Last night I went out for a couple of beers with one of my best friends. La la la, we drink we drink then drink some more. I run into an old friend, we mingle, have a great time.
That's not the point.
Stumbling home, I had a slight *eek* in my bladder. Sure, I gotta pee. But I am a hardy young man of strong constitution. I can hold it.
Ho-ly shit.
By the time I was transferring to the G train, I had lost all sympathy for women in labor. I mean, I had a balloon in my stomach that was growing faster by the second. I'm gonna die, I just know it.
Let's not forget that I was piss drunk and very ready to make bad decisions to (pardon the well placed pun) relieve the situation. First I start looking for disposed cups. I swear to God, I will pee in a Solo cup in the middle of the subway. Anything to stop the pain. Truly, my kidneys were spasming. This is how bad it had gotten. I couldn't even sit upright, because my kidneys would have been perpendicular to the Earth and gravity could pull more pee into my bladder. I've got a fucking protractor mentally arranged in my lower back in an attempt to minimize the pee-strain. Desperation.
Waddling around, sweat dripping from my brow, I even contemplated just dropping trou and peeing onto the tracks. Flashes of electrified pee-stream leaping from the third rail to my Oklahoma panhandle quickly brought me to my senses. I had to bite my lip and wait for my stop.
Luckily, I have a pretty accurate, near-photographic, pseudo-Godlike, memory. Fighting my way through the mental barricade of pain, I start pre-planning where I'm going to do my business.
And a big Thank You to the City Park Commission. There is a small park right outside of the subway at my stop. Trouble is, I don't live in an area we would call "safe". Often, there are hoodlums of various gang affiliations hanging out in this very park at this very time, and they would just love to see a scrawny, drunk Matt peeing in their bushes. Fantastic. I'm sure they love raspberry scones.
I have no choice. I've got to chance it. Time is running out. My lower back has shooting pains. I've never gone this long. Sure, we have to hold it sometime, but I'm breaking records right now. I must have had four or five pints in their totality in my tiny tummy. I'm reaching Point Break, and there's no Keanu in sight.
I waddle out of the subway, gripping my lower back to relieve the weight of my biological cargo. I nearly pee myself getting through the turn-rotater thing (I hate those things, as they are the perfect height to smacketh my tackle).
I go up the stairs (Oh God, I'm getting sympathy pains just remembering it). I get to the park.
At that very moment in time, there was only one thing going through my mind:
Tycho Brache.
Absorb that.
He was a Dutch astronomer and he had a golden nose (it was lopped off in a sword fight).
That's not the point: He died when his bladder exploded. He was sitting a table with a king and he needed to tinkle. But at that time, one couldn't leave the table unless one asked for the King's permission. I guess TB was a bit bashful that day, and he paid the price for it. The ultimate price. It's good to be the King.
I'm screwed. My kidneys are screaming. They have evolved mouths, airways, and epiglotti and are now capable of screaming.
I get in the park.
I hop a small iron fence (a near Herculean task).
I start peeing.
The pain won't go away.
I'm gonna die in the park, with pee all over me, from a burst kidney.
My obituary will be unprintable.
I made it.
The pain stops.
I'm alive.
-Matt
Friday, October 10, 2008
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Rebirth, Part II
It's time for another round of blogging. I have this habit of posting continuously for months at a time, only to cease for another few months and consequently lose all of my (small) following. Let's give it another go.
When last we left off, I was trying to make this blog marketable. I figured, if I am going to write, I might as well make some dollar bills.
Fuck that.
I am ready to reveal all that is beyond tact to reveal.
Except, I am a bit intoxicated. Tomorrow it shall begin.
When last we left off, I was trying to make this blog marketable. I figured, if I am going to write, I might as well make some dollar bills.
Fuck that.
I am ready to reveal all that is beyond tact to reveal.
Except, I am a bit intoxicated. Tomorrow it shall begin.
Friday, August 1, 2008
FDR Gone Wild
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N-SoFdFbfZw
I'm telling you, I don't know if this video proves that I am a completely immature, kitty-shit for brains moron... but I laughed my ass off watching it. It's tasteless. It's useless. It's complete nonsense.
I'm gonna watch it again.
Don't ask me how I found it.
I'm telling you, I don't know if this video proves that I am a completely immature, kitty-shit for brains moron... but I laughed my ass off watching it. It's tasteless. It's useless. It's complete nonsense.
I'm gonna watch it again.
