Unbranded; without a registered trademark.

 

AA Gill:

As the commissioner drives me back to the train station in the dawn, he asks why we can’t drink like the continentals: a glass of wine with some tapas in a cafe, all ages together; a glass of beer, an aperitif, then the passeggiata, dressing up smartly. Why can’t we change the culture? I look at him and keep my mouth shut. At the station a fox trots down the line, a drunk is sprawled over a bench. “Why don’t we drink like the Greeks or the Italians?”
Really? Because we have a choice, that’s why. Because we’re from the north, from the cold, from the drizzle, from the place where the moon drives us nuts. Who would want to drink like an Italian granny? Sip wine with a raised pinky, chew a carrot, when you could be out there with all your mates, people you fancy, people you don’t, people you shag, people you wanted to. You can go mad, get totally muntered. You can let go. Why have a polite chat when you can have a legend? When you can weave a myth that will last you all week, that will stay with you for ever? Why would you want to ponce about in the grottoes of Dionysus when you can get trollied in the mead halls of Valhalla? This is who we are, this is what we do — or what I did.
I don’t miss drink, ever. Being an alcoholic is not the same as being drunk. But I look at these kids in this thin, worn-out, underprivileged, unlovable corner of England and I think: how brilliant that they can still get out and manufacture this much enthusiasm, fun and mad entertainment, this much togetherness and community and hope out of so little, such meagre education, so few jobs and prospects. The drink, drugs and music are not just their culture, they’re their achievement.

AA Gill:

As the commissioner drives me back to the train station in the dawn, he asks why we can’t drink like the continentals: a glass of wine with some tapas in a cafe, all ages together; a glass of beer, an aperitif, then the passeggiata, dressing up smartly. Why can’t we change the culture? I look at him and keep my mouth shut. At the station a fox trots down the line, a drunk is sprawled over a bench. “Why don’t we drink like the Greeks or the Italians?”

Really? Because we have a choice, that’s why. Because we’re from the north, from the cold, from the drizzle, from the place where the moon drives us nuts. Who would want to drink like an Italian granny? Sip wine with a raised pinky, chew a carrot, when you could be out there with all your mates, people you fancy, people you don’t, people you shag, people you wanted to. You can go mad, get totally muntered. You can let go. Why have a polite chat when you can have a legend? When you can weave a myth that will last you all week, that will stay with you for ever? Why would you want to ponce about in the grottoes of Dionysus when you can get trollied in the mead halls of Valhalla? This is who we are, this is what we do — or what I did.

I don’t miss drink, ever. Being an alcoholic is not the same as being drunk. But I look at these kids in this thin, worn-out, underprivileged, unlovable corner of England and I think: how brilliant that they can still get out and manufacture this much enthusiasm, fun and mad entertainment, this much togetherness and community and hope out of so little, such meagre education, so few jobs and prospects. The drink, drugs and music are not just their culture, they’re their achievement.

juliaworksout:

One of the best advices I’ve ever heard tbh

Sure, in theory.But professors and bosses and wedding protocols mandate public speaking so I’m not sure how far that advice gets us in the real world.

juliaworksout:

One of the best advices I’ve ever heard tbh

Sure, in theory.

But professors and bosses and wedding protocols mandate public speaking so I’m not sure how far that advice gets us in the real world.

(Source: gusanhazel)

And now comes the part in the insurance application where I lie through my teeth.

And now comes the part in the insurance application where I lie through my teeth.

What’s intriguing about this 1931 map is how much beer they’re still drinking in the Rust Belt during Prohibition. That map would track reasonably well with a map of today.
But after nearly a decade of temperance, why all the beer? As a drug, it’s inferior to liquor or wine because the lower proof means lower street value. As contraband, it’s harder to smuggle because it takes up more mass. Distribution is difficult because, well, how many bottles of beer can your average scofflaw walk away with? Otherwise they have to consume it on site, at the speakeasy or wherever. Maybe there were advantages in brewing speed? More turnover = greater profit?
Looking at this map you’d think Prohibition had practically no affect on drinking habits at all. Funny, that.

What’s intriguing about this 1931 map is how much beer they’re still drinking in the Rust Belt during Prohibition. That map would track reasonably well with a map of today.

But after nearly a decade of temperance, why all the beer? As a drug, it’s inferior to liquor or wine because the lower proof means lower street value. As contraband, it’s harder to smuggle because it takes up more mass. Distribution is difficult because, well, how many bottles of beer can your average scofflaw walk away with? Otherwise they have to consume it on site, at the speakeasy or wherever. Maybe there were advantages in brewing speed? More turnover = greater profit?

