults.  Ordering these drinks at watering holes is akin to going into a fine steakhouse and asking for a cardboard stick of hot pink cotton candy as your entree.  Grow the fuck up.

But the funny thing is, the irony is, that I constantly see these buffoons drinking beverages more childish than Ecto Cooler, yet I’m the one that gets stared at, that gets questioned, when I order the most normal of libations.

“Hey man, what’s that WEIRD drink ya just ordered?” is a refrain I constantly hear from needling strangers.

Well, in this case, the hoi polloi would be correct, Midas Touch is one fucking weird drink.  I nearly called it one fucking weird beer, but I’m not quite sure that’s a fully accurate label.

It pours orange/red like a strong apple cider you’d get at a farmers’ market.  It smells like a sour/wild ale, very interesting.  And, wow, what an odd taste.  There’s a clear reason why.   A handcrafted ancient ale brewed with a recipe of barley, honey, white muscat grapes, and saffron among other things, this brew is Dogfish Head’s attempt to recreate an elixir found to have been drank by THE King Midas countless centuries earlier.

Overall, it tastes at times like a mead (a beverage I’ve had only once or twice in my life), a white wine chardonnay, a barley wine, and a wild ale mix.  Very bready, and carbonated like a weak champagne.  It took me nearly two hours to polish off a twelve-ounce bottle.  The beer is so potent–in complexity, not necessarily alcohol, though that too–that I could only handle eye drop size sips each time my mouth went to glass.

I’m damn glad I had the Midas Touch, but I’m not sure I’d ever want to have another!  It’s just not a complete success.  Having said that, I insist that any beer lover give this one a whirl.  It is something that demands to be experienced.

B

15 E. Seventh Street, New York City

I don’t do bar reviews and I’m not exactly gonna do one here.  Fact is, there ain’t a need to, more words have been written about McSorley’s than probably any other bar in America.  Hell, you can even find an article simply about the urinals at the bar, first installed in 1911 and first made uncivilizably disgusting probably three minutes later.  Thing is, every New Yorker knows–or thinks they know–about McSorley’s and it’s the one bar we’ve all pretty much been to in town. We all love to spout off the “facts” we know about the place–some true, some false, most kinda true–but just like the newspaper editor so famously said in “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valiance“: “When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.”

Here are some of my favorite legends (”facts”) which I neither know if they are true, false, nor half-true, but which I know are all indeed interesting.  You can do the research for yourself:

*McSorley’s is the oldest still-open bar in New York and America.

*Houdini’s handcuff’s hang in the bar, though I’ve never seen them myself.

*Abe Lincoln once drank there.  So did Teddy Roosevelt.

*Though women weren’t allowed to drink there til the 1970s.

*And when McSorley’s owners were finally forced to allow women entry, they made them use a bathroom behind the men’s bathroom.  As in women had to enter the men’s room, walk behind the backs of countless barbarians pissing at the aforementioned urinals, and then enter their ladies room.  Awesome.

But as you’ve probably guessed, not a lot of ladies go to McSorley’s.  Gentlemen either.  Or at least, any ladies and/or gentleman are quickly vulgarians upon entering the place.  You know, like it’s kinda impossible to simply be a watcher at an orgy.  Uh…never mind.

McSorley’s is still kinda rough and tumble, all the wall decorations caked in filth that could probably be carbon-dated back to the 1800s, saw dust still covers the floors, vomiting is all but encouraged, and there’s probably still spittoons in the corners.  The bartenders are rude as hell and have earned the place a nickname of McSurley’s.  If you haven’t been tossed from the place at least once, then you’re a saint of epic proportions or a liar.

But it’s all pretty much a gimmick.  Shit they even have a nicely designed website nowadays*.  McSorley’s is now just a faux-dive bar.  A safe place for yuppies to feel like they’re actually drinking in a scary place.  A real honest-to-god Eye-reesh bar!  Having said that, though it is faux-divey and scary, it is legitimately filthy.  I’d encourage you to garb yourself in clothes that are just one wearing away from going to Goodwill.

I hit the Old Ale House once or twice a year, but only when I have friends in town.  And, I had a friend in town this weekend and thus we went.

Imbibers at McSorley’s quickly learn there’s not much of a drink selection at the bar, but more on that in a second.  First, my favorite McSorley’s story ever, of which the opening line sounds like the start to some old guy’s lame joke:

So a fey and effette youth walks into the bar:

“Whatta ya’ haf?” says the surly barkeep whose seen more shit in his life than a turd farmer.

