Mono-Lagering: The Bell House

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to a very special Mono-Lagering. Don't worry, it's not the "very special" sort of thing that means one of the less popular comedy characters gets molested or something and then we all feel weird for the rest of the half-hour. This is just one that I've been looking forward to for quite some time. The Bell House is a bar I've visited many times, and never had anything but a great time. It's actually half-bar and half-venue, and whereas that usually means more "shitty bar and shitty venue" it's actually really great at both.

In the past I've been to Biblioball prom-like events there, seen hip-hop, seen trapeze (in case you were wondering, it still makes me feel funny like when I was 8 when girls do trapeze), and New Orleans-style jazz, which, while not really my thing, was certainly fun that night. But last week was something on a whole other level. Good friends to the blog Nicole and E Rike and I got tickets to see Chris Thile and Michael Daves play bluegrass.



We got to the venue a little early. I was already jazzed after having a bucket or so of Budweiser at Jackie's Fifth, one of my top-five favorite dives anywhere in the world. Park Slope and Gowanus is such an odd area, where it's so gentrified and nice in most of it, but the hold-outs are amazing. Anyway, if you've never been to the Bell House it's basically divided into two rooms. There's the front area which is a classic bar with nice couches, seating, and an area for small acts or DJs to perform.

We got beers . . .honestly I couldn't tell you what we got. Maybe a Victory Pilsner? It was good, whatever it was. We sat around, chatted a bit, ran into our friend John, and eventually went on in to the second room, a large performance area with a mini-bar and a full bar on opposite ends. The place was fairly packed, which is great to see for a bluegrass show. I crushed my beer and got a giant can of Tecate. That much I definitely remember.

And then the boys took the stage. No openers, no need. Just two goddam virtuosos with their mandolin and guitar.

Bluegrass and I go a long ways back. I have a pretty rough relationship with where I grew up. I do love my friends and family, and I appreciate that it made me who I am today, for better or worse. But I don't fucking like it. I never liked it. I got out as soon as I could and I have not for a second looked back. There is little and less that I do like about Appalachia or Kentucky. Obviously I love bourbon. But, boy oh boy, do I love that high and lonesome sound, those string bands, that bluegrass.

Bluegrass, to give the most ridiculously abbreviated history possible, is what happened when poor Appalachian whites heard/hung out with old time black string bands. African-descended instruments like the banjo paired up with fiddles and guitars and all the sudden someone said, "Yup." Traditionally, it's only string instruments, though harmonicas are welcome. Modern bluegrass often frees itself from such strict fetters with drums, some amps, and God knows what else. It works sometimes. But that's never what I think of. As a Wise Master Mason once told me, "If it isn't one mic with a bunch of guys standing around it waiting for their solos, it isn't bluegrass."

I always liked it, but what really awakened my love for it was the Pence family. They were my first "second family," a habit I've noticed I pick up on occasion. These days I don't see them much, so my God daughters and their family, the Perezes, pick up the slack. (Before them I guess it was my ex-wife's family, the Paeks. What is it with me and the letter P? Heh, I said "pee.") There were three kids near my age, Billy, Kevin, and Molly. All three were smart, funny, creative, and spontaneous. They were exactly the sort of friends you needed in a town with so little to do. Their parents kind, loving, and also hilarious. Mr. Pence played the banjo and his boys played guitar. I went camping on a family reunion of sorts with them once--amazing weekend--and the bluegrass jams just couldn't have been better for me.

Well they all grew up super smart, super good-looking, and doing great things. But they're far away from Brooklyn, so I had to get my bluegrass fix elsewhere. Enter 9C, the subject of my next Barography. I'll talk about it more next time, but suffice to say every Sunday they had a pickup bluegrass jam that was never short of spectacular. During a rough time of transition after college, those Sundays were almost my church and center.

So anyway, wherever I've been bluegrass has not just been beautiful, entertaining music; it's been warmth and friendship and love. A year or so ago my great buddy Ben from back home came up so we could see Ralph Stanley and the Clinch Mountain Boys together. Ralph is one of the surviving founding fathers of bluegrass and it was an honor just to be in the same room with him. The venue was kind of uptight . . .the rest of the patrons seemed more "wealthy upper west siders listening to jazz" than anyone at a proper hootenanny. Well we hooted and hollered enough for the rest.

But last week, with Thile and Daves? They're no founding fathers, they're both younger than me. But these are two of the best damn musicians I have ever seen; rather, I should say, "Goddam, 'em boys could pick it!" The harmonies were perfect, the solos both beautiful and blindingly fast, and the stage presence genial, funny, and easy. I believe my female friends may have had more to say about said presence, but that's not for me to say.



Twice during the night they called out for requests, with one caveat: fiddle tunes only. That's right, a mandolin and a guitar doing fiddle solos. That's how amazing these guys are. They even improved a medley of two or three requests on the spot. There comes a time when you just say, "JESUS! WHOA NOW! THAT IS JUST TOO DAMN GOOD!"





But we drank it in like we drank the Woodford during intermission. By show's end, we were out of our mind, having water fights on the street, and stumbling towards the nearest pool table we could find.



This weekend we, and some other friends, go to the Newport Folk Festival. Among other acts, Thile and Daves will be there. But so will Earl Scruggs, my friends. That is bluegrass royalty right there. Now if I could just hear the Dillards play "Dooley" just once live . . .

The best things for this Kentucky boy, be they bourbon, bluegrass, or friends, are the things that warm you immediately, spreading through your mind and body like molten happiness. They are the things that even a self-loathing, depressed maniac cannot help but revel in, and would never think not to thank.

Thank you Mr. Monroe, Mr. Stanley, Mr. Scruggs, Mr. Flatt and company for making this great music. Thank you Mr. Thile and Mr. Daves and all your contemporaries for keeping it going. Thank you Pences great and small for giving me an extended family with dynamics I would treasure forever. Thank you Roger for opening one of the best goddam bars I've ever had the privilege to know. Thank you Ben and John and Nicole and E Rike and Eric and Conor and Tom and Anca and all friends for good times and good music. Thank you, the Bell House, good shows.

And thank you, Jesus, for bourbon.


Photos and non-youtube video by Nicole Marie Ball. She's a bluegrass newbie, forgive her for cutting off the solos. Just this once. Read more...

Mono-Lagering: Black Swan

It felt good to get back to Mono-Lagering. With the freedom a teacher enjoys in the summer, I can visit bars more difficult to get to than the usual Park Slope or Williamsburg affairs. So last week I decided to start exploring Bed-Stuy. The first bar I chose was Black Swan, right near the G train.

I had a theme in mind. I had a bag full of nerdery (comics and a brand-spanking new copy of Dance with Dragons), and I spotted some Dr. Who villains lurking on the molding opposite the bar. This was going to be the post where I talk about being a nerd, and everything that means.

It isn't. It might actually be far nerdier than that, as this is the Mono-Lagering where I get serious.

For non New York readers, some background is in order. Bed-Stuy is, like my neighborhood of Bushwick, a part of Brooklyn for decades known as a rather crime-ridden slum. Whereas my Bushwick is largely a Latino stronghold, Bed-Stuy has been home to blacks, be they southern transplants, Jamaicans, or old school Brookynites. Both neighborhoods have of late begun a gentrification process, a process I have watched since its infancy in Bushwick.