Don't ask me how I found it.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Stick to Cigars
My travels recently brought me once again to the Fort Greene area of Brooklyn. Actually, I will be spending a fair amount of time there, as I am moving in just next door! Recently I got an apartment in Clinton Hill, near the Pratt Institute, with five other roommates. Should be exciting, collegiate-like, times. The neighborhood is very bohemian. Very diverse. In a word: awesome.
While in town, I had the chance to patronize another apparently semi-famous area restaurant, and, to my surprise, I was pretty disappointed. This place came highly recommended from a friend and when I stumbled upon it in my directionless meandering, I was excited to give it a chance. Here's the skinny:
It's called Habana Outpost, on 757 Fulton Street.
http://www.ecoeatery.com/
The first thing that will shock you about this place is the set-up. Actually, the set-up is a bit intimidating (I'll get to that later). Forget pretty hostess showing you a table. Here, you walk in to the tiled main room (it felt almost Moroccan with its extensive use of colored tiles), order your food from the wall-mounted menu, pay, and then bring your order receipt to the outdoor seating area to a perpetually parked truck which contains the restaurant's kitchen. A bit unnecessary if you ask me, but cute, and it adds to the DIY atmosphere. Sit down, wait for your food, then grab it from the truck.
The food? Disappointing. The atmosphere? Inviting... kind of.
I ordered a Cuban Sandwich ($7.50), which consisted of roast pork, ham, cheese, pickles, and chipolte mayo on a hoagie. The first shock was that nothing comes with the sandwich. Nothing. Just the sandwich on a paper plate. Honestly, come on. For $7.50, throw me a little rice and beans for christsake. On top of that, the sandwich was nothing to dance over (despite the great Latin tunes playing over the loud speaker). The pork was dry, pretty tasteless, and had an almost tuna fish like texture. It was filler and it was obvious. The rest of the ingredients were standard deli items, decidedly not great quality, leaving me with the unfortunate feeling that I could have made this sandwich just as easily (if not a little better, to be honest) and saved a bunch of money. Even the bread was boring! Toast it, roast it... anything. It was just.... bread. White, plain, boring bread. The sandwich's predominant flavor was the chipolte mayo, which was good. It wasn't great. It was spicy and good (and a complete mess. Bring a garden hose to clean up after this one). To top it off: they were out of their $2.50 draft beers. Goddammit. Even if it was Pisswasser, a $2.50 beer is a thing to be cherished in my book.
Outdoor seating was a welcome change that I eagerly partook in. Sitting beneath the over sized, colorful umbrellas, jotting down notes rather conspicuously, I reflected on how I almost didn't walk inside. This is one of those places where you feel like you need to know what you are doing in order to step inside. It's a tiny bit intimidating. What's with the outdoor benches? Where do I order? Things like that can turn a shy person away. To stereotype, most of Brooklyn is not the type to shy away from the eclectic, so maybe not everybody felt the same way as I.
Overall, this is an alternative to having lunch at a deli. Don't expect gourmet Cuban cuisine. You pay for the atmosphere. Also, don't bring a serious date or a business partner. The food is too messy and you'll probably sweat your balls off outdoors. Pit stains don't help awkward conversation.
The only reason I would come back here is because the restaurant is very eco-friendly and seems involved in the community. I respect that, and even if the food leaves something to be desired, kind, environmentally conscious owners and a friendly waitstaff is enough to get me to come back.
I give Habana Outpost 3.5 Coronas. If I come back, I'll try the burrito and hopefully have a beer.
While in town, I had the chance to patronize another apparently semi-famous area restaurant, and, to my surprise, I was pretty disappointed. This place came highly recommended from a friend and when I stumbled upon it in my directionless meandering, I was excited to give it a chance. Here's the skinny:
It's called Habana Outpost, on 757 Fulton Street.
http://www.ecoeatery.com/
The first thing that will shock you about this place is the set-up. Actually, the set-up is a bit intimidating (I'll get to that later). Forget pretty hostess showing you a table. Here, you walk in to the tiled main room (it felt almost Moroccan with its extensive use of colored tiles), order your food from the wall-mounted menu, pay, and then bring your order receipt to the outdoor seating area to a perpetually parked truck which contains the restaurant's kitchen. A bit unnecessary if you ask me, but cute, and it adds to the DIY atmosphere. Sit down, wait for your food, then grab it from the truck.
The food? Disappointing. The atmosphere? Inviting... kind of.
