Last night I was at a bar and I found myself trying to explain what it would be like to experience reality in four dimensions, instead of only three. At the time I felt utterly sober and lucid, but in retrospect I believe I may have been a little bit drunk. Either way, I had them eating out of my hands and marveling at the wonders of the universe.

I didn't actually mention Tralfamadore, but my explanation was cribbed heavily from Kurt Vonnegut's classic descriptions of four-dimensional reality in various novels of his (but in particular Slaughterhouse 5). To paraphrase (thanks wikipedia):

Tralfamadorians have the ability to experience reality in four dimensions; meaning, roughly, that they have total access to past, present, and future; they are able to perceive any point in time at will. Because they believe that when a being dies, it continues to live in other times and places, their response to death is, "So it goes."

Of course, there was never the remotest possibility that I would be able to do as good a job of it as Carl Sagan:



It's important to recognise that while Vonnegut's (and indeed the common) fourth dimension is identified with time -- for example, in Einsteinian relativity physics -- the dimension described by Sagan is a fourth spatial dimension. So in effect, he and I (and indeed Vonnegut) are describing two different things. And have described. And will describe. (Sorry, that was gratuitious.)

If that wasn't enough, Cliff Pickover asks us to consider how it would be to encounter four-dimensional beings in our three-dimensional spacetime. I gave it a shot. I think that is was for exactly this exercise that the phrase "my mind boggles" was coined.

And, The Commonsense Nihilist (whose blog has been going bloody great guns in general lately) recently posted on how to create four-dimensional paintings.

Labels: aliens are in our midst, debauchery, dubious nonsense, heroes

It's been an interesting month here at Drinks-After-Work. There hasn't been much blogging goin' on, that's fer sure. I've been on holiday for about a month and there's been no damn time, you know? There's been a hell of a lot going on which I'll cover off in another post, shortly, if I can find a dignified way of doing so. But suffice it to say that I've spent most of that time getting drunk, and the rest of the time sleeping.

Otherwise I've spent a lot of time looking at pictures of Brutalist architecture, inspired in part by Robyn (also see pic here).



...

I thought we'd better have a song, so here's one* from Chris Whitley:

Chris Whitley - New Machine (3.80 MB mp3: right-click and Save As to download; play using the handy little embedded player below)

It's off Din of Ecstasy from 1995, and his most-hated album/least well-regarded on Allmusic.com out of about a dozen efforts. For example, here's the Allmusic review:

On his second album, Whitley abandons the atmospheric acoustic blues-rock of his debut for a hard-hitting, grungy guitar attack. Appropriately, the songs are all about losers and hard times -- it's a dark, bleak album, twisting through its songs with a grim determination. The problem is, it doesn't always work. Whitley's lyrics are still rooted in the folk-blues storytelling tradition, while his music follows the rules of contemporary hard rock, complete with start-stop dynamics and thick layers of distortion. However, he can't write riffs that equal the best of Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Soundgarden, nor does he have melodies to rival theirs. His music works best a lyrical level and the musical approach on Din of Ecstasy obscures his lyrics, making the record a muddled affair.

See, aside from the first two sentences which are correct, that's complete and utter bullshit. It's a sensationally, exceedingly-cool record, and at some point I'm going to write about it a bit more.



And why does Allmusic.com have such trouble with awesome albums about being/getting fucked up?


* Anyone get the connection?

...

There's also probably gonna be a few minor changes to DAW, too. In my 4th year, at well over 500 posts now, I'm approaching 40,000 reads and I decided to have a wee overhaul, both to the layout and to the content. Some of the changes are immediate -- for example the "tag-cloud" in the left side-bar (I can't have a real tag cloud because *cough* Blogger is a *cough* ass), and the broken archives navigation (sorry about that) -- and others will be coming as I find time to get them sorted out.

Labels: blog, debauchery, music

Xmas day was the culmination of about five days of solid drinking; details to follow.

However there'll be short hiatus while Drinks After Work goes here; hopefully they'll have booze.