In Bed-Stuy, for whatever reason, it seems to be moving more quickly. Cafes, galleries, micropubs, high-end restaurants and lots of new young professionals have gathered in just a few short years.

In New York we don't like to talk about race. Americans in general shy from the topic, but here up north we're used to just assuming that's a problem for those rednecks down south. We weren't the slave-based economy, after all. But that does not change that race is still a Huge and Horrible problem here. New York is one of the most segregated cities I've ever seen. Here in Bushwick I can point you to which streets are Mexican and which are Puerto Rican. The school where I teach has around an eighty percent Latin population, whereas a friend's school a few blocks away has an eighty percent black population.

Now, it makes sense for immigrants to prefer living around people from their country of origin. However, the way New York real estate works, it's difficult for recent immigrants to ever earn enough to either own their own place or move somewhere with more economic mobility. Hence why Bushwick and Bed-Stuy became what they became.

But now it's gentrifying time and here come all these young white kids (to be fair, some Asians as well) with their dreams of becoming New Yorkers. They find a neighborhood cheap enough for them and invade. Next thing you know, landlords start driving up prices. Soon these young whites are all that can afford to live there anymore; the suburbs of America are colonizing our inner cities, and they're winning.

Now, not even I am self-loathing enough to think this is Simply A Terrible Thing. I've been around Bushwick long enough to know some residents are thrilled at the changes. Crime is on the decrease, the streets are safer for their kids, and, frankly, some of the new business are great, welcome additions. As a former secretary at work once said to me when I first moved to Bushwick some ten years ago, "I like it when you whites move in. You pick up your dog's shit!"

BUT, where are the people that used to live here going? I live alone in an apartment; every other unit houses a family of at least three or four. Where did the family in my apartment go? There are nights I spend more on booze than one of my neighbors might spend on food for a week.

Gentrification is inevitable in this American society. And it will always have positive and negative repercussions. Which direction it leans in is for smarter people than me to say. I simply know it makes me extremely uncomfortable when young gringos open up a Mexican restaurant across the street from a tortillaria that's been there for generations, but it makes me really happy to see young tattooed artists helping neighborhood kids plant a garden or paint a mural.

America's strength has always come from the variety of people that call it home, New York more so, and Brooklyn EVEN MORE SO. But it works best when these different folks do things together; not ignoring the differences, not erasing identities, but combining. In a Bushwick Bahn Mi, I want to taste the jalapeño and the foie gras and the cilantro.

So I walked to Black Swan apprehensive. Here was a high-end-ish pub with fancy food and a huge beer list right in the middle of an area warned against just a few years ago. I walked in and it's a beautiful place; stark black and white walls, good wood. Nice long bar with a copper top; books and accoutrements tastefully appointed. I ordered a Reissdorf Kolsch, and it was perfect for that hot, humid day: crisp with just a hint of creamy sweetness.

Their bourbon selection was impressive, and their cocktail list drew me in. I had a "Hensley," which is bacon-infused bourbon with maple syrup, orange bitters, and a flamed orange peel. Good Lord it was delicious. I sat and I drank and I noticed the Daleks and I thought about this nerdy post I was going to write. A girl sat near me marking up a book with a highlighter while wearing some of the shortest shorts I've seen yet this year (thank you, summer). They even had the captions on the ESPN talking-heads programming (I've long been irritated by bars that put on talking head shows and neither turn it up nor offer captions; I do not want to simply look at Woody Paige's face). It was nerd time.

But then I noticed something else. This was the most racially diverse group of patrons I had ever seen in a bar. The food offered something for everyone; Jamaican jerk chicken alongside a tuna nicoise salad wonderfully prepared. This was a local bar where both new and old locals sat together. A dozen different accents talked about sports, work travails, and sex.

I won't say we were no longer whites and blacks and Asians and young and old and immigrant and native; of course we were still all these things. But we were also all Brooklynites, we were all at the Black Swan, and we were all drinkers, drinking together.

The Black Swan is doing it right, and I'll be back as soon as I can.

Read more...

Mono-Lagering: The Gibson

Given a gift of free beer coupons from 30 different bars from Brokelyn.com, Mr. Rice has decided to visit each one, and record his thoughts.

The school year is wrapping up, which is great, but which is also quite difficult. By this point in the year I'm pretty tired of my students, and they're definitely tired of me. Slight annoyances repeated for ten months seem like personal vendettas. WHY CAN'T JOSE REMEMBER WE DON'T ASK TO GO TO THE BATHROOM WHILE SITTING IN THE MEETING AREA?!?!? Seriously, Jose. Knock that shit off.

So this time of year is kind of a stress enhancer: you can see the light at the end of the tunnel, but everything is falling apart anyway. I don't know who is more ready to get the fuck out, the teachers or the kids. So, to make things easier, these next few weeks I'm keeping it local. This summer I will Mono-Lager all over Brooklyn, visiting Red Hook, Bed Stuy, you name it.



But this time I went to the Gibson in Williamsburg. I have apparently been there twice; the more recent I definitely remember, as it was a post-concert little trip with my dear friend the Highlander and her handsome husband (GUESS WHO TAUGHT AN ALLITERATION LESSON THIS WEEK). She claims I was also there the night I was the stripper/guest at a bachelorette party, and she may well be right. I certainly don't recall it.



On one of the first really beautiful days in New York this year they had all their windows thrown open, creating a nice open air feeling in the main bar, and the backyard was open. I sauntered in, mood as warm as the weather. It's not a particularly remarkable space physically, but there's certainly nothing wrong with it. Foosball table in the corner, giant TV for games or events, decent sized bar, and various seating arrangements. I ordered an Old Chub that was 8% APV. The beer was sweet and definitely strong, and would have been perfect on a cooler day.

I began to notice an odd abundance of real bar amateurs, or at least super weirdoes. One girl came in and asked how much "wine" was. It took the poor bartender a while to get her to figure out what she was actually asking for. The next guy asked for a "Yagermeister" (short a sound) straight. A whole fucking glass of the shit. The tender poured heavy and charged him ten bucks, to which he said "Well, if I knew it was going to be that much, I'd have gotten something else . . ." HEY ASSHOLE YOU SHOULD COMPLETELY HAVE GOTTEN SOMETHING ELSE. FUCKING GROSS.

Just a bit of eavesdropping explained that there was a book club meeting there. You could completely tell if someone was going to that when they entered the door. They were not bar types. Nobody had a damn clue what to do.

Anyway, everything was so "Summer is coming," in a reverse House Stark kind of way that I switched to the Anchor Summer beer, which was smooth, crisp, and just what the doctor ordered. I reread some more Game of Thrones and waited for my friends to arrive, happy as a clam.

I didn't always look to summer with such gleeful anticipation. As a kid, I really didn't care for it that much. Summer, to me, was a sweaty time where I didn't see my friends as much and had to do things I found less pleasant than homework. I was a nerd; I really enjoyed going to school. An only child, I didn't get to see nearly as many people when we weren't all mandated to be in the same place for eight hours every day.

My mother, a music teacher, LIVED for summer vacation. Every year we'd go to a beach, usually Myrtle Beach (hillbilly mecca). Going to the beach and laying out was and is one of her favorite activities in the world. She never understood quite why I disagreed. I was what you might call an "indoor kid." I wanted to play with my toys, read books, maybe watch TV. Hell, it wasn't that I minded being outside. I just hated, just utterly loathed laying out and tanning. Dad would take me into the ocean and jump waves and swim with me. That was great. But every day had to have periods of tanning.