“Cosmo.  Up please.”

The bartender remains stoic, “We ain’t got d’ose.”

“OK, then a pinot grigio.”

Without turning his head or changing his expression, the bartender juts his left arm at the door like a Nazi salute but with only his pointer finger extended.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUT!!!!!!”

You see, literally the only thing one can drink at McSorley’s is their two house beers on tap.  Known simply as “dark” and ”light,” they come in half-pint mugs which go for two bucks a piece.  No one goes to McSorley’s to sip, you go to drink, like that guy who used to appear at the end of “The Man Show,” thus with big crowds and insatiable thirsts, most people order ten beers for themselves at once.

McSORLEY’S “DARK”

5.93% ABV on draught**

I believe this is a dark lager and, you know, it’s not half bad.  I typically drink the darks by a ratio of about 3:1 over the lights.  It’s very easy to drink but some in your party may still struggle with it.  I’m absolutely convinced that sight is the absolute worst sense for a macro-drinking amateur to use when imbibing.  I have friends that the second they see a dark beer it’s, “Oh, it’s so heavy!  It must be so caloric!  It’s impossible to drink.”  Doesn’t matter if it’s a 4.2% 95 calorie Guinness, they still act like it’s a 20% 500 calorie Dogfish Head 120 Minute.  By the same regard, if they see a golden beer–kinda like they’re used to with macro crap–they have no problems.  This is best exhibited by the fact that most amateurs have no problems drinking golden tripels but faint at the sight, smell, and taste of the lower-ABV brown-colored dubbel.  What a buncha maroons.

B

McSORLEY’S “LIGHT”

3.9% ABV on draught***

And this is almost certainly a light lager and what your macro friends will exclusively drink at McSorley’s.  They may sip one dark, but they’ll quickly go back to the lights.  Fine with you, they already bought ten darks and now have nine left that they don’t want any more.  Damn it’s fine to be a skilled tippler!

C

My most recent visit to McSorley’s lasted two rounds of ten beers (i.e. fifteen minutes) before we were so fed up with the idiots congregating near us that we bolted.  Wise move.  Best to get in and out of this place late on weekend nights.  Better to go in the afternoon.

*Then again so does my dear mother. No you don’t get that hyper link.

**I’m using the listed ABV for the bottled versions which I’m not 100% positive are the exact same.  I’ve quite frankly never actually known.  And being that I’m always shitcanned when I drink at McSorley’s and have only had the bottled versions–bottled by Pabst Brewing no less!–a few times, I really can’t offer any thoughts as to whether they are similar formulas.

***Ibid

5.2% ABV from a growler

Any one who is a drinker and also a cell phone owner has at one time or another also been a drunken cell phone loser. To steal a line from a friend, I am a professional cell phone loser. I thought I was too old for this shit, mature enough to–even wasted–hang onto my possessions and my dignity. But apparently not. For you see, I lost another cell phone Friday night. In fact, I think with over a decade of cell phone usage, I’ve only been able to hang onto one phone until I was finally done with it and actually ready to purchase a new one.

So here I present an ode to cell phones I’ve lost over the years. All while I had over-the-limit BACs of course. But I’ll claim that might be coincidence rather than causation. You can decide for yourself.

I came into cell phone ownership kinda late I guess, not getting my first device til late-2000. That was back when phones were well-made and could actually last forever. Not the plastic pieces of shit they produce nowadays. Back then you actually hung onto a phone for a long time both because they weren’t pumping out new, exciting models every week and forcing you to keep up with the Joneses and also because why would one need to keep getting a new phone every year if their current one still worked? That first phone lasted me until May of 2003 when I attended a friend’s wedding in Philadelphia which I was the best man in. The ill-fitting tuxedo pants I wore–aren’t all rental tuxedo pants ill-fitting what with that elastic cincher in the waistband–had the loosest, deepest pockets and every time I sat down my phone and wallet would shoot from them like a fat kid on a Slip N Slide. Of course, by the time I got drunk and got into a cab to head to the after-party, I was no longer closely monitoring my pocket situation. When I got to the bar the phone was gone, and in it the phone number of a girl I was to meet up with that night. This would start a longstanding tradition of continually meeting girls and having their numbers only listed in my phone when I lose it, thus causing me to have no chance of setting up potentially exciting late-night rendezvouses. Amazingly, returning to New York the next day, I finally got a hold of the cabbie whose taxi I lost my phone in and he remarkably went to a FedEx and mailed it back to me. Good Samaritan of the century.

