Do it Hellgate, for Halloween

Well, I'm sure this is old news, but a friend alerted me to a late night Halloween bash this Wednesday, dj's and all.. and a live performance by muther-f'ing CHROMEO! Vice is putting it on, which should concern me (for the attendant crowd), but the shizz is free and there will be free (Tito's) vodka, Colt 45 and (mystery) whiskey.. while supplies last, of course.

RSVP here: http://www.viceland.com/hellgatehalloween

Do it now!

Cut was my consanguinity with humanity

Compost thyself!

To what do we owe this order of anarchy, this exclamation of frustration? Well, it was a sentiment - nice or not - overheard (by yours tru*ish*ly) a fortnight ago from a flock of frightening ruffians, a set of men and women discussing the ins-and-outs of a fabulous new pastiche-ology.. one of their own mishmashed and crooked construction; it was a difficult operation, for sure.

You see, I was required to overextended my senses, five and then some, in an attempt to follow relation-making between two, then four, and, after a while and a while, a score or more of literary devices in their collective mental possession. By that point, I was ready for their collective disposal (i.e. words and structure and bathwater be gone!); stuffing a bag of trash never sounded so good. And my comprehension of the situation was, for sure, poor, and, during the episode, my thought processes were stretched far beyond that which is needed for a normal tour of daily duty.. but who am *I* to say NO to such a set of thought experiments; this was surely science of the highest thespian order.

In fact, to the outside observer, I became a man with a 1000-yard stare, the dials of my regular binocular vision twisted so tight that my focus extended X-RAYS straight through the walls of the here-and-now and into the realm of a dark and personal singularity; cut was my consanguinity with humanity. In this way, I looked deep into the froth of my creamy drink, and before I knew it I was daydreaming of a man wishing for the power of phrenological flight; and that man was me, a man whose name escapes and escapes. Whose duty is it to remember these frantic things anyway; it's time for the loosely caped to walk the plank.

BANG!
BANG!BANG!BANG!

It seems that those within earshot - save me - shot themselves in a manner most deadly, indeed; and, at once, a morbid dance began synchronically: several separate and organic entities criss-crossed 'round the room and grew into a pile of spongy and pungent mulch. The directive of the day seemed to be, "Find your match made so-close-to-heaven; you may have already arrived into an ecstatic eternity (and a wet version at that)!" The BANGS I could not ignore, of course; so, my focus withdrew from my glass and returned to the floor. I know now, and I'll know it forevermore, that I've never seen reds so red and blues so foolish. And the insane make me uncomfortable, my truest thought of the day.

At no time did I turn fully towards the limp blossom of bodies; it seemed unnecessary and, even, uncouth, to do so. And as such, it was only appropriate to look down upon them at an obtuse angle and with an obtuse sense of justice. The optic engines of periphery ran the show, and they were overjoyed by the rustic opportunity; they provided me with the visual framework of everything I needed to know, and my starburst and ever-indecent sense of decency filled in the everything-I-WANTED-to-know details. Ultimately, I thought, "Congratulations are in order; you've bent to the will of the people!", and shrugged upwards at an unprecedented pace - how brave and bold of me - and with a force of several uncaring atmospheres.

In short, I saw that the original meme took on a life of its own - irony is a friend of the fierce - and I knew it was the right thing to do.

You won't believe, only four beers

You know I'm a man all about his beer, but I really didn't partake too much on this last trip to NYC. I suppose it was a combination of a couple of things, but the short answer is that I didn't make it a priority (like I did on my last two trips in the summer) and my usual NYC company isn't particularly into it, given a choice.

That said, I did make it over to Barcade in Brooklyn - just down the street from where I was staying - for a pint (or two); it had been on the to-do list for awhile. The place is large, and on a lazy - and warm! - Sunday evening in October it seemed especially cavernous (i.e. relative to the amount of people there). I'd be interested to see if/how the space fills up on a weekend night; I've read it can get crowded. The industrial garage-like interior is lined with a slew of 80's era stand-up video games (think Gauntlet and Tetris, not Street Fighter).. and, more of my interest, there is a bar area with 25 or so craft brewers on tap.

Their selection is heavily focused on local brews (ex. Chelsea, Southampton, and Smuttynose brewing companies), and to that, I say: kudos! While part of me wishes that every good beer (née, every good everything) somehow finds it's way to the Bay Area, I can appreciate the need to actually go to a place - physically - to experience them (and other local charms, of course). That sounds like the start of another long blog entry (beyond beer), so I'll digress..

