An old pal in SF has just launched a travel site http://www.realtravel.com/, in yet another attempt to spend another entire day fucking the dog at work, I thought I'd oblige him on at least half his request for me and my pals to write up ten reviews of this big ol' greatest of great places... Let's enjoy the Spring!
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Sights: Brooklyn Bridge Park
"Romance Under the Bridges"
It's well known that New York City has great parks, and that New Yorkers Adore them. Central Park is legendary, Prospect Park and the new West End shoreline are favorites for locals and wandering tourist alike. I almost shouldn't be telling you this, but the best Park, the absolutely most wonderful place to chill the street stress right outta your bones is The Brooklyn Bridge Park in Dumbo.
An urban experience in the most urban city in North America. Imagine sitting on a rock beach, driftwood, wave lapping the shore. Your field of view... Two of the worlds most spectacular bridges soaring out on each side of you and the trillion dollar view of downtowns office towers, SMACK in your face.
Weeknights are best as the place is almost empty. I suggest leaving the office, hotel room a bit early, well OK, early by NYC standards, say 6:30/7:30. Get yourself to the Manhattan end of the Brooklyn Bridge. Take a leisurely stroll across one of the cities finest attractions in itself.
On the Brooklyn side, take the first pedestrian exit and walk one block over to Washington Street. As you turn onto Washington Street, be careful, any fan of Sergio Leone's "Once Upon a Time in America" is going to faint... Three blocks down Washington St., and you're in the park.
Insider Tip: Bring a couple of plastic cups, on Washington you'll find a very fine wine store... Brown bagging it on the shores of the East River, alone or with someone special as the sun sets over Manhattan between the oldest and the prettiest Bridges in the city. A plastic cup full of wine, your arm around your lover, the sound of ferry waves... eh, hem Paris?!? The City of Lights has nothing on "Big City Bright Lights" tonight baby!
My Town... Enjoy it Babes!
Note: You can also get there via the F train, Exit at York Street Station, or the A to High Street Station. Dumbo, the neighborhood itself has more than enough things to do after the sun finally sets. Rice, on Washington is a fantastic Asian fusion restaurant, and there are a number of great bars tucked in and around the cobblestoned streets of what used to be called Viniger Hill.
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Accomidation: The Gershwin Hotel
"This ain't no Daze-Inn"
Located perfectly conveniently equal distances from Midtown and the Villages this place is great for the folks who want to spin in wide circles and get it all done. The immediate area itself is kind of sparten, but on a nice night you can easily walk to Union Square, the East or West Villages... and anywhere you'd probably want to go is easily within a $6 to $7 cab fare.
This is an old SRO convert, or perhaps re-convert back may be more correct. The rooms are small, pretty sparten, but who the heck stays in their rooms in NYC anyhow. OK, if you need space, rent a suite for something like $20 extra [oh, and that's on top of what an average room price of say $97]...
One important tip... On most evening they curtain off a chunk of the lobby and turn it into a hip little lounge/club. Unless you enjoy spinning off to sleep to the sounds of some trippin' DJ, get a room on the third floor or above... Wait, who the heck sleeps in New York anyhow!
My Town... Enjoy it Babes!
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Entertainment: Spring Lounge
"This Ain't No Lounge... No Dive Bar... Paradise"
I came across the Spring Lounge one day while daydreaming my way through Little Italy and the Lower East Side. Dreaming about the teaming streams of good folks that plowed their way through these neighborhoods that were once considered the Calcutta of North America. Day dreaming about mob hits and oversized 1970's era boat mobiles trying to make their getaways down these tiny bumpy streets.
I came across the Spring Lounge at exactly the moment I needed a beer! OK, plusses, it ain't no lounge. I mean, it's not all done up like the waiting area for your 2035 trip aboard American Airlines Space Liner cruise to that Orbiting Hotel that's become oh so 2034! Nope, this is a great little comfy hang in a great 'hood you should visit. Big ol' windows let you people watch and friendly folks at the bar won't stop talking to you. There's usually a good looker working the taps, and very few frat boys!
No minuses here... If you need a break from shopping in SoHo, or if you're just well day dreaming I highly recommend the Spring Lounge, go for one stay for three make a new friend.
My City... Enjoy it Babe!
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Sights: East River Bridges
"I Dare You... Triple Dog Dare You!"
More of a challenge than a review... A challenge to all you spandex wearin' bike riding, roller blading health nuts, you life-lovers who have recently seen it fit to not allow me and my pals to smoke in those bars you don't even go to anyhow. I challenge you to what could be your best day in New York ever. A spiritual day, a day you'll think some new thoughts about how us humans get things done, I mean really done, done! The day you walk every bridge, except for one, that crosses New York's East River. [bonus points if you name the one you'll miss]
OK, here's the background... first though, just so you know, I drink about 17 and a half gallons of beer, wine and/or various whiskeys a week and smoke more than a broken down delivery van illegaly licenced out of a chop shop in Flushing so, I love life just as much as you do. And I probably have more of the stamina required to undertake this great adventure than you could imagine. OK the background... I did this one day when suffering the worst hangover of my life... a beautiful walk, a walk that starts with no idea in your head at all... just follow me. I guarantee you'll enjoy it.
OK, get yourselves to Queens Plaza Subway Station in Queens [I'm giving you a head start, as I actually started this trip a mile away in Greenpoint Brooklyn]. Queens Plaza's not that far ladies just take a look at your freakin' subway map, or ask one our famously friendly city folks for directions. The N, R, Q, F and a raft of other trains stop at Queens Plaza. Its at QP that you'll find the foot of our first bridge the 59th Street, Queensboro Bridge, or as I like to call her, the Grand Old Lady. The Old Lady is a nice place to start, simple nice views of the Upper East side... a pretty picture. Oh, small note, this is the Bridge I used to escape the city a few years back, she's not my favorite, but the old hulk holds a special place in my heart.
OK, so this is a challenge, I'm not going to give you exact directions, not going to leave you any breadcrumbs... you find your own darned way from bridge to bridge, through the neighborhoods the sweet sweet neighborhoods. OK, That said, I will lead you to the next one as it requires a bit of serious local knowledge. While crossing the Old Lady, you will have noticed the Roosevelt Island Tramway. A ski lift like contraption that you'll need to take to Roosevelt Island in order to get to the Roosevelt Island Bridge that take you into Astoria Queens.
Once in Astoria [hey stop for some Greek food]... You're going to have to find your way north to the Tri-Boro Bridge. It's a bit of a hoof, I'll let you take the train if you like, but remember, I walked this part, AND stopped for two beers in the process. The Tri-Boro is the longest, highest and dullest on this here day-of-you-freakin-health-happy-life wander. But you have to do this bridge. Robert Moses' proudest moment before he forced the city to span the Verizano Narrows. The Bridge that paid for the rest but has yet to pay for itself. The Bridge that stitched together what the glaciers tore apart thousands of years ago... I could go on.
Here's where it get's fun you blading fools. The Tri-Boro can put you in the Bronx or in Harlem. Ha, I see the silliest media brain washed of you kind of feeling a bit uneasy. Grow up, this is the safest city in N.A. [statistically speaking]. You'll want to get off the bridge at Randels Island, technically part of Manhattan, but really nowhere. Look for a sign, any sign that leads you to the 125th Street Bridge, a gorgeous piece of over engineered lift bridge that take you into the heart of Lou Reeds lyrics... in Harlem, "Up to Lexington 1 2 5, feel sick and dirty, more dead than alive"... OK, if indeed you feel like doing Heroin at this point, that's your prerogative. I'd strongly recommend against this, as you still have half an hours subway ride and three more bridges to cross. Besides, heroin is so, 1995.