Labels: debauchery

Last night I was soo tired, had had such shit day at work (got home at 9pm) and was generally fed up, it was all I could do to get loaded on gin and bennies, surf a bit, and go to bed.


This morning I discover that at some point, in response to this, I wrote:

At the risk of sounding like a codger, but your supposition that back in 19-dickety-2 or whenever the “the album is a totally arbitrary concept” is based on, disregards the more modern idea of “the album as a work”. Not necessarily something as annoying and fatuous as a “concept album”, but nevertheless something which transcends its status as a time-based compilation of singles and b-sides.

Having said that, though, even my own albums which are ostensibly concept albums (just don’t actually call them that… more a meta-song, an ephemeral grouping of tracks in a particular order designed to impart some meaning or moment or fleeting feeling or other to the listener) there’re still the “single tracks” too which can be pulled out and listened in fragante delicto*.

* ?

So um, I find myself at the commencement of a third paragraph, my previously ingested brace of martinis have sent my point scurrying off into the hinterland. Oh wait, were they just talking about hip hop albums, which surely everyone agrees are heavily infiltrated with unlistenable filler, and that’s not including those fucken ubiquitous skits.

[break for air and martini]

I’ve experimented on this. Play “Word on a Wing” from Bowie’s Station To Station; it’s not the same without being preceded by Golden Years and the bizarely theatrical title track. Not at all. So in conclusion, don’t lump our precious albums in with your “mediums to transmit the next pop chart-bound single and a couple of remixes”. Right pass the Werthers Originals.

So yeah.. sorry, Robyn.

Labels: debauchery

My friends, when you've reached the end of yourself and you feel there's nowhere left to turn, may I present to you: The Killer


This one is based on a classic dry martini, but takes your brain into other dimensions by using very strong spirits and making it as dry as possible. You are prevented from being knocked out instantly only by the lemon garnish, which keeps everything nicely grounded.

90 ml (3 oz) Tanqueray 10
15 ml (1/2 oz) French vermouth, dry (Noilly Prat)
5 ml (1 tsp) exceptional quality absinthe
fresh lemon peel

Chill a martini glass. Chill it properly - we're talking ice + water in the glass, sitting for 15 minutes. Place to one side.

In a martini mixing glass (or cocktail shaker), add the vermouth over a couple of handfuls of ice (cracked + cubes makes a good combo) and stir with a long-handled mixing spoon. Discard the vermouth. Over the ice add the gin, and again thoroughly stir with the spoon.

Discard the ice and water from the chilled martini glass. Rinse the glass with the absinthe, and and then discard. Strain the gin into the glass.

Make the garnish by cutting a couple of strips of lemon peel, squeezing them over the drink -- spraying everything with lemon oil -- and then dumping them in the glass.

Notes:
1. All liquid measures based on the rough equivalency that 1 single measure = 30 ml = 1 (liquid) oz.

Labels: absinthe, debauchery, gin

Somewhat inspired by Tom, I bought a whole bunch of bottles of pretty good quality absinthe at an auction recently.


It runs at a pretty handy 70% alcohol a.b.v. and is dangerously quaffable. This I found out the hard way.

Saturday night Ms. K and I were heading to a party and then a gig and I was feeling nervous, thirsty and hot. What better to do, reasoned I then, than sink a few absinthes. That, as the man said, was my mistake.

And so what better excuse, reason I now -- more than a little inspired by Che -- than to for posterity put together a quick'n'dirty "Quick 'N' Dirty Absinthe Drinking" instructional.

[1] You're gonna need a nice straight tumbler, capacity ~200ml. (In case you were wondering, ~ means approximately.) If you have a proper absinthe glass, then more power to ya, use that instead, but more than likely you don't. Have a proper absinthe glass. That is. Unless you want to buy one from an expensive website.

Anyway, what ever you use, pour about 1/2 a glass of absinthe (~100 ml) into the glass.