It was hot, it was boring, and it was humiliating. I know mom wanted me to fit in with the cool kids at school; but I basically already did, I just didn't look like them. I never got the appeal of burning your skin to a crisp. I can only imagine some of those girls I went to high school with now look like an old purse. And, God, when I was on my back, I couldn't even read, because the book would "block the sun from my face." YES, EXACTLY.

So I never could quite get up the same sort of pseudo-mythologized love of summer that basically everyone else in America has. Years later, when summer was simply a time that I could basically do anything anytime, well, then I got the point. Summer, now, is endless possibility. Want to stay out all night on a Tuesday? YES. How about road trips to stupid places? YUP. Road trips to delicious places? EVEN MORE YUP.

This is how the lobster roll became my quintessential summer food. I had always loved the sweet meat of crustaceans (seafood restaurants were a giant highlight in those early forced beach days). But there's something especially magical about mayo, lobster, butter, and a hot dog bun. Rich without weighing you down, and ridiculously flavorful. One summer, my ex-wife and I took a trip up the coast of Maine, hitting every lobster roll joint we could find.



That was a good goddam summer.

So, as luck would have it, the Gibson was premiering a new thing where every Wednesday they serve lobster rolls in the backyard for just sixteen bucks (if you don't eat them often, that is actually a good price for them in this city). Unfortunately, my stomach was on the fritz and I had already eaten, so I didn't get to sample one, but several of my friends enjoyed them with sometimes frightening intensity (Vacuum Nicole, I'm looking at you).

So friends old and new dropped by for a drink or eight, some lobster, and mostly just laughter. Summer is no longer that time I don't see my friends much and I have to do things I hate. It's done a complete one-eighty turn. Summer is freedom. Summer is deliciousness. Summer is dicking around 24/7. Summer is girls in dresses. Summer is linen shirts and light suits. Summer is friends.

Summer is fucking awesome. Read more...

Mono-Lagering: Union Hall

Given a gift of free beer coupons from 30 different bars from Brokelyn.com, Mr. Rice has decided to visit each one, and record his thoughts.

Back on the road for another Mono-Lagering--well, back on the subway, at least. My ignorance of Park Slope geography showed up again as I found out Union Hall was also ridiculously close to my friends' apartment. So this past Tuesday, I decided to drop by for a couple of drinks to relax after a stressful day of watching my students try to puzzle out the labyrinthine tricks of standardized testing. My first hint of what was to come was outside, where a placard advertized burlesque (more on that in a second) and "Adult Education: Social Anxiety."

My expectations sank deeper than the Marianas. Was that an actual class? On social anxiety? At a bar? I could imagine few worse ideas. On the other hand, maybe it was just a band with a very terrible name, designed to make sure no one but total freakshows ever showed up for a gig. Either way, I sort of steeled myself, took a breath, and walked in.

I stopped dead in my tracks. The place is fucking huge. This was seriously one of the biggest non-beergarden bars I have ever been in at any point in my life. There's a long bar along the right that had to be fifty or sixty feet long. (Maybe more: my concepts of space and time are horribly lacking.) But that's not all; to the left there was a large library/lounge. I immediately loved that little bit. It felt like an old Gentleman's Club (not the sort where Russian women testily ask if you want a dance every ten seconds), the sort of place Victorian adventurers would gather to swap stories of tigers, intrigue, and turning invisible or something.

And still this bar went on. Behind the lounge were two bocce ball courts, side-by-side. Behind that was a raised section, marked "Reserved for Bruklyn Knights." I didn't even go downstairs, where there is apparently a performance space. This is a bar so big it has a split personality (another point I'll touch on again in a bit).

But the overall vibe I got on that pleasant afternoon was that of Men. From the library/lounge to the competitive sport indoors to the private club planning to meet in the back, everything felt like that mostly-illusive idea of a Club of Men, which has long fascinated me. My grandfather was a fairly high-ranking Mason. My Dad was a member of the local Elk's Club. Both interest me for differing reasons.

My first real experience with the Elks, outside of a conversational reference point, was when my first band played their first show. We were dopey assholes that barely knew their instruments and had songs about hillbillies and making fun of Pearl Jam. We opened up for a punk band called the Connie Dungs. Though half the crowd came for us (we had sold so many t-shirts that we actually had to perform), the other half was decidedly not amused. If I recall correctly, a Taco Bell "burrito" was thrown at us at one point.

But that wasn't the Lodge my father belonged to. Dad's Elks' Lodge was something of a speakeasy. In the middle of a dry area of town, it's a full bar and gambling emporium. I actually got to visit it a couple Christmases ago. Dad and I escaped a boring party thrown by my maternal Aunt (sweet lady, but that party was a snoozer). On the way we had one of those great father-son talks. He was also an early divorcée and, as he put it, the Elks was his Harefield; that is, the bar where he found a second home after a marriage failed.

That made it even more of a significant event, visiting that place. Boy, was it a sight. It was mostly old men grumbling at each other, just talking shit the way they have for fiftysome years. Card games going on at one table with rules Dad did his best to explain to me. Dad bought me a Bud and we chatted and I was introduced to his old bar buddies. It was fucking great. I bought the next round, and put in a shot of Maker's for myself because, why not? When I realized the two beers and a shot cost me around six dollars I never wanted to leave.

Speaking of buying booze, back in the present, I sat down at the top of the bar and selected Left Hand Stout from their twelve, wonderfully-varied taps. It was creamy, thick, and delicious, while not being overwhelming or heavy. The friendly bartender chatted me up a bit and it's apparently very light in both alcohol and caloric content. A sort of micro-brewed American Guinness I guess. I munched on a long pretzel and realized I miss the prevalence of bar snacks.

I've long been fascinated with the Masons. First off, I adore my late grandfather. GK Harmon was one hell of a man, the kind that sends us into tizzies trying to outworship his generation. But also, the Masonic story is fascinating, and the conspiracy theories even more. Directly post-college I tried to drum up interest in joining the Masons with my pals. That landed with a horrible thud. Even if the worst theories are true, damn, man, I want IN on that!

There's just something about a Men's Club that feels . . .intriguing? I'm not sure. I hesitate to dwell on it too much, as I don't especially like the gender politics of exclusion. However, I cannot deny that it's damn fine to just sit around and spend time with other dudes every now and then. I've always been friends with a lot of girls, and sometimes even catch hell about it. But I love a night of Men and I'm not sure if I could ever place why. I don't tend to buy into theories that men and women are naturally so different; it doesn't sit right. Sure, there might be some intrinsic differences (psychologically/emotionally, not just, uh, genitalially), but cultural indoctrination seems more likely for "Men are like ______, but women are like ________!" CUE LAUGH TRACK.

Hell, sometimes hanging with the boys includes a girl or two. Just like I've crossed over into being "one of the girls" there's sometimes a girl who is freely accepted in dudery, from poker night to late-night drunken trips to horrible strip clubs.

Tangent time. What the fuck is up with burlesque? God, I hate it. It has all the weird social discomfort of real stripping except no one gets naked. They wear nerdy costumes, have stupid fake names, feel way too confident about the way they look unclad, and generally just annoy me. I feel this tangent drawing to a close because I just figured out what is up with burlesque. It's Nerd Stripping. Nerds ruin everything, including things that were already terrible.