We'll speed it up here... Grab the 4, 5, or 6 train at 125th and Lex to the Brooklyn Bridge subway station, away aways on downtown. It lets you out at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge, a nice if crowded walk. Crawl through Dumbo and find the Manhattan Bridge, New York's prettiest Bridge by far... after crossing the Manhattan, you'll be wandering through the lower lower East Side, walk North to Delancy and there you will find... the Ultimate, my favorite the greatest of great New York Bridges. The ol' workman, Uncle Saul... Pappa... The Williamsburg Bridge. The bridge that opened the floodgates OUT of the doom a despair of the cities famous east side slums. The bridge that allowed all the pent up Jews, Italians, Greeks, Portuguese, Slavs, Poles and whaty what nots out of lower Manhattan and into, well, OK, into the slums of Brooklyn.
Savor this walk folks, you made it, you rose to the occasion... You took Uncle GoGo's challenge and beat him over the head with it. I applaud you. At the center of the bridge, take time to note that you can see every bridge you just crossed. You can also see a few you didn't. When you get to the other side, at the very foot, you'll find the stop for the B61. Take a victory ride on the bus on up to Williamsburg, about 5 stops or so. Find yourself a trendy bar or a nice pub and consider this for me... give it some thought. Really, you bridge crossin' spandex wearin' maniac, consider this for me and put it down in 75 words or less... just why the hell will you NOT let me and my pals smoke in bars!
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Entertainment: Karma
"Smoke Your Brains Out... In Other Words, Pure Transandental Bliss"
As you probably know, New York has fallen prey to the goody goods and has made it illegal for hard working independent business men and women, men and women who have toiled there lives away building business that cater to a particular clientele... the city has made it illegal for these people to allow their customers to smoke in the bars they have built. OK, forget the politics, have your view, mine... I like to mix my poisons on the nights I go out to hang in the places I hang most every night. Exhale, ah... Imagine my joy when a new friend, a new very beautiful Roman friend at that notified me of a place where I can "god forbid", smoke and drink at the same time!
Karma, a hookah bar in the East Village has been grand fathered under the smoking ban because, well because it's just that, a hookah bar. You know, the politically correct always seem to work themselves into these lovely dilemmas... We can't let the sick smoke at the bars we don't go to, but we also can't slap someone's hertigacal practices in the face either... what to do... Hookah bars that have been around for ten years are exempt. Funny enough, they also exempted the Havana Club at the top of 666 5th Avenue, a cigar bar for the cities power brokers... I guess "power Broker heritage" is a heritage worth preserving as well. Been there once, drank my salary in booze and smoked a pack and a half in about three and a half hours. Cinderella Power Broker for a day...
Karma, is a comfy place. Kind of a sweet ol' dive bar out front. Dimly lit hookah couches in the back. A great place to bring your gal or guy and neck like high school students out on that date when they knew both their parents would be out later than themselves so curfew was not an issue. A great place for PSA... a great place to drop a dime on butts and wag your finger in the general direction of City Hall.
You'd expect it to be crowded, it's OK, most weeknights that rarest of rare Manhattan real estate, the bar stool, is readily available. You'd expect it to be expensive [I mean this place does have us addicted retards more or less by those thing we're making less and less usable with every puff]... no more expensive than anywhere else, $5 for a beer, $6 for a drink, $10 for a bowl of tabac, if that's your pleasure. Me, I never touch that stuff sweetened flavored tobacco, please... somebody write a law.
This is a New York secret, if I see you there, I'll kill ya if you tell someone I sent you there, they'll kill me, so, don't say hello, and keep your damned trap shut.
Great DJ's as well, puff...
Friday, April 29, 2005
Monday, April 25, 2005
Why do I Love YOU...
Why do I Love YOU... well because you threw me a smile as you were walking those four dumb dogs down Bedford on a night it should not have been as cold as it is tonight. Why do I Love YOU... well, your dad took out my appendix, no questions asked, THEN you let my granny die in his home... no questions asked. Why do I Love YOU... because when you asked me the tough questions, you let me fudge. Why do I Love YOU... you wear your politics on my sleeve.
Why do I Love YOU... because you simply said yes. Why do I Love YOU... you asked me my opinion, and noded in agreement even though you were di-o-metrically oposed. Why do I Love YOU... we sailed, and taught sailing together. Why do I Love YOU... you posted nice comments about me after meeting me only momentarily. Why do I Love YOU... You gave me a simple job to do when there really weren't a lot of jobs about. Why do I Love YOU... we raised two beautiful cats, AND had a whole whack of GREAT trips together while trying not to absolutely completely dislike each other... Why do I Love YOU... because you made the end easy.
Why do I Love YOU... you visited me, when I really needed a visitor. Why do I Love YOU... you let me show you the buildings, roads and streets teaming with people AND let me, without words, show you just how much I LOVE this. Why do I Love YOU... you love your place and have shown that to me again and again... Why do I Love YOU... you take pictures that break my heart. Why do I Love YOU... you treated me like... shit? NO, like some one you were so proud of you couldn't stand to see me fail. Why do I Love YOU... you packed three sandwhiches for me, and two for my dad, the guy who did NOT treat me like shit.
Why do I Love YOU... you make me laugh my frikin' head off!
Why do I Love YOU... you let me put ideas in your head and called them ours. Why do I Love YOU... you are raising my sister's and mines little babies. Why do I Love YOU... you play rock and roll like it was meant to be played and really enjoy doing it like a frikin Rock star. Why do I Love YOU... because you are the first person introduced to me here, and that night you introduced me to the word GAPPER while handing me cans outta an 18 pack that I seem to remember paying the lions share for. Why do I Love YOU... because you absolutely love him against all odds... Why do I Love YOU... because you defended her and you are a spiritually... dude-guys.
Why do I Love YOU... because, you KNOW I stole that money not on purpose. Why do I Love YOU... because the names Tim and Tom sound so nice and dumb when you say 'em over and over agian. Why do I Love YOU... because you have worked by my side for years and years and have finally found your place away from the boys and me... Why do I Love YOU... you did NOT invite me to your wedding, but then felt kinda bad when I did NOT point that out. Why do I Love YOU... you taught me so damned much about... being a smart souless Canadian.
Why do I Love YOU... because you do not call. Why do I Love YOU... because you do not write. Why do I Love YOU... because you make no attempt to contact me, see me, or... Why do I Love YOU... because I know... Why do I Love YOU... through all this... I know, YOU kinda do love me [wink].
Why do I Love YOU... because you simply said yes. Why do I Love YOU... you asked me my opinion, and noded in agreement even though you were di-o-metrically oposed. Why do I Love YOU... we sailed, and taught sailing together. Why do I Love YOU... you posted nice comments about me after meeting me only momentarily. Why do I Love YOU... You gave me a simple job to do when there really weren't a lot of jobs about. Why do I Love YOU... we raised two beautiful cats, AND had a whole whack of GREAT trips together while trying not to absolutely completely dislike each other... Why do I Love YOU... because you made the end easy.