I ordered a Cuban Sandwich ($7.50), which consisted of roast pork, ham, cheese, pickles, and chipolte mayo on a hoagie. The first shock was that nothing comes with the sandwich. Nothing. Just the sandwich on a paper plate. Honestly, come on. For $7.50, throw me a little rice and beans for christsake. On top of that, the sandwich was nothing to dance over (despite the great Latin tunes playing over the loud speaker). The pork was dry, pretty tasteless, and had an almost tuna fish like texture. It was filler and it was obvious. The rest of the ingredients were standard deli items, decidedly not great quality, leaving me with the unfortunate feeling that I could have made this sandwich just as easily (if not a little better, to be honest) and saved a bunch of money. Even the bread was boring! Toast it, roast it... anything. It was just.... bread. White, plain, boring bread. The sandwich's predominant flavor was the chipolte mayo, which was good. It wasn't great. It was spicy and good (and a complete mess. Bring a garden hose to clean up after this one). To top it off: they were out of their $2.50 draft beers. Goddammit. Even if it was Pisswasser, a $2.50 beer is a thing to be cherished in my book.
Outdoor seating was a welcome change that I eagerly partook in. Sitting beneath the over sized, colorful umbrellas, jotting down notes rather conspicuously, I reflected on how I almost didn't walk inside. This is one of those places where you feel like you need to know what you are doing in order to step inside. It's a tiny bit intimidating. What's with the outdoor benches? Where do I order? Things like that can turn a shy person away. To stereotype, most of Brooklyn is not the type to shy away from the eclectic, so maybe not everybody felt the same way as I.
Overall, this is an alternative to having lunch at a deli. Don't expect gourmet Cuban cuisine. You pay for the atmosphere. Also, don't bring a serious date or a business partner. The food is too messy and you'll probably sweat your balls off outdoors. Pit stains don't help awkward conversation.
The only reason I would come back here is because the restaurant is very eco-friendly and seems involved in the community. I respect that, and even if the food leaves something to be desired, kind, environmentally conscious owners and a friendly waitstaff is enough to get me to come back.
I give Habana Outpost 3.5 Coronas. If I come back, I'll try the burrito and hopefully have a beer.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
DeKalb Was German, But Loved the French
I have found my role model for this blog.
Anthony Bourdain.
Who is he, you ask? Well, let me tell you, on the MattyReed Bad-Ass Index, he falls right underneath Mike Rowe and solidly above that bald guy on the travel channel who eats "exotic" (read: reproductive organs and non-mammalian) foods. He is an unapologetic drinker and connoisseur of the unpretentious. Street food in Mexico? He'll eat it. And smoke a cigarette right after... while wearing a Ramones t-shirt. He showed me that great meals are not found exclusively in red carpet restaurants. You just need to know where to look and go where the locals go. Abhor the convenient.
So why is he my new role model? Answer: he is a traveller, a food critic, and heavily opinionated (and quite intelligent). I consider myself two out of the three (I'm not really opinionated. I just try to come across that way in this blog so you guys have something to laugh/think/scowl about). And if two outta three is good enough for Meatloaf, it's good enough for me.
My point: I am going to try and do restaurant reviews and general New York City living posts for a while. Let's see what happens. My first review:
I spent most of yesterday bumming around the Fort Greene area of Brooklyn, looking for apartments (to no avail). A few of my friends live in the area and after spending a fair amount of time there, I have come to be really quite attracted to the harmonious blend of urban-hipster cafes dotted amongst the plethora of multi-ethnic restaurants. People there seem to want the diversity and really embrace it. Christ, now if that mentality can only spread to the whole fucking world! I digress...
It was around 3pm and my tummy started a' rumblin'. Briefly surveying the area, I spotted a restaurant that a friend of mine had suggested before but I had not yet had the chance to go inside: Le Chez Oskar (211 DeKalb Ave.)
Walking past the outdoor seating (I was already sweating my balls off in the humidity), I headed for the air-conditioned interior and was greeted with a wide open dining room, sporting a dark wood bar and subdued, earthy murals and paintings. With splashes of color thanks to the creative arrangement of red and blue parasols on the ceiling, the waiter on duty told me to sit wherever I liked. I love that. Nothing can bum me out like being placed in a cramped area of a restaurant, just so the patrons are all in one area for the waitstaffs' convenience.
I chose a seat on the side, ordered a Kronenbourg beer from tap ($6... we're in NYC after all) and looked at the menu: a nice selection of salads, crepes, burgers, and a few full entrees. There seemed to be a North African influence in the fare, demonstrated by a few couscous dishes and the presence of spiced lamb (not quite French).
When in Rome... yeah yeah... when in a French cafe, order a crepe. That's the test. I asked the server for his suggestion: ham and Swiss cheese crepe with a bechamel sauce ($8.50). Bring it on.