Unfortunately, this little incident wouldn’t teach me a lesson. To reverse a famous maxim: A genius learns from others’ mistakes. A smart man learns from his own. An idiot keeps repeating the same mistakes over and over again. I must be an idiot.

Cell number two I lost while drinking hard on a Friday night. There is no interesting story surrounding that. Saturday morning I headed to Best Buy to pick out a new phone where a salesman that looked and behaved like a happy-go-lucky Al Sharpton helped me out. Luckily I was past the rebate time of two years so I got a $350 phone for free. I headed to an all-Indian Halloween bash that night where I drank some spiked “witch’s brew” punch that musta really effed me up cause I don’t recall anything after midnight. I awoke the next day with nothing in my pants pockets save matchbooks from like fifteen different bars over a several miles radius in midtown. I borrowed my roommate’s phone to call the chick who hosted the party, to see if maybe I left my phone at her pad. She answered the phone with great truculence. “Uh…hey, Rita, did I happen to leave my phone at your apartment?” She paused for an interminable amount of time before asking me if I recalled what happened the previous night. Nope. She told me I had thrown an hors d’oeuvres tray out of her highrise apartment’s window and into the courtyard. And then several male guests had to forcibly remove me from the party. *CLICK* Burned bridge. I marched back to the same Best Buy I’d been just twenty-four hours earlier. I went up to Al Sharpton. “Do you remember me?” “Sure do.” “Do you remember that phone I bought yesterday?” “Sure do.” “I’ll take another one.” This time I paid the full $350 being that I’d only owned my previous phone for a day and there is no rebate offer on owning a phone for only a day.

Phone number four was an absolute beauty, the most expensive and cherished phone I’d ever bought in my life. I had it from May 2005 til my 27th birthday in February of 2006. That night I got shitcanned on the Lower East Side which lead to the absolute worst hook-up of my life with some Hell’s Kitchen hood rat. The day I tell that story in full I will cause 75% of my readers to vomit, 80% to quit speaking to me, and 100% of females to ignore me for the rest of time. I think the girl may have stolen the phone from me as I awoke the next morning to find her gone and my phone too. I was so ashamed that I didn’t leave the house for quite a while after that and next bought a real cheapy piece of crap cell to replenish the filched one. A few days after I bought the new phone, the first friend listed in my cell’s directory got a call. Some Latino kids claiming they’d found my cell in a 7-11 parking lot in White Plains. They wanted a reward of $500 for it. I told them several sexual acts they could do to themselves.

Phone number five–the aforementioned cheapy–actually lasted until I was done with it. I hated that fucking phone. Why did I never lose that one?!

And phone number six was my most recent one. My second favorite device I’ve ever had.

Again, my friends and I were drinking on the lower east side. Trouble always happens when I leave the numbered streets and drink below Houston. I don’t think I was drunk but then again, pre-barring before heading out, a friend and I had split an entire Whole Foods growler of Hop Obama. The second election-themed special release beer I’ve had this year, I’d been looking to try it for a while. To quote the brewery, “In keeping with the Illinois senator’s unifying theme, the ‘Hop Obama’ is an indefinable ale that doesn’t adhere to traditional style guidelines.” It poured a gorgeous rich amber color. It was darker than I expected and tons more bitter too. Nice hops came through as well. Tasted more like a bitter or even a weak IPA than the amber ale it is listed as. Overall, I enjoyed it the more I indulged in it, though it wasn’t quite as drinkable as you would think a 5.2% beer to be. If ‘Bam is elected I’m assuming Sixpoint will make this a regular release. That would be nice.

As I said, though we drank til 4 AM I don’t believe I was that wasted. In fact, I had met two girls that night and gotten both’s e-mail addresses. I don’t get phone numbers because I actually hate talking on the phone. And, drinking with an out-of-town friend on Friday, leaving him for a one-night stand was simply not in the cards. I recall getting the second girl’s info around 3:30 but by the time my friends and I had hailed a cab around 3:45, my phone was gone. I still don’t know where it went.

From 3:45 til 5 AM as we ate greasy food and played hockey on XBox, we called my phone, then again all day Saturday and Sunday. I was actually blown away that my phone was still ringing. I was so pissed at myself, my stupidity, that I decided to flagellate myself by buying a cheap phone next time, like one of those plastic disposable ones the gangsters on “The Wire” use. However, I refuse to buy the new one until my lost phone has quit ringing, thus signally the batteries are dead and thus no one will ever be able to locate me.