Why do I Love YOU... you visited me, when I really needed a visitor. Why do I Love YOU... you let me show you the buildings, roads and streets teaming with people AND let me, without words, show you just how much I LOVE this. Why do I Love YOU... you love your place and have shown that to me again and again... Why do I Love YOU... you take pictures that break my heart. Why do I Love YOU... you treated me like... shit? NO, like some one you were so proud of you couldn't stand to see me fail. Why do I Love YOU... you packed three sandwhiches for me, and two for my dad, the guy who did NOT treat me like shit.
Why do I Love YOU... you make me laugh my frikin' head off!
Why do I Love YOU... you let me put ideas in your head and called them ours. Why do I Love YOU... you are raising my sister's and mines little babies. Why do I Love YOU... you play rock and roll like it was meant to be played and really enjoy doing it like a frikin Rock star. Why do I Love YOU... because you are the first person introduced to me here, and that night you introduced me to the word GAPPER while handing me cans outta an 18 pack that I seem to remember paying the lions share for. Why do I Love YOU... because you absolutely love him against all odds... Why do I Love YOU... because you defended her and you are a spiritually... dude-guys.
Why do I Love YOU... because, you KNOW I stole that money not on purpose. Why do I Love YOU... because the names Tim and Tom sound so nice and dumb when you say 'em over and over agian. Why do I Love YOU... because you have worked by my side for years and years and have finally found your place away from the boys and me... Why do I Love YOU... you did NOT invite me to your wedding, but then felt kinda bad when I did NOT point that out. Why do I Love YOU... you taught me so damned much about... being a smart souless Canadian.
Why do I Love YOU... because you do not call. Why do I Love YOU... because you do not write. Why do I Love YOU... because you make no attempt to contact me, see me, or... Why do I Love YOU... because I know... Why do I Love YOU... through all this... I know, YOU kinda do love me [wink].
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Oh to live on Beer Geek's Mountain
As mentioned earlier, I'm struggling not to make this a teenaged girl's diary. Not a report on the daily doings of Uncle GoGo, not the daily glop and glue of the sloppy sap that I appear to be floating on these days... This is not a diary entry but yet another story of friends, these stories I'm trying to pound out of these little keys out of this soak old brain before they drown in all the other things I'm pouring on it these days. This story may sound a bit like a diary entry as this story began this last weekend when three great friends who I hadn't seen for years and years flew down to the city, specifically to drink beer. Carl, his sister Ina and her husband Ralph, had come down to Beertopia, we planned to meet, we met for one of those really great weekends.
I will have to immediately exclude Carl from this story, although, well, he will appear from time to time to flash that goofy grin and interject with one of his classic semi-segwaynic master pieces that immediately plasters a new never before seen smile on your face... The story of Carl runs way beyond my re-introduction to Ralph and Ina. In the future, if you do read the inevitable story of Carl, I assure you, you will need professional help un-sticking your stuck on "tickle fast" tickle button. Carl is by far the greatest Goofball I have ever known; more exactly, I'd have to say that any Goofballedness I may claim to have, I've learned from Carl, the master of all goofy Goofballs! Diverted...
Ina, the sister of the Goofball and Ralph own the Cafe Vollo. Have owned it and operated it together for 18 years or so, together. That my friends has to be some kind of marathonic like "being together all the time" record for a couple, living working eating and sleeping together. An honorable record AND they also managed to raise two boys, good boys at the same time... OK, the funny aside this weekend, Ina and Ralph did start a lot of conversations with, "while we were in Naples, we weren't speaking to each other..." or "...we were on this train, we weren't speaking to each other..." or the classic "...we were at the restaurant, we weren't speaking with each other... but did manage to order for each other"...for some reason the start of these stories seamed as logical as they were funny. Ina and Ralph appear to be one of those couples who soundly "beat the odds". I won't even begin to predict how they've done so in such a spectacular fashion.
I know Ina and Ralph through Carl, but I also know them through Cafe Vollo, which from time to time I would frequent as a regular; at other times would find myself in only as an occasioneller, in 18 years, you can be both over and over again. Vollo's one of those comfortable little places, an Oasis at it's location on the most commercial streets in Toronto; food drink and friends at a slow pace in a sea of fast food places... When I was first going there as a regualr, it was wine and Italian; since then they appear to have grafted on beer... beer in a Big Big Big way. Vollo is now a craft beer bar on top of a wine and Italian restaurant, not having been there for years, I'm having a hard time trying to figure out how they could have managed to jam all this good stuff into such a tiny precious little Oasis on Toronto's most commercial street. I can only imagine this tiny precious place jammed with folks enjoying exactly what they like, pressed together as happy people allow themselves to be jammed when enjoying themselves; Ina and Ralph enjoying them being there.
Beer. I've always loved beer, beer has let me down a few times. I've got mad at beer a few times, and most definitely beer has been mad at me more than once. I'm pretty non-selective when it comes to beer. Oh I mean, I do like good beer, micro-brewed beers, brewed by men and women who love the beer they brew are obviously my preference, but heck, toss me a silver bullet while tailgating the Bills; I'll pop it, tip it and pour it down the pipe just as quickly as I would any "loved" beer.
The reason for Ina, Ralph's and Carl's visit was beer... Beyond Beertopia, their agenda included visits to New York's finest beer bars [bars they don't want to emulate, but bars they could pick up a few things, pointers from here and there]; there were also a few "beer stores" [Canadians shudder at the very term], beer stores where they could buy samples of the many hundreds of beers they'd like to serve at Cafe Vollo. Like to serve...
The LCBO, the beer police and beer-auchracy... All beer bought in the Province of Ontario, that's in Canada, must be bought through the LCBO, the Liquor Control Board of Ontario. This board, basically does not want the people of Ontario to drink, or at least, they do not want Ontarians to have any real choice in what they drink. Molson swill and Labatt swill seems to do the trick for most, so why not all? Every time Ralph and Ina want to present a new loved beer to their customers, they must first subject the people who love making their beers to the horribly beer-o-cratic LCBO... Any of them who have had experience with this beer-o-cracy will usually just say no. Any of them who live in the more economically free "down here", undoubtedly will say no... Alas, Canada's misinterpretation that Americans cannot make beer continues, there loss, AND as far as I'm concerned just another great big black eye on that monstrously wrongly implemented thing they jokingly call free trade and globalization... Ooops...
So here were Ina, Ralph and Carl, in the greatest of great places sipping beers they could not have. Enjoying their continued learning of a marginal but interesting thing, I think the word is, here they were exuberantly enjoying being Beer Geeks! I gladly tagged along; although consistantly making many mistakes; mistakes like bringing these beer lovin' folks, in the city as Beer Geeks to a Belgium restaurant when these Beer Geeks tastes run so American; mistakes like dragging them to The Whitehorse for History, the Whitehorse were on a quiet mid-winter, mid-week, mid-afternoon, one can simply melt into the old wood walls while aimlessly pouring pale yellow swill down the empty pipe and into that place that makes your head spin and forget the daily shits that had been shoveled on you earlier in the day. The Whitehorse, were ol' what's his name died, and where on sunny Saturdays they serve up their swill to a gaggle of frat boys waiting to strike out again and again that night... Mistakes like constantly ordering Lager in front of these ol' Ale, hrrrr, hmmm, OK Ale snobs [smile].