Wow. These aren't your standard Boulevard St. Germain nutella banana, paper-thin crepes. These were more galette than crepe. A bit more pancake-y, yet still light enough to let the filling carry the flavor. And there were two! I didn't expect that. A pleasant surprise, to say the least. After partaking in the offered fresh cracked pepper, I dug in. Wonderful. It was real ham, moist, and not that crappy, jelly deli, thin sliced ham. The Swiss was not over-powering and seemed to linger in the background, nicely complimenting the experience. I'd almost say the Swiss was neutral, but that would be a really bad joke. Add a perfect amount of creamy bechamel sauce (just a few teaspoons on top, no more), and I had a really great lunch. Just to mix it up, it also comes with a mescalin salad on the side. I could have used a little less of the vinaigrette dressing, as the greens start to wilt from the vinegar over-exposure.
Overall, a great place to bring a date or a business colleague. The interior is conducive to conversation (at least during the day) and with a Curtis Mayfield record playing, I could see myself coming back here often.
Okay, yeah, this is way too long for a restaurant review, but I'm just practicing at this point.
Anthony Bourdain.
Who is he, you ask? Well, let me tell you, on the MattyReed Bad-Ass Index, he falls right underneath Mike Rowe and solidly above that bald guy on the travel channel who eats "exotic" (read: reproductive organs and non-mammalian) foods. He is an unapologetic drinker and connoisseur of the unpretentious. Street food in Mexico? He'll eat it. And smoke a cigarette right after... while wearing a Ramones t-shirt. He showed me that great meals are not found exclusively in red carpet restaurants. You just need to know where to look and go where the locals go. Abhor the convenient.
So why is he my new role model? Answer: he is a traveller, a food critic, and heavily opinionated (and quite intelligent). I consider myself two out of the three (I'm not really opinionated. I just try to come across that way in this blog so you guys have something to laugh/think/scowl about). And if two outta three is good enough for Meatloaf, it's good enough for me.
My point: I am going to try and do restaurant reviews and general New York City living posts for a while. Let's see what happens. My first review:
I spent most of yesterday bumming around the Fort Greene area of Brooklyn, looking for apartments (to no avail). A few of my friends live in the area and after spending a fair amount of time there, I have come to be really quite attracted to the harmonious blend of urban-hipster cafes dotted amongst the plethora of multi-ethnic restaurants. People there seem to want the diversity and really embrace it. Christ, now if that mentality can only spread to the whole fucking world! I digress...
It was around 3pm and my tummy started a' rumblin'. Briefly surveying the area, I spotted a restaurant that a friend of mine had suggested before but I had not yet had the chance to go inside: Le Chez Oskar (211 DeKalb Ave.)
Walking past the outdoor seating (I was already sweating my balls off in the humidity), I headed for the air-conditioned interior and was greeted with a wide open dining room, sporting a dark wood bar and subdued, earthy murals and paintings. With splashes of color thanks to the creative arrangement of red and blue parasols on the ceiling, the waiter on duty told me to sit wherever I liked. I love that. Nothing can bum me out like being placed in a cramped area of a restaurant, just so the patrons are all in one area for the waitstaffs' convenience.
I chose a seat on the side, ordered a Kronenbourg beer from tap ($6... we're in NYC after all) and looked at the menu: a nice selection of salads, crepes, burgers, and a few full entrees. There seemed to be a North African influence in the fare, demonstrated by a few couscous dishes and the presence of spiced lamb (not quite French).
When in Rome... yeah yeah... when in a French cafe, order a crepe. That's the test. I asked the server for his suggestion: ham and Swiss cheese crepe with a bechamel sauce ($8.50). Bring it on.
Wow. These aren't your standard Boulevard St. Germain nutella banana, paper-thin crepes. These were more galette than crepe. A bit more pancake-y, yet still light enough to let the filling carry the flavor. And there were two! I didn't expect that. A pleasant surprise, to say the least. After partaking in the offered fresh cracked pepper, I dug in. Wonderful. It was real ham, moist, and not that crappy, jelly deli, thin sliced ham. The Swiss was not over-powering and seemed to linger in the background, nicely complimenting the experience. I'd almost say the Swiss was neutral, but that would be a really bad joke. Add a perfect amount of creamy bechamel sauce (just a few teaspoons on top, no more), and I had a really great lunch. Just to mix it up, it also comes with a mescalin salad on the side. I could have used a little less of the vinaigrette dressing, as the greens start to wilt from the vinegar over-exposure.
Overall, a great place to bring a date or a business colleague. The interior is conducive to conversation (at least during the day) and with a Curtis Mayfield record playing, I could see myself coming back here often.
Okay, yeah, this is way too long for a restaurant review, but I'm just practicing at this point.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
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