I started with a pint of HopDevil from Victory Brewing, a tried and true favorite of mine, but it was my first time having it on tap; and then followed with a Fisherman's Pumpkin Stout from Cape Ann Brewing Company. The latter was a truly unique beer and I hope I come across it again. It's very much a coffee-y stout from the start, but the pumpkin and its usual entourage of spices (cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice) provide a subtle undertone of warmth and evoke a holiday season je ne sais quoi.

Other than those, I only had two more beers of note over the week.

The first was this year's Harvest Ale from Sierra Nevada; it was the first time they'd bottled this annual brew, and it sure was tasty; I hope they keep bottling it. I'd read about "wet hop" ales for the first time only this year, but if Sierra's version of it is any yardstick for the rest, I'm going to seek more out before the season is done. In fact, there is a wet hop festival at the Toronado this weekend.. which I may or may not go to given how crowded every public event at the Toronado gets.. but at least they should have some kegs there for this coming week.

The last beer of note was the Schneider-Brooklyner Hopfen-Weisse (a mouthful, huh?) from Brooklyn Brewery. The only thing I can say is that while I understand it to be an exciting beer, given its lineage, it was a bit too sweet and banana-y for my tastes; and I didn't like the mouthfeel. To each their own, right? But the silver lining is that I had it on tap at a cool Brooklyn bar (and grill, apparently) named Maracuja; it is exquisitely decorated, with lots of dark woods and the right hues of (low) lighting to match. After two rounds of pool (if you're wondering, my friend slaughtered me), we finished our drinks out back in their canopied and trellised garden.. and basically had the place to ourselves the whole time, but I think that was a consequence of it being late on a Monday night, so it may get crazy on the weekends or something. Still, given all the pro's of the scene, I'm willing to take my chances next time I roll through town.. which is looking like November (frequent flier miles represent!).

Hopefully, at that time I'll still be able to get my hands on more great pumpkin treats; I've been obsessing on the pumpkin this year (who knows why). On this trip, I got both beer and bagels tinged with the flavor of this large orange benefactor, but I know there are more tasty devices in which to enjoy this holiday staple. And I say, bring 'em on!

ps. Barcade also has a full bar, which is uncommon, I think, for a place that has such a great focus on beer. But in (another) twist, they have offerings from micro distilleries like Dogfish Head Spirits along with the more common hard stuff.

Are you ready to shvitz?

It's one of those things I should have done while I was in Russia, but it was only this past Friday that, on a whim and with a friend, I went to a "Russian" bath house.. in Manhattan. The Russian and Turkish Baths in the East Village (about a block from Tompkins Square Park) are like a little time warp to the 70's, evoking both old school New York and Russia in one fell (and wet) swoop.

The place had a couple of saunas, a steam room, a cold! water bath, and showers, all with the stylings of a tight, Nixon-era, locker room. The only deviation from that motif was via the main Russian steam room, which drew upon its ancient, stone, lineage; references to a dungeon or tomb (and incredibly hots ones at that) would not be out of place. Hmm.. I'm not exactly selling these baths here, but I think the whole is more than the sum of it's parts. So, let me assure you that I'll be back; it was somehow charming, and the pleasurable physical effects (of hot and cold extremes, in succession) are real. In fact, I've been to similar (if newer) facilities in other countries, like Japan and Slovakia, and it's always worth it.

Beyond the general entry fee for all-day access to the baths, you can pay for additional "special treatments" like massages, salt scrubs and so forth. And so I did: I asked for a platza treatment - basically a mild beating - with a big ol' bunch of oak branches (with leaves intact) soaked in olive oil soap, because, well, why not? Really, you're there, so how could you *not* submit yourself for that sort of experience?

It's much different than I had imagined: you're not getting whipped with an individual switch, so you actually aren't getting lashed or anything like that. However, you do feel the mass of the branch bundle coming down on you, which is slightly uncomfortable for the times that it's happening on your chest. haha. But otherwise, it was definitely much milder than I thought; it was sorta like what I image being in a brushless car wash would be like (and I mean that in the best way possible). In short, it's not as much as a masochistic endeavor as you might think (so I'll need to find that fix another way).. but you still come out feeling so fresh and so clean clean.

A little bonus to the experience was that I got to use a few Russian words with the guy who gave me a platza treatment (to his amusement). Plus Colin Farrell was there; yeah, it was a real mix of clientele (and body types). Who would have thought; apparently, the baths transcend financial and cultural boundaries. So, basically, if you're thinking about going, all you have to ask yourself is:

Are you ready to shvitz?