Looking at this map you’d think Prohibition had practically no affect on drinking habits at all. Funny, that.

On the off-chance you haven’t made your final beer run, on this, our true national high holy day, here’s a public service announcement from the folks who brought you “the weekend.”
Pre-game accordingly.

On the off-chance you haven’t made your final beer run, on this, our true national high holy day, here’s a public service announcement from the folks who brought you “the weekend.”

Pre-game accordingly.

Modern Luxury on the state of affairs:




From the time I muscled my way to the bar, imploringly stared down the busy bartender, and shouted in and received our order of four cocktails, the process took about 30 minutes. I don’t think it was because the bartenders were sloths. They were all working hard. I just think this kind of slow service is inevitable when a bar is making these kind of cocktails—especially if the bar is slammed. This gripe been thrown around since Bourbon & Branch was born in 2006 (though I personally think table service, like B & B, is the way to go). Years into the mixology movement, it’s clear that bars of this ilk aren’t going to change, no matter how much they say they’re going to simplify or speed it up. As a customer, we should know what we’re getting into and it’s up to us to decide whether it’s worth it. Which is to say—starting in 2013, it’s not the bar, it’s you. Or in this case, me.




So true.
When I left bartending about a decade ago, the trend was in its infancy. And honestly, it was kind of nice. A kaffir lime here, a custom vermouth there. “Mixology” was always a twee term, sure, but the idea of giving mixed drinks the same nuance as an appetizer or an entree was well received.
Now it’s an invasive species that needs to be removed, root and branch. If a drink can’t be mixed in 30 seconds, it’s not a drink, it’s performance art. The use of more than three ingredients is, as they say in Lubbock, burzh-wa.

Modern Luxury on the state of affairs:

From the time I muscled my way to the bar, imploringly stared down the busy bartender, and shouted in and received our order of four cocktails, the process took about 30 minutes. I don’t think it was because the bartenders were sloths. They were all working hard. I just think this kind of slow service is inevitable when a bar is making these kind of cocktails—especially if the bar is slammed. This gripe been thrown around since Bourbon & Branch was born in 2006 (though I personally think table service, like B & B, is the way to go). Years into the mixology movement, it’s clear that bars of this ilk aren’t going to change, no matter how much they say they’re going to simplify or speed it up. As a customer, we should know what we’re getting into and it’s up to us to decide whether it’s worth it. Which is to say—starting in 2013, it’s not the bar, it’s you. Or in this case, me.

So true.

When I left bartending about a decade ago, the trend was in its infancy. And honestly, it was kind of nice. A kaffir lime here, a custom vermouth there. “Mixology” was always a twee term, sure, but the idea of giving mixed drinks the same nuance as an appetizer or an entree was well received.

Now it’s an invasive species that needs to be removed, root and branch. If a drink can’t be mixed in 30 seconds, it’s not a drink, it’s performance art. The use of more than three ingredients is, as they say in Lubbock, burzh-wa.

Uptown Almanac:

Apparently its flavored with a combination of grape, dragon fruit and papaya, which is guess is perfect if you’re trying to slip someone a roofie at Bar None. Maybe if you dump it into a 40 of High Life it’ll taste like Four Loko…

Abomination.

Uptown Almanac:

Apparently its flavored with a combination of grape, dragon fruit and papaya, which is guess is perfect if you’re trying to slip someone a roofie at Bar None. Maybe if you dump it into a 40 of High Life it’ll taste like Four Loko…

Abomination.

tenderloingeographicsociety:

“It’s the Water.”  Put us to shame, admen of another century.I hasten to add that we 21st century whiz kids long for the ecumenical truth of such a motto, our world filled to overflowing with such vague entreaties to Live Strongly or Invent Everything.  We are left staring into a vacuum of the middling phrase where we ought to be staring down the sun of a dynamo.  Keep It Simple, Stupid.

tenderloingeographicsociety:

“It’s the Water.”  Put us to shame, admen of another century.
I hasten to add that we 21st century whiz kids long for the ecumenical truth of such a motto, our world filled to overflowing with such vague entreaties to Live Strongly or Invent Everything.  We are left staring into a vacuum of the middling phrase where we ought to be staring down the sun of a dynamo. 
Keep It Simple, Stupid.

People who drink to drown their sorrow should be told that sorrow knows how to swim.

Ann Landers (via ageofreason)