I'm not sure what exactly makes an individual apt for boys/girls night crossover; could be the fact that this individual never has and never will do sex on any of the members of the opposite gender in question. I could also be gay.

Anyway, Union Hall didn't have many people there at four, but most all were men. There was the helpful bartender, an older man drinking mixed drinks, and two younger fellows playing bocce with some of the weirdest body language I've seen. The Stout had been tasty, but it was too much to have more than one in a row. For my free pint, I chose a Captain Lawrence Kolsch. Been drinking a lot of kolsches lately; the warmer weather is bringing out the crispness. The Lawrence one is particularly crisp with a nice sweetness, very refreshing. To make up for the low alcohol content of the Stout, I paired the Kolsch with an Old Whiskey River.

Musing over the snack menu I noticed they served beer cheese. I've tried to explain this stuff recently, and it isn't that easy. It's a spreadable cheese, kind of like pimento, I guess? Except it's spicy and has beer in it. It's popular back in Kentucky, and harder than hell to find up here. As the owners of Union Hall (and Floyd's and the Bell House) are from Kentucky, so they've started making their own. Dear God is it delicious! And amazingly terrible for you, but who gives a shit, right?

Beside the head of the bar is a giant bulletin board where all the upcoming events are advertised. Bands, karaoke, game nights, classes (?), interviews . . .it honestly felt a little disparate and desperate. It's like Union Hall has a multiple personality disorder. Is it a men's lounge? Is it a venue? Is it a bocce joint? I mean, it is big enough to host not only multitudes of people but ideas, so I guess it's all right.

There's something hard to define about Union Hall. I liked it quite a bit, but something makes me slightly uncomfortable if I try to think about it. I guess it's like a Men's Club or a boy's night that way. Yeah, it's great, but if I try to examine why I get squicked out and worry I'm going to ruin the enjoyment I get. It can't be that I am uncomfortable exploring my feelings both about myself and my fellow males, can it?

That's just a stereotype, and those are bullshit.

Read more...

Mono-Lagering: dba

Given a gift of free beer coupons from 30 different bars from Brokelyn.com, Mr. Rice has decided to visit each one, and record his thoughts.

Note: click play for the soundtrack to this post. Seriously.

Today I write in pain. I have committed war crimes against my own body. It is spring break for me, the traditional time of mindless indulgence and excess. Starting last Friday I have gone on one hell of a bender. Today I sit in my dark, cluttered office and write. I need the break. So let me tell you about last night.

I went to dba, no capital letters, in Williamsburg. I had been there once before for a cask beer tasting, and that was lovely. I had otherwise avoided it because the original dba in Manhattan is a fratty, douchey shithole. I was coerced into going to two birthdays there and never felt an ounce of non-misery.

I'm happy to report that the Brooklyn version far surpasses it. It's got a cozy orange-ish interior and a nice backyard and a beer menu that is absolutely preposterous. Thirteen or so casks and more bottles than is probably necessary. Seriously, one is faced with being totally overwhelmed if you start to really look at it.

I started with a Bier de Mars. a strong French-style ale. I'd had it before at my buddy Alex's local, Sheep Station, and I knew it was good. My body had already begun to object to my behavior yesterday, so I was trying to take it easy and slow. I also picked it because Mars is cool.

Alex came by and we shot the breeze as he waited for an OKcupid date to arrive. We mostly talked about the horrible hit-or-miss online dating can be. He seemed to come out OK last night (PUN NOT INTENDED, NOR CLEVER IN THE SLIGHTEST), but I deleted my accounts in disgust recently.

Mars is Ares, God of War, and he is a dick. Ugly, clever Hephaestus's wife, Aphrodite, Goddess of Love and Beauty totally cheats on him with Ares. We've known since ancient times that love is a battlefield (OH AY OH). That's really the part of dating I hate: the weird battles that are hidden therein. One must project a certain aspect of one's personality, and the appropriate aspect changes wildly from date to date; AND THERE IS NO WAY TO TELL IN WHAT WAY.

These aren't exactly innovative revelations. Look up in the sky and there are Mars and Venus. Vulcan doesn't even get a planet until Star Trek, but, to be fair, that's a pretty awesome, albeit fictional, planet.

Sometimes friends hear me talk like this, both single and attached, and say, "Well, true, but . . ." and then say something meant to convince me to take an interest in dating again. Why can't I just be a conscientious objector? I love war films (time to re-watch The Thin Red Line), but I don't have what it takes to be a soldier. Nobody questions that. So maybe I just don't like dating, and that's not anyone's fault.

I like spending time with people I like, be they male or female, single or not. I don't particularly enjoy spending my nights meeting people that maybe I'll like (and probably won't). It's not hard to tire of buying drinks for someone you have to trick yourself into finding interesting only to find out they didn't bother to trick themselves into finding you interesting.

The only problem is springtime, and the weird biological impetus it seems to steadfastly throw upon me. Ah, natural selection, how desperately you want me to find a receptacle for my genetic information! (I like how I try to sound like I hate getting laid here. Yeah, right, douchebag.)

So I sit here, stomach completely obliterated, a couple days lost at least, trying to finish a banana so something's in there, and I reflect. dba is a nice place, but nice places can be turned into warzones at the drop of a hat. Memories of exes and bad parties pop up without provocation, and sometimes your body finally screams "KNOCK IT OFF FOR A BIT, ASSHOLE!"

Every man fights his own war, but you're going to lose a few battles, and some aren't worth fighting.

Read more...

Mono-Lagering: King's Head Tavern

So, for this past weekend's crossover drink-up, I wrote a Mono-Lagering now up at Comics Should Be Good. Promise to put some original content up here in the next day or two.

I love you very much. Read more...

Mono-Lagering: Macri Park

Given a gift of free beer coupons from 30 different bars from Brokelyn.com, Mr. Rice has decided to visit each one, and record his thoughts.

Williamsburg, as much of a pain in the ass as it can be, is really accessible from Bushwick. So since the past couple weeks of work have been particularly draining, I decided this week's bar should be closer. So, after walking by it for years, I finally went in Macri Park.

The first thing that struck me was the music. It's not every day you get a Nancy Sinatra deep cut that segues into some obscure early rock and roll. Perhaps it was the Sinatra thing, but I immediately felt that Quentin Tarantino was DJing. Anyway, the bar looks great. Rich red, semi-velvety wallpaper, a fireplace, plush booths, and a long, well-worn bar all added together for a sort of old lodge feel.

The crowd was decidedly gutterpunky. In my polo and blazer, I started out feeling fairly out-of-place. This was an afternoon regulars crowd, really, not that dissimilar to those of which I've been a part. But something struck me as different this time; I really felt "other."

The beer selection was very standard. Nine or ten drafts, the ones you always see (Brooklyn Lager, Hoegaarden, etc). Not really caring for any of the selections I went with a Stella. Stella is not a very good beer; it has an acridity that is never quite refreshing. But it is a reliable beer, and one I've had during dozens of funtimes, so I kind of give it a pass.

As Beck came on the sound system, I jotted down some notes as I looked around more. There was a backyard area I didn't bother with. I was more interested in the front . . .there was an open-air area with couches where you could drink and smoke outside under an overhang. I got another Stella and a Maker's Mark (again, not a great bourbon, but one that I can still enjoy) and went outside.