The mullet that never was

Apparently, I've let the "let it be" experiment on my head go on a little too long. According to one of my bros here in NYC - and I'm paraphrasing more poetically than his initial observation would have it - I've let my hair extend far away from a trim central control and have arrived at a precipice overlooking mulletdom.

Well, if that is the case (let me assure you that the jury is still out), then let me say that the view from such a place, well, sucks. You see, I'm not a huge fan of the hairstyle on anyone, clueless hillbilly or not, but especially do not want to cross paths with it personally, given the fact it is a hairstyle that had been appropriated by hipsters circa 2000 or so. In other words, to be associated with the, um, tail end of a hipster trend is an unfashionable fate that I do not wish to endure (ever). And I don't care if it still cool in Spain or Eastern Europe (forever and ever) or wherever.

I know that on some level I shouldn't care one way or other - since I do not *actually* have a mullet - but, well, I do (care). haha. And, so, I have resolved to get a proper haircut once I get back to SF. More immediately, I received a few key snips around the nape of my neck from a friend last night; errant hair fell to the battered hardwood floor to be swept up later, though a few strands of it, I'm sure, escaped to mill about clandestinely - no stopping it now.

Well, my running self sure would like me to cut my hair to something approaching a military buzz, but I won't go down that route (again - though it's been awhile). Yeah, I'm sure we can balance that sort of practicality with something a bit more flattering. What to do? I'll just leave it in the hands of my barber; the fashion haven of a 16th and Mission barbershop awaits; $9 is not too much to pay to have a fine mane crafted upon my crown. hahahaha.

Black IPA or IBA?

Everybody loves Stone's 11th Anniversary Ale!

Let me count the ways:

1. Hot Knives
2. Hedonist Beer Jive
3. Beer Advocate
4. The Full Pint

It is a delicious Black IPA.. or, um, India Black Ale (IBA).. or Double Black IPA - I've seen it referenced and sorted in all of these ways. But by any measure (or name), it's still delicious; and, a rose is still a rose.

While I haven't had it since last time I was at Toronado a few weeks ago, I was reminded of it tonight when, at Whole Foods (here, in Tempe, AZ - on a work trip), some bottles winked at me; I'm a sucker for the good beer (and winks), and so I *almost* bought one. In fact, there was a pretty good selection there overall, so a couple of the brews were tempting me, including Dogfish Head's Pumpkin Ale.. something I can't seem to find back in San Francisco. Ultimately, my better judgment prevailed and I simply left WF with some wholesome goodies for dinner (and for tomorrow's breakfast); I knew I'd be doing plenty of drinking over this upcoming weekend in NYC.

Friends and art (and spirits - of all sorts) await!

In the meantime, if you have access to Stone's 11th Anniversary Ale - especially on tap, and, even more especially, with friends - I would say to give it a go; it'll be like nothing you've ever tasted before. It is #16, after all!

Italians do it better

"Italians do it better" - who knew?
(The scene at 1:08 is everything you need to know.)

If you want more proof, I'd recommend popping over to Aquarius Records and picking up the "After Dark" italo-disco compilation from the up-and-coming Italians Do It Better label.

Or just get yourself a tee shirt. If the style was good enough for Madonna in 1986, it should be good enough for you in 2007.

My optometric destiny (and beau monde)

Two weeks ago I had an eye exam at Eyedare in the Mission - not too far from my old place; and my eyes are generally healthy (hell yeah!), but I did need a slightly stronger prescription on my glasses. So, I submitted my, ahem, Prada frames to have the lenses replaced; a day and a half later I picked them up.

And they languished in my errand bag; I didn't put them on until the following day, when I submitted myself to fashionable cafe life (to do some work on the ol' laptop). But when I did, I entered a new - and uncomfortable - phase of existence (temporarily, at least - read on). Life was crystal clear; life was also vertiginous.

Can you think of a worse proposition?

You experience a familiar, yet faded, version of everything around you - insofar that you are distracted from "just being"; YOU ARE NOT ALL THERE. And so, why be there at all; you ain't that special to not give 100% (yo). Just think: in your hands, an instant infection of the swirlies. Do you dare indulge in them to experience the eyesight of an eagle? Is your desire for such a deliriously avian attribute so intense; is your prey that far away (and how would you catch it anyway)? You're at a damn cafe.

Give it time, they say. And I did.

Lo, and behold, I put on the glasses a handful of times over the next week or so - with the same, disappointing, effects. However, yesterday, at Russian class, eyes and brains aligned; I had - to my surprise - no problems whatsoever when my two fuzzed-out eyes became four border-crisping machines. And I felt the freedom of those who can choose their own optometric destiny (and beau monde).

And to that, I say, до днa!