Amazingly, all day today my countless friends have called my phone countless times. And it continues to ring. Some sixty hours after I lost it and around seventy hours after I charged it last. I don’t think I knew a phone could stay charged so long.

I’d finally given up hope, fully planning on buying a new phone tonight, when just an hour ago, with the battery power surely in the red, some guy in Queens finally answered my phone. Worried about the battery cutting him off, he quickly gave his cell phone number and address. And in just a few minutes I will train out to Astoria to meet with him. What a nice guy. And another lesson not learned by The Vice Blogger. Goddamn I’m a lucky son of a bitch.

B

ABV unlisted (I fucking hate when breweries do this!)

I have an embarrassing confession to make. I would understand if you are so disgusted by me that you quit reading the Vice Blog. On Sunday night I ordered from Domino’s.  A full day of watching football and I must have been so deluged by those commercials for their new oven-baked sandwiches that eventually I thought it a splendid idea to actually order one.

Putting that fact aside for a second, Domino’s has an absolutely amazing feature on their website whereas they literally show you step-by-step, like a sporting event gamecast on ESPN.com, how your order is progressing.

They tell when your food has been prepped and by whom (Ramon in my case!), when it has been put in the oven (by Jordan in my case!), when it has been taken out and put in a heatwave bag (thanks Hector!), and when it is headed your way (see you soon delivery man Baganda!).  It’s almost worth ordering from Domino’s online just to see this amazingness in action.

However, this seemingly rave review quickly takes a right turn and drives off the cliff.  You see, as I was following my sandwich’s progress, anxiously awaiting for Baganda to arrive from a location just 5 blocks away, I noticed it was taking far too long.  And after 30 minutes I started to think that Baganda had been hit my a car.  And after 45 minutes, when the website order progress changed and said “Order Completed by Baganda!” I knew I had been bamboozled.  That the order progress follower must simply be a cosmetic lie.  Numerous calls to Domino’s went unanswered as well and I began to seethe.  I considered sprinting down to the corporate pizzeria to shove someone’s head in the oven “Goodfellas” style.  Alas, I was sitting in my underwear and too lazy for that exercise.  Thus, with nothing in my fridge but beer, my dinner for the evening, just like a monk during lent, became a six-pack.

Earlier that day I’d stumbled upon Blue Point’s Oktoberfest.  I didn’t even know they made that style.  And apparently others don’t either as it currently only has 15 reviews on BA.  Too bad, it has a cool label and is pretty decent.  And actually tastes like a correct Oktoberfest, which is great as I’ve been finding many American versions are nowhere close to correct in style.  This one is.  Mild smell, not too complex, malty, or full-bodied but good enough.  Certainly better than Brooklyn’s version.

Oh, and the epilogue to my Domino’s story is that I did indeed march down there on Monday where the kindest of kind Jamaican manager told me that Baganda did show up at my apartment building but that my doorman refused to let him in.  That might sound legitimate except for the fact that I live in a building so shitty that we barely have a front door, much less a doorman.  Whatever.  I was refunded my money in cash and given some free coupons and cheezy something-or-others.

5% ABV

I don’t believe it’s this way in most the rest of the country, but supermarkets in New York allow you to break up six-packs.  This is great because you only have to take a chance on 12 ounces of beer, never getting stuck with a potential 72 ounces of shit.  Here are some Manhattan supermarket beer-buying tips:

Whole Foods is still the king of supermarket beer-buying in New York with an exquisite and plentiful selection.  And at fair prices too.  Aside from the Bowery location, all the other locales allow you to break up sixers and seem to have an unwritten rule of charging exactly $2.50 per beer single.  That’s not a great price for a lot of one-offs, but for some big boys it is remarkable (see:  Ayinger Celebrator).

D’Agostino is located right across the street from me and has a decent enough selection, with the full line of Stone bombers for as cheap as $3.99 per.  They have the most rational single deal, selling looseys for exactly one-sixth of their six-pack price.  Unfortunately, most of their cashiers can’t do the basic math formula:

(6-pack price) / 6 = what I ask the customer to pay me

Often you might find yourself standing in line for an extra fifteen minutes watching the abacus inside the register ringer’s head churn as several co-workers gather around to try and assist.  This will lead to hipsters and surly old people behind you in line getting upset at your for being the guy who couldn’t just act normal and buy a straight six-pack but who instead bought six bottles of six different beers.