The view was . . .well, absolutely shitty. Yes, there's a park across the street. But it's a terrible park. Noisy cars drive by, annoying Williamsburgers strut by, and there's Kellogg's Diner reminding me of all the terrible meals I've had there. Still, it was outside, and that was sort of novel. I was about to pick up my book to read when I recognize a passer-by. It's my friend Chris who I haven't seen in ages, and who was recently talking to me about this blog. So he gets a beer, "Oh, shit, sitting down with Joe and I know I'll be stumbling home."

We catch up; I met Chris through his girlfriend, an old friend of mine from grad school. She's a teacher, too, so I do some minor co-venting through him. After a bit, my planned guest arrives, as we are joined by Sarah. Sarah's the girl that gave me the coupon book in the first place, and she's brought hers along. With a couple of notable exceptions, I've never had trouble staying friends with exes. It's not always an ideal situation every moment of the experience, but it's way better than some sort of dramatic bitterness; at the very least it's better than the spine-tingling fear you get when you find yourself in an unpleasant ex's neighborhood.

So the three of us shoot the shit, drink some rounds, smoke some cigarettes, and generally have a pretty great time. Chris leaves and Sarah and I go in; with the weather turned chilly, the novelty of the front area had died. Also, those plastic couches are the least comfortable non-medical thing I've ever sat on.

At this point we whipped out our coupons and got our free Stellas. And I think here I should talk about the service. I've hedged a bit on this, because I bartend sometimes and I have a shit-ton of friends in the service industry. I don't like bitching about service like some indignant, entitled Yelper or something; it feels crass and generally low. So maybe it was an off night, or maybe I looked like an asshole, or maybe a lot of things. But the service was lousy. Getting the tender's attention in a bar with only seven people in it should not be a Herculean task. My inner insecurity told me it was because I was "other." I don't know; my inner insecurity is often full of shit.

The bar has a great look. It has a great soundtrack. The location is extremely convenient. But the fact is, I just didn't like it. Sarah and I tried to suss out what exactly made this bar seem so inadequate. I knew I'd surely not love every bar in the coupon book, but I usually, at worst, feel neutral about a drinking joint. I actively don't like Macri Park. I mean, it's no Union Pool; I'm unlikely to have some sort of mental breakdown amongst the sweaty bearded, be-tightsed twentysomethings looking for excuses to fuck around indiscriminately. I don't hate it. I just didn't like it.

But here's the thing: something doesn't have to be good to enjoy it. Shit, you don't even have to like it to enjoy it! One thing Sarah and I have always had in common is that we say "Fuck you" to not having fun. Joy and beauty can be found anywhere, as long as you're willing to look. So when Ricky Nelson came on, I took her hand and we got up and danced. There we were, the non-regulars dancing in a bar with no other signs of such activity. But fuck your self-consciousness; dancing is goddam fun.

I don't like Stella. I don't like Maker's Mark. I don't like Macri Park. But I'll be goddamned if I'm going to let any of that get in the way of a fine night.

Speaking of fine nights, I hope to see you all Saturday at King's Head. This crossover is going to be stellar, and if you're lucky, you might be able to buy me a drink.

Photos by Mr. Rice on his shitty phone.

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Mono-Lagering: High Dive

Given a gift of free beer coupons from 30 different bars from Brokelyn.com, Mr. Rice has decided to visit each one, and record his thoughts.

This week I went back to Park Slope again, to a place called High Dive. I expected either a beautifully seedy shithole or, oddly, a pool-themed place. Why I thought that was actually possible, I have no idea. When I got there, I realized I had been there under previous ownership. I don't recall the name of the place; neither it nor the previous bar itself were notable in basically any way. Entering High Dive, I knew the change had been for the better.

It was a spacious bar, decorated casually and invitingly. There was the main bar area itself, a large corridor with some high tables, a back room with lower tables, a pinball, and lots of board games, and what looked to be a backyard, too. This would be an excellent place to throw a party, or just to party.

So I sat down at the bar and ordered a Lagunitas Brown Shugga to keep my brown ale streak going. I was surprised by the amount of hop in the beer. If you've ever read this blog before, you know that hops and I are not on the friendliest terms. I was, at first, disappointed. But I have to say, it really did balance the sweetness well, keeping it from being overly syrupy. So I guess those bastards have a point.

I really liked the "buy a drink" board on the bar wall. Anyone can pay for a drink for a friend they figure will drop by later. Three columns: To, What, and From. Some people bought whiskeys for friends, others just put money down. This is a place friends go, together or separately, to have a good time. I even recognized a name or two. My brotherman Alex came in, dropped down, and ordered a Jameson.

New York is a drinker's town. Public transportation almost everywhere you look, more bars than Rykers, and a rich semi-literary tradition of great indulgence in the sauce. When we first set out to make Here Comes a Regular a drinking blog, we didn't want it to be some frat house nonsense, nor a mere house for reviews, nor some apologetic skirting-around-the-topic neurosis-fest, nor even some misguided braggadocio list of times we got SO WASTED.

No, this blog is for the drinker's life, the real drinker, the kind that a lot of folks don't quite understand. I received an email from my mother today, the kind you never want to receive. There were concerns expressed that a thirty-three year old man like myself should not find himself "living like [he's] twenty-one." People I know from elsewhere, sometimes even new New Yorkers, they nervously laugh when they point out that I go out quite a bit.

So there's a special layer of drinking life in New York. I genuinely think it's the best city on earth, but it isn't without flaws. Perhaps primarily (other than vicinity to Jersey and the existence of Staten Island), is that this is a fucking stressful place to be. Every part of your life, in New York, has a heightened level of stress than it would in a lot of other places. Working in New York? Jesus, just getting there can give you hives, whether through overcrowded subways, aromas, or chapped legs during the summer.

And dating, shit! Some of the smartest, wittiest, best looking people in the world flock to this city. You see them all around you. But we're all so busy trying to be quietly polite by giving everyone their space that we don't meet all that often. It's difficult to settle down with anyone, too, when you see hundreds of new temptations on your way home every night.

So life here is stressful; that's not exactly news to anyone. Alex and I discussed work stresses and ordered another round. This time I also got a Buffalo Trace White Dog, perhaps my favorite market moonshine. I took a belt of it and chased it with the Brown Shugga. HOLY SHIT GUYS. I think I invented something right then. That shine mixed with the sweetness of the ale to form a creamy, powerful punch. I immediately started raving, and the bartendress talked about making a drink special out of it. It was that good.

So, yes, in New York you're stressed and you're working your ass off just to get by. But you get well compensated by living in the funnest place in the world. All those bars are joined by entertainment of all sorts. Gospel every Friday at Fat Cat, Kung fu film festivals, comic shops, comedy, comfortable theaters . . .we've really got everything. So after we work our ass off we party our ass off. So maybe not everyone in the country understands; I don't really care. In this town you have to fight to be happy, and that's one fight I'm not backing down from.

And there's no one better to party with than your friends. Alex and I yucked it up throughout the night, being joined by other friends later. Stupid running jokes and plays on words, the sort of secret handshake at the core of every friend group. There's not a sad face in the crowd if its friends.

And that's the ultimate drink special, isn't it? Booze plus pals equals fun. That is fucking SCIENCE, man (this post has had so much science). And I, for one, can't wait to make science happen at High Dive again. Check the drink board; if you're lucky, I'll leave you one.