Of course, it was no mistake organizing the meeting between Ina, Ralph, Carl and the Roman. That little coup resulted in the creation of a fivesome of friends that seemed to eat up the entire weekend. You can always tell when you've hooked the right people with the right people; any "meet stress" dissolves instantly and in very short order the people you introduced are talking rapidly about anything and everything you know absolutely nothing about... Nothing nicer than the silly smile on the face of the great big Goofball apprentice, nodding in agreement to stories about places he's never been and experiences he never had; nodding as if to say, YO good friends, tomorrow I will have had these experiences, and by next year, well, I'll be a definite part of these stories of places I've never been, things I haven't seen and experiences I've never had yet. Precious is that big and goofy grin.
The next day found me on a mission, a mission to haul Ina, Ralph and Carl around point to point in Brooklyn visiting mysterious sites of high importance to Beer Geekdom... Places I'd even been to, but never saw them for this quality. At "American Beer Distributors", in my old neighborhood no less, I found Ina, Ralph and Carl bouncing through the isles like a 10 year old boy in a Neil Simon play would bounce around Mr. Clancy's Soda Fountain, 5 & Dime Candy Store, you know out in Flatbush or up in the Bronx. Ralph, carefully selecting new brews to be sampled by the hardcores up at Vollo, Ina leading him to the ones he may have missed, Carl, well Carl, just wandering around with that goofy grin looking like he was already tasting from the handfuls of bottle that he had placed in his side of the shopping cart. Beer Geeks seem such a more happier bunch than those Whinies you see skulking around the wine stores with the serious look of scholarly proffesors on their faces, or those drunk after the first 10 bottles tatsted Scotch-Heads.
Of course the over arching sad point is that most if not all of these beers Ina Ralph and Carl had clutched with such glee, would ever make it by the LCBO; that the contents of these bottles which these Beer Geeks held, studied and placed with an almost giddy irreverence into their basket, would only ever be tasted by a very few, very lucky, probably somewhat select group of people at the Oasis in Toronto Ontario's, cafe Vollo. Seems a shame, but then again, there is a good group of friends of my little group of friends here that I'm sure will feel quite blessed that their friends Ina, Ralph and Carl went to such happy troubles.
After the second beer stop of the day, another store, surprising with a smaller selection but still an almost barely overlapping selection from the selection at the last place. It was during this stop that Ina planned her ambush. Disappearing for just a moment to collect her arsenal... Now, here's another sign that you've hooked the right friends with the right friends [said the Goofball apprentice as he rubs his knuckles on his chest and says, ya, I did OK]; here's another sign, it's when one of these friends starts making better plans than you had made for the next meeting of all these friends. Ina, a Beer Geek, but a restaurateur at heart, had stocked up on all the things required to undertake a full frontal lunch assault on the studio of this beautiful Roman they'd all just met. Hey, I'd thought we'd just pop in for a quick visit, nope, Ina had prepared us for the next mission of the day. D-Day, the landbourne assault on Dumbo... and away we went...
Let's just say, these good friends are all now good friends themselves, anymore, and this all may become more sloppily sappy than even I could bare. Small snippets, hastily assembled chairs, just enough plates to go around beers such as "Arrogant Bastard" being tasted, wine flowing, bread breaking conversations breaking out all over the place; all finished off with the last bottle of wine while lounging in the sunshine watching a school bus load of tiny kids throwing rocks into the water at the absolutely stunning beach between the oldest and most prettiest bridges in this greatest of great places. Hmmm... says the Goofball apprentice, I done did good indeed. Kisses goodbye, we'll see youse agains soons all spoken, me and the Beer Geeks headed out on the rest of the days main mission, more beer...
The rest of the days detail are delicious but relatively unimportant, you can safely assume it was more beer in perfect beer spots. If I had the urge to become a Beer Geek myself, well, I've got my day of initiation all planned ahead of me. We did have to miss a spot, unfortunately as, the sun just wasn't cooperating and I had to unleash my secret plan to end the day on my roof watching the sunset over the Midtown Manhattan Mountain Range then drag these Beer Geeks into MY beer bar for a final swig and a taste of what is, OK arguably the best pizza in Brooklyn, which of course makes it the best pizza in all the world... The night, the great weekend ended simply watching the Simpson, eating pizza and drinking some passable brews at the place I go to, well pretty much everyday single damned day.
Hooking up with old friends you barely remember having is well, a hoot, a treasure when you become better friends than you were when you were last friends. Of course Carl being good friend glue, I guess this was probably bound to happen. Hooking these friends up with new friends and having them become good friends is, well downright spectacular... You know, I've not once yearned to go back to Toronto. Oh, I'll pop in pop out, see the sister, but for the most part, trips to Canada are family affairs that take place in those two small towns stretched out along the 401 just a nip over the border. That all changed this weekend. I now have this absolute desire to take a trip up Toronto's most commercial street, up to the Oasis, were we'll start with a few beers on the patio, eat a great Italian diner, then slip into the bar to sample a few of the rarities. I'm sure Ina, Ralph and Carl, the lovable Beer Geeks, old friends, pals who got a great big ol' kick outta my big ol' burly Brooklyn home will crack open a special one. Pour out some glasses... a toast to the day we spent climbing beer mountain, now that'll be a toast.
I will have to immediately exclude Carl from this story, although, well, he will appear from time to time to flash that goofy grin and interject with one of his classic semi-segwaynic master pieces that immediately plasters a new never before seen smile on your face... The story of Carl runs way beyond my re-introduction to Ralph and Ina. In the future, if you do read the inevitable story of Carl, I assure you, you will need professional help un-sticking your stuck on "tickle fast" tickle button. Carl is by far the greatest Goofball I have ever known; more exactly, I'd have to say that any Goofballedness I may claim to have, I've learned from Carl, the master of all goofy Goofballs! Diverted...
Ina, the sister of the Goofball and Ralph own the Cafe Vollo. Have owned it and operated it together for 18 years or so, together. That my friends has to be some kind of marathonic like "being together all the time" record for a couple, living working eating and sleeping together. An honorable record AND they also managed to raise two boys, good boys at the same time... OK, the funny aside this weekend, Ina and Ralph did start a lot of conversations with, "while we were in Naples, we weren't speaking to each other..." or "...we were on this train, we weren't speaking to each other..." or the classic "...we were at the restaurant, we weren't speaking with each other... but did manage to order for each other"...for some reason the start of these stories seamed as logical as they were funny. Ina and Ralph appear to be one of those couples who soundly "beat the odds". I won't even begin to predict how they've done so in such a spectacular fashion.
I know Ina and Ralph through Carl, but I also know them through Cafe Vollo, which from time to time I would frequent as a regular; at other times would find myself in only as an occasioneller, in 18 years, you can be both over and over again. Vollo's one of those comfortable little places, an Oasis at it's location on the most commercial streets in Toronto; food drink and friends at a slow pace in a sea of fast food places... When I was first going there as a regualr, it was wine and Italian; since then they appear to have grafted on beer... beer in a Big Big Big way. Vollo is now a craft beer bar on top of a wine and Italian restaurant, not having been there for years, I'm having a hard time trying to figure out how they could have managed to jam all this good stuff into such a tiny precious little Oasis on Toronto's most commercial street. I can only imagine this tiny precious place jammed with folks enjoying exactly what they like, pressed together as happy people allow themselves to be jammed when enjoying themselves; Ina and Ralph enjoying them being there.
