A collection of letters to my best friend, Booze
Central California
Joined December 2010
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In “Hayden Carruth Has Had Enough,” C. W. Parker wanders through dive-bar shadows, neon-lit regrets, and the wreckage of dreams that have been boarded up like abandoned storefronts.
dearbooze.com/cocktales/f/ha… @kitparker
In “Low End Chardonnay,” Brooks Thomas makes a compelling case for boxed wine, hot baths, and telling the world to go fuck itself. dearbooze.com/cocktales/f/lo…
Gabrielle Munslow’s “It Started So Well” is proof that a woman can begin the evening dressed for the VIP lounge and end it as a public safety concern.
dearbooze.com/cocktales/f/it…
Some bars are just bars. Others become part of your personal history. Red’s Place was one of mine. Somewhere between the drinks, the conversations, and the nights wandering through San Francisco, it became one of those places I could count on being there. Now it won’t be. nbcbayarea.com/news/local/sa…
Honestly, Red's wasn't a very good bar. But it opened earlier than other bars in China Town, which made it a very good bar.
San Francisco is losing Red’s Place. I’m losing a few memories along with it. Pour one out for Red’s.
In Jersey Jerks, @HughBlanton5 takes a switchblade to Robert Pinsky’s Jersey Breaks, a memoir full of street cred, gangster lore, political name-dropping, and enough self-congratulation to fill a private dining room. Not the smaller private dining room where he swaps stories with presidents, the big one. @GorkoThe
thegorkogazette.com/2023/07/…
Friday. Optimism. Drinks. Confidence. Karaoke. Regret. Saturday. Hair-of-the-dog. Jameson. Capitan. Bad-decisions. Tacos. Nap. Sunday. Anxiety. Aspirin. Existential-dread. Football. Bloody-Mary. Denial. Monday. Fuck.
It’s hard to tell if bartenders really missed me or are just saying that to be nice. I may be reading into this, but I always sense a bit of a sarcastic tone that roughly translates to "Shit! Not you again."
In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue. Today, we honor his legacy by taking the day off and getting lost.
Some people say we shouldn’t celebrate Columbus. I say we should be grateful for the discovery that changed history.
Namely, a dimly lit bar with no windows, no clocks, and a bartender who doesn’t ask where you’ve been.
Happy Columbus Day. I, too, have lost track of the New World.
Every Saturday, I watch the hungover twenty-somethings and divorced cougars shuffle into the bar to retrieve the credit cards they left behind. The bartender and I get a pretty big kick out it.
When I walked in at 11 a.m. today, Joe slid my card across the bar.
Son of a bitch! I just went from being a regular to being a punchline that will never end.
I guess I'll be drinking to James Edward Eifling Jr. today. westfieldchapel.com/obituari…