Photos by D. Alexander Cox.

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Mono-Lagering: Full Circle Bar

Given a gift of free beer coupons from 30 different bars from Brokelyn.com, Mr. Rice has decided to visit each one, and record his thoughts.

Despite some mounting evidence to the contrary, I believe myself to be a lucky man. I have a great love of coincidence, games of chance, etc. So when I find myself on some unpredicted ley-line of probability, I like to ride it to the end. For instance, my first outing for this project found a bartender that recommended the second. The bartender at the second recommended a restaurant that my friend Nicole and I found ourselves in randomly when another place was too crowded, and, seeing as though I know Nicole through a series of coincidences and chances, I let her pick this week's.

As she read the descriptions of the bars in the coupon book, one compound word caught her eye: skeeball. So we met up at Full Circle Bar in Williamsburg (really, is there another neighborhood that could sustain such a specific business model as "skeeball bar?") to varying degrees of excitement. See, I like games of chance, right? Well, I don't care too much for games of skill, which, nominally, skeeball is.

I'd been once before on some misguided internet date (is there another kind?), so I knew at least the bar part was solid. Five varied taps and a ridiculously large selection of canned beers, a friendly, knowledgeable bartender, and a vibe more relaxed than one expects from an establishment based on throwing balls into holes. I sat down with a Chelsea Brewing Co. Black Hole XXX Stout, a beer as strong and thick as something with so many possible innuendos in the name should be.

Nicole soon joined me and got an Empire Cream Ale, which she insisted on calling a Cremalé. Our friend Conor also dropped by and got another Cream Ale, a smooth Boddingtons-esque brew perfect for this sort of in-between weather. We three went to the back room to play skeeball, whereupon they immediately started just completely destroying me. Remember, I like chance, not skill.

That preference has had a weird, long influence on my life. In Eastern Kentucky, my complete lack of athleticism shaped me to an incredible degree. I tried baseball, basketball, tennis, even golf once, and my sheer amazing incompetence took away any pleasure participating in sports could have given me. I can't run, I'm uncoordinated, I can't throw, and can't catch. Objects that move at me quickly make me flinch. This is embarrassing at my age and nearly crippling during adolescence.

And it didn't exactly do wonders for my dating life. I grew up internalizing the idea that I was unattractive and unsuitable, despite all my conscious knowledge otherwise. When I moved to New York and widened my dating pool by a seemingly-infinite amount, it took me years to process the change. I'd vacillate between dating too capriciously, drunk on my newfound status and dating too desperately, still not believing I was truly worth it. It took the dissolution of my marriage to really force me to get my head into a healthier place.

So, after that, newly alone and single for the first time in six years, I became a regular at the bar Harefield Road. Because of this, I had the chance to make a shit-ton of new friends. When the bar was putting together a softball team, I was asked to be the "coach" and at first I froze. All those old insecurities, that bullshit teenage guilt and paranoia, reared an ugly set of hydra heads.

But, fuck it, right? It's just coaching a group of friends from my bar. It didn't even matter that, in our Harlem league full of giant Dominican men and giant Dominican women, we were a petty gnat the other teams barely noticed. Though, after a while, the time came to strengthen the ranks. Nate, the true manager of the team, and I were sitting brainstorming how we could get better. He chanced to see two guys in the back that seemed athletic. He approached and asked if they'd be interested in joining the team, and so it was that I met Conor and Eric, and soon Nicole, through them.

If Conor and Eric hadn't been sitting in the back yard of that bar that particular day, I may not have ever met them. If Eric and Nicole weren't at the same bar one night, they may never have met each other. Friendships can be this incredible fine web of coincidence and chance. So now, by pure chance, I'm actually active in a sport, even playing when we're short a player, and over almost all my anxiety about it.

So after another couple beers and a bourbon, we alight to a Dominican restaurant that happens to be around the corner from my apartment. We ate like kings (and a queen) and drank muchos Presidentes, and perhaps had the correct amount of pernil and mofongo that makes our rival teams up in Harlem such unstoppable homerun machines. Afterwards, we crossed the street to the bar around the corner from me, Ali's, for more Presidentes and bourbons. It just so happens that Ali is my landlord's brother-in-law, and when I was unsure of taking this apartment I dropped in the bar and we worked it out.

We watched basketball. It may have taken me till now to take part in sports, but I almost immediately began to appreciate the spectator part when I left Kentucky. I couldn't growing up, there was too much bitterness wrapped up in the idea. But I love a good game, and don't mind taking a chance on betting on them, either.

It's hard not to think of myself as lucky; and I don't even mean in the liberal guilt way. A series of events and coincidences unpredictable to most any oracle has led me up to every moment of my life. To a bar where I become a regular and meet friends, one of whom gives me a coupon book for bars. To a skeeball bar with chance-met friends, delicious Dominican dinner, and the warm pleasure of a night spent happily.

Conor and Nicole played pool with the owner, and eventually I gave in and played too. They absolutely outclassed me, but that's OK. They've got their skills, but I'll take my chances.

Photos by Nicole Marie Ball

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Mono-Lagering: Mission Dolores

Given a gift of free beer coupons from 30 different bars from Brokelyn.com, Mr. Rice has decided to visit each one, and record his thoughts.

For my third bar in this series, I headed back to Park Slope. Mission Dolores is actually the first bar in the coupon book I've visited that I've already been to, and while I'm not exactly a regular, it's not uncommon to see a familiar face there. An offshoot of sister establishment, Bar Great Harry on Smith Street (about which I will say more some other week), Mission Dolores is kind of a combination of a series of questionable ideas and choices. That might sound like this will be the first negative review in this series, but I'd like to posit there's something to be gained from questionable choices; a true unappreciated beauty in fuck-uppery.

Opened, I believe, this past summer, Mission Dolores used to be a car garage, and parts of the basic structure still exist. It's divided into three main compartments: the first, a long, hall-like passage open to the outside; the second has an open roof and ash trays galore, and only the third is completely encased in man-made materials. That's the part with two pinball machines, a juke, and the bar. And in that first summer, goddam, was that a glorious set-up! Access to smoking and fresh air can be a rarity in this city, and it's appreciated wherever we can find it.

But it's not easy to remember that it is actually pleasant outside in New York about a total of twenty-five days a year, the other three-hundred and forty consisting either of torrential rain, bitter cold, or searing heat; or, some days, a fucked up chimera of all sorts of shit weather. So, walking to this bar before Spring has sprung, I felt ready to see a bar on its last legs, a sort of "OOPS THERE ARE OTHER SEASONS," colossal mistake.

But I'll be damned if I didn't enjoy myself. The beer selection is large and full of fun surprises. The only problem was myself (an oft-repeated theme in my life). My stomach was sending odd signals to the rest of the body (also an oft-repeated theme), vague but unsettling. "Something might happen, and it might be bad, but I don't know what or when!" Drinking beer to settle a stomach is one of those perfectly questionable ideas; wait, what, that's a terrible idea! Fuck logic or health, I say it works. A couple of hearty beers can straighten out a confused stomach almost as easily as a confused heart.