Beer. I've always loved beer, beer has let me down a few times. I've got mad at beer a few times, and most definitely beer has been mad at me more than once. I'm pretty non-selective when it comes to beer. Oh I mean, I do like good beer, micro-brewed beers, brewed by men and women who love the beer they brew are obviously my preference, but heck, toss me a silver bullet while tailgating the Bills; I'll pop it, tip it and pour it down the pipe just as quickly as I would any "loved" beer.
The reason for Ina, Ralph's and Carl's visit was beer... Beyond Beertopia, their agenda included visits to New York's finest beer bars [bars they don't want to emulate, but bars they could pick up a few things, pointers from here and there]; there were also a few "beer stores" [Canadians shudder at the very term], beer stores where they could buy samples of the many hundreds of beers they'd like to serve at Cafe Vollo. Like to serve...
The LCBO, the beer police and beer-auchracy... All beer bought in the Province of Ontario, that's in Canada, must be bought through the LCBO, the Liquor Control Board of Ontario. This board, basically does not want the people of Ontario to drink, or at least, they do not want Ontarians to have any real choice in what they drink. Molson swill and Labatt swill seems to do the trick for most, so why not all? Every time Ralph and Ina want to present a new loved beer to their customers, they must first subject the people who love making their beers to the horribly beer-o-cratic LCBO... Any of them who have had experience with this beer-o-cracy will usually just say no. Any of them who live in the more economically free "down here", undoubtedly will say no... Alas, Canada's misinterpretation that Americans cannot make beer continues, there loss, AND as far as I'm concerned just another great big black eye on that monstrously wrongly implemented thing they jokingly call free trade and globalization... Ooops...
So here were Ina, Ralph and Carl, in the greatest of great places sipping beers they could not have. Enjoying their continued learning of a marginal but interesting thing, I think the word is, here they were exuberantly enjoying being Beer Geeks! I gladly tagged along; although consistantly making many mistakes; mistakes like bringing these beer lovin' folks, in the city as Beer Geeks to a Belgium restaurant when these Beer Geeks tastes run so American; mistakes like dragging them to The Whitehorse for History, the Whitehorse were on a quiet mid-winter, mid-week, mid-afternoon, one can simply melt into the old wood walls while aimlessly pouring pale yellow swill down the empty pipe and into that place that makes your head spin and forget the daily shits that had been shoveled on you earlier in the day. The Whitehorse, were ol' what's his name died, and where on sunny Saturdays they serve up their swill to a gaggle of frat boys waiting to strike out again and again that night... Mistakes like constantly ordering Lager in front of these ol' Ale, hrrrr, hmmm, OK Ale snobs [smile].
Of course, it was no mistake organizing the meeting between Ina, Ralph, Carl and the Roman. That little coup resulted in the creation of a fivesome of friends that seemed to eat up the entire weekend. You can always tell when you've hooked the right people with the right people; any "meet stress" dissolves instantly and in very short order the people you introduced are talking rapidly about anything and everything you know absolutely nothing about... Nothing nicer than the silly smile on the face of the great big Goofball apprentice, nodding in agreement to stories about places he's never been and experiences he never had; nodding as if to say, YO good friends, tomorrow I will have had these experiences, and by next year, well, I'll be a definite part of these stories of places I've never been, things I haven't seen and experiences I've never had yet. Precious is that big and goofy grin.
The next day found me on a mission, a mission to haul Ina, Ralph and Carl around point to point in Brooklyn visiting mysterious sites of high importance to Beer Geekdom... Places I'd even been to, but never saw them for this quality. At "American Beer Distributors", in my old neighborhood no less, I found Ina, Ralph and Carl bouncing through the isles like a 10 year old boy in a Neil Simon play would bounce around Mr. Clancy's Soda Fountain, 5 & Dime Candy Store, you know out in Flatbush or up in the Bronx. Ralph, carefully selecting new brews to be sampled by the hardcores up at Vollo, Ina leading him to the ones he may have missed, Carl, well Carl, just wandering around with that goofy grin looking like he was already tasting from the handfuls of bottle that he had placed in his side of the shopping cart. Beer Geeks seem such a more happier bunch than those Whinies you see skulking around the wine stores with the serious look of scholarly proffesors on their faces, or those drunk after the first 10 bottles tatsted Scotch-Heads.
Of course the over arching sad point is that most if not all of these beers Ina Ralph and Carl had clutched with such glee, would ever make it by the LCBO; that the contents of these bottles which these Beer Geeks held, studied and placed with an almost giddy irreverence into their basket, would only ever be tasted by a very few, very lucky, probably somewhat select group of people at the Oasis in Toronto Ontario's, cafe Vollo. Seems a shame, but then again, there is a good group of friends of my little group of friends here that I'm sure will feel quite blessed that their friends Ina, Ralph and Carl went to such happy troubles.
After the second beer stop of the day, another store, surprising with a smaller selection but still an almost barely overlapping selection from the selection at the last place. It was during this stop that Ina planned her ambush. Disappearing for just a moment to collect her arsenal... Now, here's another sign that you've hooked the right friends with the right friends [said the Goofball apprentice as he rubs his knuckles on his chest and says, ya, I did OK]; here's another sign, it's when one of these friends starts making better plans than you had made for the next meeting of all these friends. Ina, a Beer Geek, but a restaurateur at heart, had stocked up on all the things required to undertake a full frontal lunch assault on the studio of this beautiful Roman they'd all just met. Hey, I'd thought we'd just pop in for a quick visit, nope, Ina had prepared us for the next mission of the day. D-Day, the landbourne assault on Dumbo... and away we went...
Let's just say, these good friends are all now good friends themselves, anymore, and this all may become more sloppily sappy than even I could bare. Small snippets, hastily assembled chairs, just enough plates to go around beers such as "Arrogant Bastard" being tasted, wine flowing, bread breaking conversations breaking out all over the place; all finished off with the last bottle of wine while lounging in the sunshine watching a school bus load of tiny kids throwing rocks into the water at the absolutely stunning beach between the oldest and most prettiest bridges in this greatest of great places. Hmmm... says the Goofball apprentice, I done did good indeed. Kisses goodbye, we'll see youse agains soons all spoken, me and the Beer Geeks headed out on the rest of the days main mission, more beer...
The rest of the days detail are delicious but relatively unimportant, you can safely assume it was more beer in perfect beer spots. If I had the urge to become a Beer Geek myself, well, I've got my day of initiation all planned ahead of me. We did have to miss a spot, unfortunately as, the sun just wasn't cooperating and I had to unleash my secret plan to end the day on my roof watching the sunset over the Midtown Manhattan Mountain Range then drag these Beer Geeks into MY beer bar for a final swig and a taste of what is, OK arguably the best pizza in Brooklyn, which of course makes it the best pizza in all the world... The night, the great weekend ended simply watching the Simpson, eating pizza and drinking some passable brews at the place I go to, well pretty much everyday single damned day.