[2] You're also going to need a small water jug (the small bit is important), a cube of sugar, and an absinthe spoon. The absinthe spoon (my les fleches replica spoon clumsily quick'n'dirtily rendered in pen and ink, above) is also important, and you're even less likely to have that than an absinthe glass. Unless you're me, and you have a spoon but not a glass. Because some douchebag broke it a few months ago, and has resisted all your attempts at dropping increasingly heavy hints about how he should replace it.
That's ok -- use an absinthe spoon, use a teaspoon, it doesn't really matter. This is the Quick 'N' Dirty instructional, and you'll soon get the hang of it.

Arrange spoon on top of glass, arrange sugar cube 'pon that.


[3] Delicately, and slowly, pour (ha ha ha) distilled water from water jug (that's me, below -- I'm using the milk jug from my awesome stainless-steel tea set) onto the sugar cube. Gradually the sugar cube will fall all apart and through the spoon and into the drink -- hopefully by about the same time that the liquid level in your glass reaches the (imaginary) 85% full mark (imaginarily inscribed on the glass).
Yeah, like I said, do it SLOWLY. See why you need a SMALL water-jug? You can't delicately dribble water over a sugar cube with a two-litre beer pitcher now, can you? You do NOT want to fill up and overflow your glass before your sugar cube is broke-up. Trust me on that.

Oh, "(ha ha ha) distilled water" means "go ahead, use distilled water if you want. Or you could buy some fucken (still) Perrier, or Pump, or something, or else you could boil tapwater and chill it, or else... you could just use tapwater. Remember, quick'n'dirty."


[4] Righty. Sugar cube gone-burger, now stir the resultant mixture with the absinthe spoon a bit. And drink. (*1)

See how the liquid in the glass has gone all cloudy? (Above, represented using a PhotoShop overlay and pencil scribble). That's good. That's what happens when the water chemically reacts with the oils in the absinthe. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that if your absinthe and water mixture has not gone cloudy, you should immediately pour it and the rest of the bottle of absinthe down the nearest sink, and smack your self over the head for buying cheap muck.


[5] Repeat.


Note *1: Getting back to Saturday night, if you have followed the instructional, you have successfully diluted 140 proof absinthe with a roughly-equivalent quantity of water. You now have an ~200ml glassful of a beverage which is ~35% alcohol; that is, of only slightly-less potency than a standard spirit.

You can see where this is going, can't you? No? Well, to cut a long story short, over the course of an hour I sank four or five of these glassfuls. Then we went to the party. We had great fun, dancing to Le Tigre and the Slits and so on. Then we left there after about an hour, and stopped in at home on the way to the gig, where I began to be violently ill, and passed out.

I know that from time to time I have been known to get completely fucked-up and have a right old go, but I haven't got drunk and vomited for about.. I dunno.. 15 years? Sheesh.

At some point on Sunday, I was able clear my head sufficiently well enough to calculate that in the course of that terrible hour, I'd drunk the approximate equivalent of four bottles of regular wine.

It's Tuesday and I'm still hanged over.

Ouch.

Labels: absinthe, debauchery

Being hungover is like winning the lottery, except they pay you in pink sweaters that have a picture of a bear on them. The bear is wearing a watch and pointing to it; the bear is saying "School time".


Dinosaur comics.

Labels: comix, debauchery, miscellany

Oh yes we did. We sure did.

Friday night it was raining and I was running late. I ran into Noizy in Taranaki St as he was leaving and then had this weird flashback as I rounded the corner to the entrance to Vintage (scroll down). When was the last time I was here? Was it still Monkey Bar then? Was I thrown out? Was I experiencing deja vu of from another place/space/time/parallel existence? Or a movie of the same? Was I really interrogated by the Stazi in East Berlin for several days in a stone building with an arched gate? Were there bright spotlights and guard towers? And dogs? My god, I really need a drink.