So I began with a Bear Republic Heritage, a nice 7.8% caramel-tinged stout that immediately brought a smile to my face, and the equivalent thereof to my digestive system. As Van Halen and Queen filled the aural landscape, I actually reminisced to a previous trip to this bar. I was to meet up with a girl I had recently dated. We split because I was still feeling summery rambunctious independence and . . .she was not. It was a decidedly questionable idea, but I was high on my own testosterone and serotonin, and I think I had a case for her contacts or something?

We talked and we flirted and I felt intoxicated by the unspoken power struggles going on. She wanted to be OK with flirty independence, but hoped more that I could be convinced to come in from the wide world of pointless dating.

Flash forward to me back at the bar, nodding at the virility I felt then and the stupid irony of the fact that the night before it was I seeing another ex, and in this situation I'd been the clinger and she the sheet of Downy in the dating pool. The imbalance of power, of affection, it's a see-saw, a sine wave of heartbreak and annoyance. To continue to try after untold amounts of fuck-ups and shit-storms, well, that's a goddam questionable idea isn't it?

So I ordered another beer, a Victory Baltic Thunder. Another malty delicious glass of power, this time 8.5% APV. You could taste the strength, but not obnoxiously so. Perhaps ordering two high-APV beers before meeting up with friends for a night of beer and dice isn't the greatest idea either.

But what great idea isn't questionable? Think about the first person that ate a chicken egg. What exactly was his plan? "Hm. The next thing that comes out of that animal, I'm straight up going to eat it." And then he ate it and it was awful! But this did not stop our egg innovator. Do you think he immediately though, "How about if I put it on fire?" Were there other steps before he finally realized, "Ohhhh, yeah, this is good!"

In the middle of the twentieth century, some guys basically thought, "OK, so we have these crazy Nazi scientists who have built giant rockets. What if I were to strap myself to one and go into space, and hopefully come back? BINGO GREAT IDEA LET'S GO!" It's completely insane, but it changed the world, and allowed Tom Hanks to produce hours of boring cinema.

Mission Dolores has a great beer selection and a friendly, open, helpful staff. Sure, it can be crowded at night on the weekend; crowded with folks that sometimes seem like cartoon parodies of how the rest of the city sees the Slope, juggling strollers and neo-liberal solipsisms like an early astronaut with his myriad of dials and scopes. And it's directly neighboring Rock Shop, a similar bar with live music and TVs. It's a block away from the place I signed and finalized my divorce.

But like the exploration of culinary arts, the cosmos, or the minefield of dating in New York, sometimes a questionable idea can be a great time. Come on folks, let's strap in, get a little stupid, and make some mistakes together. Can't make a space omelet without breaking your heart a few times.

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Mono-Lagering: The Narrows

Given a gift of free beer coupons from 30 different bars from Brokelyn.com, Mr. Rice has decided to visit each one, and record his thoughts.

So I started looking through the coupon book that is my map for this experience and then noticed that one bar, The Narrows, was a VERY short walk from my own apartment. I was confused at first, as I recognized the cross streets, and have walked by many times. The description said it was a "speak-easy." I recalled then my conversation with the bartender at the Sackett, another Bushwick resident, and he had made mention of the joint. So my next venture seemed obvious.

There was a bit of hesitation for me, though. I wasn't sure why, at first, but I soon figured out it was the "speak-easy" bit. I was reasonably sure I wouldn't need some sort of arcane password or something, but I still felt fairly . . .done with the whole idea. I remember soon after graduating college there was a huge surge in bars that styled themselves as speak-easies and at first they were really intriguing to me, but had soon lost their appeal.

So I walked with some trepidation down Flushing and found the spot . . .I'd walked by, thinking it was either a weird apartment or some private club, the likes of which would never admit me. I stepped in and immediately felt at ease. The majority of the place is the long bar and the stools. A large, lush booth is in the frosted front window, more tables and booths in the back, and behind all that an open area. (During the summer they grow their own mint and other fresh ingredients.)

It was classy and attractive, but not haughty. I was apparently the first customer of the evening (the privileges of the teacher's schedule), and the amiable bartender/co-owner started chatting with me. Keith was very personable and charming, and I had a great time talking to him about all sorts of topics.

I read the cocktail menu and ordered a "Caulfield's Dream." The ingredients (rye, lemon, demerara, spearmint, Angostora bitters, and a cava float) sounded both interesting and daunting. That's a lot of strong flavors coming together, but by God they were mixed perfectly. Sweet but strong, like that girl you never had the guts to ask out.

Keith was the first to bring up the "speak easy" part. He said people often ask him if that's what it is, but in truth, the answer is simpler. See, this stretch of Flushing isn't necessarily a place you want to advertise that you're a bar. Most of the other nearby bars' regulars are the sort of men that drink despite family or duties, the sort of men that get rowdy and regularly kicked out, only to move on down the line. The Narrows is not the sort of bar you get kicked out of, really. Not that anything goes, but if you're drinking there you most likely know how to drink properly.

Secret knowledge again; the insider club of Real Drinkers . . .the original impetus of this blog in its first incarnation. There's no secret handshake, well, that I know of, but there are plenty of knowing looks. Someone orders a Ketel Bloody Mary? You'll see a sign of disapproval from every Real Drinker. At such a time, you show yourself a sap that pays for advertising.

My next drink was my coupon beer, a Smuttynose Old Brown Dog. So far I'm two-for-two on reliable brown ales for my free beers. Brown Dog is sweeter than the Brooklyn, but not cloyingly so. Conversation somehow turned to exes, and we shared the secret knowledge of being particularly burned by Korean ex-girlfriends. On the bright side, I discovered Do Ke Bi in Williamsburg had attained my dream of melding Mexican and Korean cuisines; I shall soon indulge.

Keith began working with a tequila he was infusing with jalepeno. It was the main ingredient for my next cocktail, the "Word." (punctuation included). Other than the spicy tequila, it sported Scotch, Chartreuse, marachino, and lime, with the option of a bit of bitters to bring it all together. Another mix of somewhat disparate strong flavors, but who all came together, Voltron-style, to make something great.

Somehow we got to talk about Star Wars . . .here's some secret knowledge for you: did you know that the word "Ewok" never appears in the script or movie of Return of the Jedi? Not once, but we all know the damn name of those stupid teddy bears. Not all secret knowledge is useful.

Why do we love and hate secret knowledge so much? The reason isn't hard to grasp. There are few things in this world more immediately exciting than the prospect of secret knowledge. Most of humanities' creation stories are harbored almost completely in such knowledge. Prometheus brought us the secret of fire, Eve the secret of right and wrong. But just as we love secret knowledge, we fear it. Neither Prometheus nor Eve go unpunished in their stories, one remembers.

We want to know something that none or few others know. We feel exclusive, above the rabble. Ninety-nine percent of human life is spent finding ways to feel better about ourselves than others, whether we judge by morals, open-mindedness, or knowledge. But none of these things ever really bring us the justification we really desire, that we so crave. The speak-easy becomes déclassé. We, deep-down, know our own hypocrisies.

Next, I had to have some of that jalepeno tequila on its own, so I got a glass with a Sol-with-lime-juice chaser. Definitely the simplest drink of the night, but perhaps even more satisfying. We are often all struck with the idea that perhaps simpler would be better, or at least easier. I don't think I'm out of line when I say most of us have looked at someone we consider more stupid than ourselves, perhaps laughing on the train with their buddies, or canoodling with a romantic partner we'd never consider, and thought, "If only I were that simple."