Hooking up with old friends you barely remember having is well, a hoot, a treasure when you become better friends than you were when you were last friends. Of course Carl being good friend glue, I guess this was probably bound to happen. Hooking these friends up with new friends and having them become good friends is, well downright spectacular... You know, I've not once yearned to go back to Toronto. Oh, I'll pop in pop out, see the sister, but for the most part, trips to Canada are family affairs that take place in those two small towns stretched out along the 401 just a nip over the border. That all changed this weekend. I now have this absolute desire to take a trip up Toronto's most commercial street, up to the Oasis, were we'll start with a few beers on the patio, eat a great Italian diner, then slip into the bar to sample a few of the rarities. I'm sure Ina, Ralph and Carl, the lovable Beer Geeks, old friends, pals who got a great big ol' kick outta my big ol' burly Brooklyn home will crack open a special one. Pour out some glasses... a toast to the day we spent climbing beer mountain, now that'll be a toast.
Friday, April 15, 2005
Don't Fart in the Elevator and Other Advice My Mama Done Tol' Me
My friends have been tossing books at me lately. I guess word got out the Uncle GoGo had recently sailed back from his 15 year self expulsion to the Island of Illiteracy and that he was once again eating soft covered gems. They've been chucking books at me which is good as I have recently found myself completely stuck on "NonZero"; an enjoyable look at the history and evolution of society through the perspective of zero sum and non-zero sum game theories. A thick book that carries you from the primordial goo and ooze through to a promised supposition of where all us jerk's kids kids kids are going to end up in the pecking order once we get this whole big ball of mess all figured out. Interesting, but thick as glue. I mean, I'm lucky to get 4 pages done on the commute in; then end up having to re-read the last of the four pages over again on the commute out... I'm taking a break from "NonZero"; an enjoyable look at the history and evolution of society through the perspective of zero sum and non-zero sum game theories.
Last weekend a great friend, my Roman friend chucked me a copy of "Perfume"; actually sorry, she didn't chuck it all, she thoughtfully placed "Perfume" in with a loving goody bag full of treats, bits of beautiful glass and other precious objects meant to be sent home to Canada by the messenger who shall be reporting back that Uncle GoGo is indeed doing well these days, and that all this recent flow of sap has been justified... Of course, you may have noticed that the sap flow has flowing been a bit shallow lately... Simple problem, fiction.
When I used to read, I'd eat fiction like candybars; couldn't wait to start a new book, always hated finishing them. Like that mad drug you're not addicted to but simply can't get enough of [and oh, I can name a few of those, basically the running list of everything I'm running away from these days]. Fiction is the place I always wanted to go after finishing a day drudging around in my real world -- Another problem, I found like with those drugs, I was loosing time after time... so, off I went, I sent myself to Illiteracy Island and focused on work [well, and drugs].
I guess I have to thank the New York City Subway system and my toilet for bringing me back; AND I guess this new found interest in getting smarter well, OK, trying to get back to at least being as smart as I was one very long day ago; I guess I can thank that desire for helping me find my way to books like "NonZero"; an enjoyable look at the history and evolution of society through the perspective of zero sum and non-zero sum game theories.
Fiction eats my brain, I love it, but when I read it, my brain goes wiggly and I loose my ability to speak. I get stuck in this Zelig-like trap and start mimicking the words and phrasings of what ever it is I'm reading. The better the book, the more I start talking like the folks I'm reading about... "Perfume" is fantastic, I've been talking like an 18th Century French courtier for the last three days. Of course, in this case an 18th French Century courtier who lives in a book written in English by and American who lives in Berlin and has a touch of Dickens in his voice. Voila... I'm wiggly.
Again, I should point out that "Perfume" is GREAT fiction! If my recommendation counts for anything, I strongly suggest that if you do like fiction, and especially if you like smelling... I'd strongly suggest putting this good chew on your menu for a future read. OH, and to my Roman friend, thanks for the break from "NonZero"; an enjoyable look at the history and evolution of society through the perspective of zero sum and non-zero sum game theories. I have thoroughly enjoyed being wiggly this week, AND you know that on your recommendation alone, I'll gobble up any book you toss at me, fiction, non-fiction or pop-up! Besides, you know, I'm getting older, maybe it has become the time when I learn how to use all these drugs responsibly anyhow. Using drugs responsibly, now there's a piece of advice I shoulda taken from mama when she done tol' me.
Last weekend a great friend, my Roman friend chucked me a copy of "Perfume"; actually sorry, she didn't chuck it all, she thoughtfully placed "Perfume" in with a loving goody bag full of treats, bits of beautiful glass and other precious objects meant to be sent home to Canada by the messenger who shall be reporting back that Uncle GoGo is indeed doing well these days, and that all this recent flow of sap has been justified... Of course, you may have noticed that the sap flow has flowing been a bit shallow lately... Simple problem, fiction.
When I used to read, I'd eat fiction like candybars; couldn't wait to start a new book, always hated finishing them. Like that mad drug you're not addicted to but simply can't get enough of [and oh, I can name a few of those, basically the running list of everything I'm running away from these days]. Fiction is the place I always wanted to go after finishing a day drudging around in my real world -- Another problem, I found like with those drugs, I was loosing time after time... so, off I went, I sent myself to Illiteracy Island and focused on work [well, and drugs].
I guess I have to thank the New York City Subway system and my toilet for bringing me back; AND I guess this new found interest in getting smarter well, OK, trying to get back to at least being as smart as I was one very long day ago; I guess I can thank that desire for helping me find my way to books like "NonZero"; an enjoyable look at the history and evolution of society through the perspective of zero sum and non-zero sum game theories.
Fiction eats my brain, I love it, but when I read it, my brain goes wiggly and I loose my ability to speak. I get stuck in this Zelig-like trap and start mimicking the words and phrasings of what ever it is I'm reading. The better the book, the more I start talking like the folks I'm reading about... "Perfume" is fantastic, I've been talking like an 18th Century French courtier for the last three days. Of course, in this case an 18th French Century courtier who lives in a book written in English by and American who lives in Berlin and has a touch of Dickens in his voice. Voila... I'm wiggly.
Again, I should point out that "Perfume" is GREAT fiction! If my recommendation counts for anything, I strongly suggest that if you do like fiction, and especially if you like smelling... I'd strongly suggest putting this good chew on your menu for a future read. OH, and to my Roman friend, thanks for the break from "NonZero"; an enjoyable look at the history and evolution of society through the perspective of zero sum and non-zero sum game theories. I have thoroughly enjoyed being wiggly this week, AND you know that on your recommendation alone, I'll gobble up any book you toss at me, fiction, non-fiction or pop-up! Besides, you know, I'm getting older, maybe it has become the time when I learn how to use all these drugs responsibly anyhow. Using drugs responsibly, now there's a piece of advice I shoulda taken from mama when she done tol' me.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Rip Me a New One
Hey folks, unless the technology is yanking my chain and posting false readership numbers... It would appear that a decent amount of folks like to get this sappy goo all over their keyboards. No comments? Honestly, slap me 'round a bit. I'd love to hear for example that the lovey dovey trail I've been on recently is, well gettin' you green at the gills, OR maybe that you think I might wanna get back to "shoulda woulda coulda"... Front yard clothline... my laundries out their, throw a few eggs... at least help me correct my spelling and grammy.