This is a prevailing theme at NYC stores, though, and D’Agostino is sadly nowhere close to being the worst offender.

Also, sometimes you can scam D’Ag when it comes to fancier craft breweries that sell their beers in four-packs.  In this scenario instead of doing:

(4-pack price) / 4 = what I ask the customer to pay me

they still divide by six, cutting your price point down a bit.  And I know your next question. Yes I’m a 29-year-old man that gets my jollies out of duping supermarkets out of a buck or two.  Sue me.

Gristedes is far and away the biggest piece of shit store in the entire metro area.  Filthy, messy, product strewn all about, terrible prices, chaos everywhere as if some looterious riot has just occurred, and painfully inattentive employees.  However, they have a pretty darn good brew selection.  Nevertheless, they don’t seem to allow you to break up sixers, though I’m not sure even the managers there know official store policy.

Several times I’ve gone to the register with a bottle or two and had the cashier woman nonchalantly say, “That’ll be $10.99.”  “For a single beer?”  “You get charged the entire six-pack price.”  “So, I get charged $10.99 whether I buy one beer or six beers?”  “Yes.”  “You didn’t think it would be wise to tip me off to this before ringing me up?”

Let’s just say the workers at Gristedes don’t have a lot of horsepower between their ears.  No wonder the store is going bankrupt.

Food Emporium has an adequate beer selection but no sixers remarkable enough to consider breaking apart.  I rarely go there for beer, especially because most of it is not refrigerated.

Morton Williams has a damn fine beer selection but the aisles are incredibly narrow even for Manhattan standards and I simply don’t viscerally like entering the place.  The name alone sounds like a paint store.  Sherwin’s half-brother or something.

I picked up a grab bag of singles at D’Ag over the weekend.  And yes, it took about 25 minutes for the women to figure out how much I owed, and even then she screwed up.

As I’ve mentioned before, when September and October roll around, I will pretty much purchase every single Oktoberfest and pumpkin ale I see on the shelves.  Post Road Pumpkin Ale is Brooklyn Brewery’s offering, and quite frankly, I cannot recall ever trying it, though I’m certain I must have in the past.

Right off that bat I thought I was tasting a simple spiced beer as I was absolutely overwhelmed by nutmeg, cinnamon, and all-spice, I could barely detect any pumpkin flavors at all.  And though I do like a lot of spiciness in my pumpkin ales, the big guy should still be front and center.  Luckily, the pumpkiny tastes do come through eventually though not as much as I like.  I want to be nailed in the face with a nice slab of pumpkin pie, and Brooklyn didn’t quite cut it.

Having said that, Post Road Pumpkin is a very drinkable and oddly refreshing pumpkin beer.  However, I’m starting to realize after having finally tried the brilliant Pumking this season, that most others are just going to seem inferior, dwarfed in comparison.  Wish I’d made Pumking my last pumpkin beer of the autumn instead of my first.

B

5.7% ABV from a bottle

The Vice Blogger Goes Off Beer

It was August of 2002. One year out of college and all the debauchery in New York had caught up to me–I was in the worst shape of my life, tipping the scales at probably 215 or so. Going to happy hour every day–especially when that “hour” actually equals 5 PM til closing–does in even the best of us. I needed to do something about it, I was not happy. I’ve always been overly confident if not arrogant, no matter my current lot in life, thinking I deserve more women than Moulay Moulay Ismail the Bloodthirsty. And I was getting significantly less than that. I looked deeply at myself and had to chalk it up to the extra baggage I was lugging around. Now at 29, I realize that it doesn’t matter how fat I am, I will always land attractive women due to my rakish charm, disarming wit, and the fact that, well, I’m just plain interesting. There’s nothing more important than that. In fact, Ben Franklin, no schlub himself, called the great lover Giacomo Casanova the most interesting man who ever lived. Not cause he scored with tens of thousands of fair women but rather because he was a librarian, consort, writer, confidence man, dandy, master gambler, diplomat, spy, magician, and philosopher.  Oh, not to worry female Vice Blog fans, I also currently cut a toned and taut 178 as I type this.  I’m interesting, yes, but I’m not some slob.