We throw that thought far away, knowing how awful, how demeaning it is. More, we know it isn't true. Every man and every woman suffers in this world, no matter their intelligence or education. Even when we are the holders of secret knowledge, we constantly think there's something else, something more secret, the cheat code to happiness.

I've been reading the Parker novels by Richard Stark. Fantastic crime fiction, compelling, sharp, and they move at an amazing pace. The main character is cold, smart, and ultra-competent. It's an easy world to visit when the emotions of the day become overwhelming. In the book I'm currently reading, a corrupt policeman, another thief, and some other characters are searching for a dead safe-man's secret stash. But Parker knows the real secret knowledge: it doesn't exist.

And sometimes that's the most secret of all knowledges: nothingness, there's nothing to know. There is no secret handshake to happiness or success or the life we desire. There is the yearly, daily, hourly journey, one filled with disappointments, but with pleasures as well. Fine cocktails, good conversation, stories, friends, and food. We don't need to be chained to a mountain whilst birds eat away at our soft bits, least of all chained by our own desperate minds. We modern Prometheuses (Promethei?) are alive, alive, ALIVE, monsters stumbling around with the brains of murderers but hearts that can feel on their own. Sometimes the secret is to forget about our knowledges and enjoy the experiences.

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Mono-Lagering: The Sackett

Given a gift of free beer coupons from 30 different bars from Brokelyn.com, Mr. Rice has decided to visit each one, and record his thoughts.

So, the first bar I tried was The Sackett (661 Sackett St. between 4th Ave & 5th Ave). Mere blocks away from my buddy Alex's place, I had apparently walked by it for over a year without knowing it was there. The Bushwick-to-Park-Slope commute is not one that engenders anything other than "I WANT TO GET TO WHERE I AM GOING," by the time you're out of the train, I suppose. That and I am not a particularly observant person by nature.

So I was on my way to Alex's for our weekly Dungeons and Dragons game (yes, actually) and I had plenty of time in between my teacher-out-of-work schedule and the normal-people-out-of-work schedule to indulge in some beers, and I popped in. I was made comfortable pretty much immediately. Not a huge joint, but pleasantly basement-y. Now, I've seen a lot of bars that try very hard to be basement-y and it just comes off as pretentious. What was that bar in the Village? Apartment or something like that? Shag carpet, bric-a-brac . . .it got the look pretty much dead on; the only problem was that it was awful.

It's fun to think about old times, downing cheap beer in brown basements, hiding from the adult world looming just upstairs (in the form of whichever parents were lax enough not to be a problem) and just a few years away (in the form of leaving high school and realizing the reason those parents were so lax is that no one has a fucking clue what they're doing). And, yes, we have nostalgia for those times and those friends, the friends of stupid pranks, the friends of inside-jokes nearly, but never quite forgotten.

But we weren't really any more happy then. It seems so much simpler, but the minor pains of teenage life, at the time, seemed to hurt just as much as the drudgery and unbelievable depths adult life contains. A prom date refusal, by way of the unfortunate law of emotional relativity, seemed just as painful then as a true, adult love cut short by the random capriciousness of disjointed human interaction.

But the Sackett wasn't trying too hard. It was sort of an expressionistic set of a basement. A couch, something slightly rough-hewn about the walls. Some board games, some books. It was just enough to be Not Every Other Bar, but hardly some Epcot of Misguided Post-Boomer Idiocy.

I sat down and ordered a Brooklyn Brown bottle. I really like a good brown ale, but what a goddam razor's line that is. The slightest chemical miscalculation and it can taste like someone found rotten Quik, that awful rabbit hobbling behind with a gangrenously unlucky foot. But the one from Brooklyn is good. It was happy hour and all drinks were two dollars off, which is a pretty great deal when the average beer is already only five or six. I felt my mind relax from the stress of the first day back to work after a break. I began to talk to the bartender, but another customer came in.

This was one of those faux-business men, the born New Yorker salesman, ten years on the job starting at 19. He's got the shirt and tie, but the social niceties afforded by more comfortable beginnings are nowhere to be seen. He talks loudly to . . .clients? . . .peers? . . .on his cell-phone while sipping a cocktail. I bristled with annoyance, and then again with class guilt. Oh, how hard to be the middle class white asshole who just happens to know how everyone should act all the time! And yet, it was legitimately annoying. Some niceties are there for a reason.

Turns out he was a salesman for a credit card processing company; the sort of company that supplies your local bar with the credit card machine, that takes a bit off the top of every credit card purchase to the dismay of service industry workers nation-wide. He chatted up the bartender about meeting the owner, yet complimented the company currently being used.

He's not really at the bar, he's looking for business. Like that Village bar, he's got the costume down perfectly, but ten years later he's facing the same malaise that MBAs have at some point, that we all have at some point: we have to keep doing this stupid shit until we die. Not that every job is stupid shit, or even that his is, but there is no denying we're knee-deep in the horseshit that is practical living: I really want THIS but I have to do THIS in order to live long enough to be too old to do that first thing we really want.

The salesman leaves and I continue my conversation with the bartender. It turns out that he's practically a neighbor, just a few streets over from my apartment in Bushwick. We shoot the shit about local joints and "how the neighborhood has changed" and so on, both putting on our own costumes. Oh, yes, we're cracker-ass imports to the neighborhood but WE'RE not the ones gentrifying the place where all my students' families have always lived, no, that's those OTHER guys. The hipsters with their cafes and their art spaces. Meanwhile my favorite local place has price points that price out anyone native to Bushwick.

At this point I order my free pint, a Six Point Pilsner. Normally a fan of darker, maltier beers, a good pils is my next choice. The beer selection at the Sackett is small but very diverse; a lot of great mirco-brews, and without the preponderance of the current trend of "LET'S SEE HOW FUCKING HOPPY WE CAN MAKE THIS BEER," that seems to shape beers these days. Christ, if I wanted that, I'd eat a bunch of flowers. I don't begrudge hop-fans their love, but some bars cater to them exclusively. Some of us like malts, guys.

I hadn't had the Six Point pilsner before, but it was quite good. Crisp with an easy finish, just sweet enough to entice, but not so much to ruin any refreshing qualities . Actually, one of my favorite beers is a pilsner, Presidente. I first came across it here in Bushwick, as it's imported for the local Dominicans. I first bought them out of a sort of pretentious loyalty to the neighborhood, the sort shown during my talk with the bartender.

But here's the thing, it's fucking delicious! It's my all-time favorite pilsner and among my top five favorite bottled beers anywhere. It goes with just about anything, and I never get tired of it, even after a long bender. So that pretention, that play-acting, that class-guilt-derived impulse, it actually led to a genuine discovery, to knowledge and pleasure both gained.

David Bowie and Bjork played on the juke, in rapid succession. Two musicians well-aware of the power of pretend, of putting on a mask, a pretention of persona; but they also know sometimes that is how you actually do something worthwhile. Whether calculating or stumbling, we can never be sure what the actual results of anything we do are, even our neurotically- or socially-driven charades.

Later, I move on along to Alex's and we roll our twenty-sided dice. Like in real life, we're role-playing, and, like in real life, sometimes that turns out well. A few touches create a relaxing atmosphere in a bar. An abrasive costume can earn a living for a family. And a guilt-ridden cracker can find a delicious beer. If you don't roll the dice, you never get a critical hit.

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