If so not so... Crappy the Sapmaster [oh, BTW my Sapalicious Mentor says that I'm but five silly stories away from achieving the fifth level of crap... the pink belt and white shoes are but five, five little silly stories away... Soon, I will achieve... Fabio-ness]
If so not so... Crappy the Sapmaster [oh, BTW my Sapalicious Mentor says that I'm but five silly stories away from achieving the fifth level of crap... the pink belt and white shoes are but five, five little silly stories away... Soon, I will achieve... Fabio-ness]
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
The Wandering Fool
Even the wandering fool knows that a wander, a good wander is a flight into pure fiction. A dance in the head that starts with your feet and dances you across the city and through your mind into those places no one has ever been to yet. A good wander happens on those days and nights when your mind is open and extra energy surrounds your soul. The wandering fool, burning off a little extra energy with a load of extra thoughts and quick step across the city. The wandering fool wandered backwards yesterday; carried along with the company of graying old friends he'd never met; the wandering fool wandered straight through his almost forgotten history, back to school, back to see old friend with funny smelling smoke and great big noises that makes your fists pump, your belly wiggle and your back almost break off bending itself backwards.
The giant bird played the soundtrack to this particular wander. An ancient giant bird, singing the songs you had forgot that you'd ever forgot about. Old songs that rang in the wandering fools ears a million years ago while he wandered with the fresh faced fools who made his life and pointed him the direction that allowed him to wander in the first place to the place he finds himself now; the greatest of great places. The wandering fool played with his old friends as the ancient bird sang; fiction on their faces as they pumped their fists and sang along... old memories becoming as familiar as the day you first sang that old song... bliss.
Like most things, not all things, a good wander always comes to an end. The end of a good wander ends at exactly the place it suposed to. Across the city, or in the Garden, or at your doorstep. The good wander, as any wandering fool will tell you, ends with a smile, a shake of the head and quite often a good night sleep; a better sleep although better isn't quite the word that best describes that ultimate feeling of balance... The wandering fool will tell; a good wander... A wander past my history, through the gates of the Garden, into the darkness and around the bottom story of a great new house he has now just laid the first stones towards construction. Hey Ho to old friends, good to have seen you all, now good night... and we'll see you again next time I have a good wander.
Oh, and next time I do have this next good wander, I might just bring a new, the newest of new good friends, wink
The giant bird played the soundtrack to this particular wander. An ancient giant bird, singing the songs you had forgot that you'd ever forgot about. Old songs that rang in the wandering fools ears a million years ago while he wandered with the fresh faced fools who made his life and pointed him the direction that allowed him to wander in the first place to the place he finds himself now; the greatest of great places. The wandering fool played with his old friends as the ancient bird sang; fiction on their faces as they pumped their fists and sang along... old memories becoming as familiar as the day you first sang that old song... bliss.
Like most things, not all things, a good wander always comes to an end. The end of a good wander ends at exactly the place it suposed to. Across the city, or in the Garden, or at your doorstep. The good wander, as any wandering fool will tell you, ends with a smile, a shake of the head and quite often a good night sleep; a better sleep although better isn't quite the word that best describes that ultimate feeling of balance... The wandering fool will tell; a good wander... A wander past my history, through the gates of the Garden, into the darkness and around the bottom story of a great new house he has now just laid the first stones towards construction. Hey Ho to old friends, good to have seen you all, now good night... and we'll see you again next time I have a good wander.
Oh, and next time I do have this next good wander, I might just bring a new, the newest of new good friends, wink
Friday, April 08, 2005
It's Misty... Or is it?
I've been experiencing instant friendships quite a bit lately. Who knows, Spring, good fortune or maybe its just due to the fact that, I've been flung open recently. Of course, instant friendship, no time, I've never liked using time as a measure of how good friends you are with someone, I mean, time does allow for a greater mixing of memes, but one quality meme shared in an instant could easily equal all the memes shared with another over a life long friendship. Let me sing you a song.
I'm actually wondering if Misty really existed at all. She showed up in the middle of a desperate night. She had already had an impact on our lives, her arrival [or theoretical arrival] prompting Dylan to make an initial sweep of the dirt burying our lives. Uncle GoGo the aging frat boy and his side kick the never-there SUPER-D. Another pal, Pauly Paul, the big ol' New Yorker, commented that the place looked like a crack den. Having been to a couple crack dens, I'd have to add, a "dirty" crack den. Anyhow, the mere mention that we would be hosting a pretty young friend of a friend we'd never met before, prompted Dylan to clean, and me to cry because he cleaned.
Misty appeared at our door in the middle of the night; I spoke with her more on the phone than in person. We met quickly at the Shredder club, her bonding with my friends over commonalities I barely understand. Dylan stuck by her side, playing the role of the bigger big brother as she lived through her first ever night in this greatest of great places. Being with another new friend, I left her in the hands of my greatest of great friends the next night... she proceeded to scrub the last bits of the dirt left behind from bad times... the next day was peppered with reports on how our fixtures sparkled and or floor shone. Frikin doo-dad-diddly, I didn't even knew we had a floor.
I finally got the chance for a chat with her last night, her last night. We tried to jam 10 years of friendships into an hour, we got quite a ways, but then I had to go down. Exhausted from a great week. I trundled off to bed. I woke up, she was gone as she said she would be. Off to figure things out. Make good choices on whether or not to return and when.
I can say this with absolute certainty. This friend of a friend, a great friend; a person I'd barely heard of until Monday, I can say with certainty, that if she does return, if she really actually exists at all; she'll be returning to an already well established circle of friends. It would appear that the length of time you know some one is also no measure of how good a friend, or of how much sap can be poured out over them as well... don't worry though, I'm not Misty, just happy to have had a cool visit from a cool person, at yet again, the right ol' time.
I'm actually wondering if Misty really existed at all. She showed up in the middle of a desperate night. She had already had an impact on our lives, her arrival [or theoretical arrival] prompting Dylan to make an initial sweep of the dirt burying our lives. Uncle GoGo the aging frat boy and his side kick the never-there SUPER-D. Another pal, Pauly Paul, the big ol' New Yorker, commented that the place looked like a crack den. Having been to a couple crack dens, I'd have to add, a "dirty" crack den. Anyhow, the mere mention that we would be hosting a pretty young friend of a friend we'd never met before, prompted Dylan to clean, and me to cry because he cleaned.
Misty appeared at our door in the middle of the night; I spoke with her more on the phone than in person. We met quickly at the Shredder club, her bonding with my friends over commonalities I barely understand. Dylan stuck by her side, playing the role of the bigger big brother as she lived through her first ever night in this greatest of great places. Being with another new friend, I left her in the hands of my greatest of great friends the next night... she proceeded to scrub the last bits of the dirt left behind from bad times... the next day was peppered with reports on how our fixtures sparkled and or floor shone. Frikin doo-dad-diddly, I didn't even knew we had a floor.
I finally got the chance for a chat with her last night, her last night. We tried to jam 10 years of friendships into an hour, we got quite a ways, but then I had to go down. Exhausted from a great week. I trundled off to bed. I woke up, she was gone as she said she would be. Off to figure things out. Make good choices on whether or not to return and when.
I can say this with absolute certainty. This friend of a friend, a great friend; a person I'd barely heard of until Monday, I can say with certainty, that if she does return, if she really actually exists at all; she'll be returning to an already well established circle of friends. It would appear that the length of time you know some one is also no measure of how good a friend, or of how much sap can be poured out over them as well... don't worry though, I'm not Misty, just happy to have had a cool visit from a cool person, at yet again, the right ol' time.