But back then at 215 pounds, I was flummoxed at how I was going to cut weight. I live in the finest eating city in the world, ain’t no way I was going to eat salad and rice cakes for every meal. And back then I refused to exercise unless it was in the form of competitive sports. Nope, I knew the only thing I could cut out of my diet was beer. “You’re going to quit drinking?!” said my roommates in shock. No, I’m not going to quit drinking I snapped back. Hard alcohol was still fine. Thus, from September 1st through January 1st, all I drank was liquor

You don’t realize how often you drink beer until you no longer drink it and have to have liquor instead.  Heading to happy hour, every one else is capitalizing on a few hours of $2 beers…you’re drinking $7 whiskey sodas.  Saturday morning you’re tailgating or preparing for a whole day of watching football, everyone’s pummeling a macro keg…you’re drinking vodka tonics.  At home, pregaming before a big night out, your buddies are polishing off a few bottles of Yuengling…and you’re drinking straight from a bottle of Beefeater.

Those four months were murderous.  I was crying mercy.  I spent tons of money, was always wasted, permenantly damaged my liver and innards, lost a lot of cell phones and other possessions, frequently woke up in piles of sidewalk garbage, alienated friends, ruined relationships too…oh, and got laid even less than when I was Rubenesque as I was often slurring before heading out to the bars and barely made it past midnight without embarrassing myself or getting 86ed from many fine establishments.

But, yes, I did lose some 40 pounds and I looked fantastic.  So much so that people would come up to me in public to actually compliment me for my newfound handsomeness. Swear to god.  That shit hadn’t happened before and it certainly hasn’t happened since.

However, it wasn’t exactly worth it.

The worst thing about those four months of beerlessness was that my favorite seasonal beers in the world were out–Oktoberfests.  I don’t know what it is, but I love the beer style.  Maybe it’s because the end of summer sucks so much, as you know it’s about to be cold again, that when you see these beautiful orange-labeled beers and taps on shelves and bartops, you know there’s at least something good about the incoming chilly season.  You don’t know how much it sucked to be at bars back in 2002, staring at the recently installed Oktoberfest taps, drooling, but unable to break my personal vow.

Sam makes one of my favorites. In fact, it’s the first Oktoberfest I ever had, and one I immediately fell in love with. I guess I should be embarrassed by that, but shockingly enough, it is the best selling Oktoberfest-styled beer IN THE WORLD.  Even more than any German one.  Amazing.

Having said that, I don’t like Sam Oktoberfest as much as I once did. I used to think they had changed the recipe from the delicious early-2000s versions but now I’m thinking my palate just got more sophisticated. Nevertheless, it is still tasty. Rich, very malty, with a hint of spice. Not too complex though.  But I still love my first taste of Oktoberfest of the season, and every year it comes courtesy of Sam.  Though, what the fuck, August seems earlier for the beer’s release than normal, doesn’t it?

Now in 2008, I drink plenty of beer. And hard liquor. And wines. And any and all other fermented or distilled beverages available.  Yet I’m in better shape than at any other time in my life and doing better with woman too.

Lesson learned: never cut any pleasures from your life.

“I am writing My Life to laugh at myself, and I am succeeding.” –Casanova

B

6.7% ABV from a bomber (1st release)

If your dad came home every day from the office, loosened his tie, grabbed The Economist, and drank a nice wine…well then you grew up pretty rich and were probably loved.

And if your dad came home every night and drank a single malt Scotch…well then you probably only got to see him every other weekend and fucking hate his new trophy wife that was a senior at your high school when you were a sophomore.

And if your dad came home every night and waited until dinner at Chili’s to have a single bottled domestic…well then you grew up middle class.

And if your dad came home every afternoon from the factory/auto body shop/Hardees shift and immediately went to the old fridge in the garage to grab a can of Keystone/MGD/Busch then proceeded to plop down on the Laz-E-Boy and polish off beer after beer after beer (throwing empties at his bastard kids’ heads) straight through supper until passing out in front of the wood cabineted boob toob at 10:30…well then you probably grew up pretty poor.

And if your dad came home every night and shook up a dirty, dirty martini for himself…well then he probably left your mom and moved in with his “friend” Ricky once you left for college.

And if your dad came home every night and drank a Gatorade and then headed off to play tennis with a bunch of old ladies…well then you are me and that’s my pops.

And if some man came home every night and drank a nice craft beer like Sierra Nevada and you aren’t even aware of this man because your mother told you that she used to be a “bit of a party girl” back in her early 20s in New York so your father could be any of a number of fellas…well then that estranged man would be me. Please don’t get a DNA test.

Southern Hemisphere Harvest has an incredibly nice smell. New Zealand hops and North American malts. Not the hugest pale ale fan, but I like this one. Bitter and tasty. Citrusy and very spicy. A very solid special release from what is often called the oldest craft brewery in America.

B