Monday, April 04, 2005
The Bread Maker... Words of Advise, A Fable... a True Story
...it was say, some... eighteen thousand, five hundred a twenty two years ago. I was under the service of a beautiful family; I was the bread maker. My master, a respected professor, a teacher of words and the art of inscriptions was a decent man, he treated us well. Through his kindness, we ate large portions and often had the pleasure of serving the finest of Romans; Senators, Generals, Governors all.. ALL who had in their employ, my Master, teacher of Rome's brightest young.
It was while in this employ, this servitude that I first met my love. She was my Masters mistress, first mistress. She held a distinguished position. Being that my masters wife was often sickly, my love held, on all public occasions the position of wife, and hostess.
During the many feasts, during the many festivals, I would watch through the hole as she performed her duties. I watched as she fed Rome's finest the bread that I had made for my master. I watched as she pleased the Senators, Generals and Governors. I fell in love.
While I made the bread, while I made this bread from the finest of our lands wheat, yeast and water. I would often find pleasure with the woman of equal standing in our house. The women whose role it was to nurse the children, whose role it was to please my master. As I kneaded the dough, and placed the rounds on the warm brick... I would often find a fresh flowing skirt up which to run my hands. Pleasant times in a fine and happy household.
Pleasant times, as I also knew, my masters mistress would be using the hole in reverse, watching me, enjoying the looseness of another servants skirt.
And, so... there came a time, when my bread, still fresh and warm became in demand at one of the many gatherings. I, the bread maker was allowed to personally deliver and serve this warm fresh bread to my masters guests... there came a time when my masters mistress, the first mistress, and I shared a glance. A glance that spoke to us through time and the ages; the glance that put me on the purpose of the mission that brings me to, to this day.
With this glance, I knew immediately that I must see the alchemist, I must see the sage. There came a day when I knelt begging the alchemist, offering but a poor remainder of the coin left to me by the keeper of wheat and yeast. My Master's coin, a coin so hidden that if found, I most certainly would have been cast out from my position of bread maker.
With this remainder, I was able to purchase a precious amount of the special black powder... the powder I would kneed and roll into my master's mistresses bread, the bread I would share with her... the bread, we would share together and through the magic of the black powder... agree to meet centuries ahead, re-incarnated in a time when bread makers and first mistresses could be one.
But, fuck man... That stupid frikin' chemist sold me a bag of goods. I mean that black powder was the rawest of shit; you know, OK the stuff you sell to your poor uncles stupid kids. I mean, fuck dude... eighteen thousand, five hundred a twenty two years later... I gotta wait until, I'm what forty something... dozens of relationships wasted and done and paid for, ok, ok, some good some bad, but dude. IT took eighteen thousand, five hundred a twenty two years to get back to bein' wit that babe I'd digged through the hole away back then...
OK, deep breath... Yes, that cheap assed alchemist and his ratty ol' black powder worked; I did finally meet her again after all these years... AND, I'll tell you my friends, it was absolutely worth the wait.
So what if we've been through this or that... so what about the ages and the age. Hey, If I'd bought just one grade finer of that black powder, hell maybe it would have been a few years earlier, maybe 50, 60 years earlier; maybe I would have been G.I. schmuck face, meeting the love of my life in Rome, next day, shot down and laying under the treads of a Panzer.
Word of advise... Mystic practices, fables, potions for love and promises to meet millennia hence is by rights, a tenuous game... When someone, even with just a simple glance says, I love you... stop, grab her and run away with her as quick as you can. Black powders, baked in bread may eventually work, you may eventually find her again... as I did... but then, hmmm... that's a muggily mugs game... grab her and let all the precepts and cliches be damned.
I was going to try to work the Pope dieing into this... facts written as fiction, the mother of all bitches...
My black powder worked. But eighteen thousand, five hundred a twenty two years later[?], damn...
I will dedicate myself to making up for this lost time.
:-)
It was while in this employ, this servitude that I first met my love. She was my Masters mistress, first mistress. She held a distinguished position. Being that my masters wife was often sickly, my love held, on all public occasions the position of wife, and hostess.
During the many feasts, during the many festivals, I would watch through the hole as she performed her duties. I watched as she fed Rome's finest the bread that I had made for my master. I watched as she pleased the Senators, Generals and Governors. I fell in love.
While I made the bread, while I made this bread from the finest of our lands wheat, yeast and water. I would often find pleasure with the woman of equal standing in our house. The women whose role it was to nurse the children, whose role it was to please my master. As I kneaded the dough, and placed the rounds on the warm brick... I would often find a fresh flowing skirt up which to run my hands. Pleasant times in a fine and happy household.
Pleasant times, as I also knew, my masters mistress would be using the hole in reverse, watching me, enjoying the looseness of another servants skirt.
And, so... there came a time, when my bread, still fresh and warm became in demand at one of the many gatherings. I, the bread maker was allowed to personally deliver and serve this warm fresh bread to my masters guests... there came a time when my masters mistress, the first mistress, and I shared a glance. A glance that spoke to us through time and the ages; the glance that put me on the purpose of the mission that brings me to, to this day.
With this glance, I knew immediately that I must see the alchemist, I must see the sage. There came a day when I knelt begging the alchemist, offering but a poor remainder of the coin left to me by the keeper of wheat and yeast. My Master's coin, a coin so hidden that if found, I most certainly would have been cast out from my position of bread maker.
With this remainder, I was able to purchase a precious amount of the special black powder... the powder I would kneed and roll into my master's mistresses bread, the bread I would share with her... the bread, we would share together and through the magic of the black powder... agree to meet centuries ahead, re-incarnated in a time when bread makers and first mistresses could be one.
But, fuck man... That stupid frikin' chemist sold me a bag of goods. I mean that black powder was the rawest of shit; you know, OK the stuff you sell to your poor uncles stupid kids. I mean, fuck dude... eighteen thousand, five hundred a twenty two years later... I gotta wait until, I'm what forty something... dozens of relationships wasted and done and paid for, ok, ok, some good some bad, but dude. IT took eighteen thousand, five hundred a twenty two years to get back to bein' wit that babe I'd digged through the hole away back then...
OK, deep breath... Yes, that cheap assed alchemist and his ratty ol' black powder worked; I did finally meet her again after all these years... AND, I'll tell you my friends, it was absolutely worth the wait.
So what if we've been through this or that... so what about the ages and the age. Hey, If I'd bought just one grade finer of that black powder, hell maybe it would have been a few years earlier, maybe 50, 60 years earlier; maybe I would have been G.I. schmuck face, meeting the love of my life in Rome, next day, shot down and laying under the treads of a Panzer.
Word of advise... Mystic practices, fables, potions for love and promises to meet millennia hence is by rights, a tenuous game... When someone, even with just a simple glance says, I love you... stop, grab her and run away with her as quick as you can. Black powders, baked in bread may eventually work, you may eventually find her again... as I did... but then, hmmm... that's a muggily mugs game... grab her and let all the precepts and cliches be damned.
I was going to try to work the Pope dieing into this... facts written as fiction, the mother of all bitches...
My black powder worked. But eighteen thousand, five hundred a twenty two years later[?], damn...
I will dedicate myself to making up for this lost time.
:-)