Vintage was nice, but for some reason I had to keep telling the barstaff to serve my beer (Monteiths Black) in a glass. Tom and Hadyn enjoyed their absinthe, though, as did I my tequila (Herradura Antiguo; thanks for asking). At least the barstaff didn't give me funny looks when I said I didn't want it in a shot-glass with lemon and salt; points off for offering though.

Five or six rounds later Jo, Martha and I were the last left after many present had departed to either watch Che learn how to cook a lamb leg-roast, or to gawk at the out-of-towners at the Mandatory 10th birthday party. So we're hoofing it down Courtenay Place in the rain and I was struck by how far it actually is to Hawthorn Lounge when it's actually raining and you're actually getting quite wet. Luckily ol' HT wasn't packed to the gunnels like it usually is later on of an evening, and nor was it sweltering, like it usually is later on of an evening; the fire was going, though, and it was nice.

I like Hawthorn Lounge and I don't like Hawthorn Lounge. I like that the bartender remembers you and which gin you prefer; and that he was happy to mix a Dirty Martini (only it's not bloody olive juice, Drinksmixer.com -- it's brine) for me with the sometimes too-strong-and-"big"-to-be-classic Tanqueray 10 (47.3% a.b.v.), though it was against his better instincts. I don't like how hard it is to actually get to the bar, how hot it gets in there, how crowded, that they are apparently -- in the top-shelf spirits analogue to a "brewery-bar", I suppose -- a "42 Below" bar, and how their cocktails are so little.

I mean they're really little.

I mean, they're so little that you'd want to be careful breathing too near your glass, in case you inadvertently inhale the lot.

Nevertheless we had negronis (with mandarin-infused gin, no less), and martinis, and Jo had wine and that violet spirit the name of which I knew I'd never remember and sure enough I don't. Then in dribs and drabs we made our ways to Boulot.

Which is a wonderful place. Could be said to be everything that Hawthorn Lounge is not, including generously-sized cocktails, and (possibly) the best pizza in town. Jo and I finished off our night scoffing a Quattro Formagi which I accompanied with a big glass of random Spanish red wine from the bottle that M.G. abandoned when he left. (Fucken nice, it was, too -- thanks Michael.)

Drinks tally for the evening:
Monteiths Black (4)
Tequila (double, 2)
Negronis (3)
Dirty Martinis (2)
Classic Martinis (1)
1951 Martinis (1)
glasses of random Spanish red wine courtesy M.G. (1)


Home by 11. How very civilised. Viva la Wellingtonista!

Next time I'm determined we'll pace ourselves and make it out past the witching hour.


...

NP: Neurosis -- Given To The Rising (Spin)

..Track after track, pretenders to the throne are slashed and burned with detailed dynamics, elephantine riffs, and actual grooves.......

Now Hear This:
Neurosis - "Water is Not Enough" DOWNLOAD MP3

Now Watch This:
Neurosis - "Given to the Rising"

Labels: debauchery, music, tequila

Was poking through referral links (as you do) and discovered this nice, prim wee article laying out some guidelines around socialising with workmates.

Sure wish I'd paid heed to some of these in the past:

2. Don't tease the man you know has always fancied you. After a few drinks, sitting on his knee and stroking his bald patch may give out the wrong signals.
...
9. If you do get a lift home from a male colleague, don't invite him in unless you are 100 per cent sure of his character and your intentions.

Gor blimey.

...

NP: The LSD March -- Suddenly, Like Flames (Last Visible Dog) and Bailter Space -- Photon (Turnbuckle) on random-play.

"Downer murk and amp-flaming distorto rock from a young Japanese psychedelic rock trio in the wasted, wigged-out tradition of many on those PSF Tokyo Flashback comps, also harking further back of course to underground '70s lo-fi legends Les Rallizes Denudes! LSD-march, named for a track on the first, heaviest album by krautrockers Guru Guru, slowly whisper and wander through a veil of feedback and plodding rhythms. There's both gentle and searing stuff to be found here. These guys are more serious, mysterious and melancholy than Acid Mothers Temple, with a definite Velvets vibe at times. And when the guitars get cranked, this sounds like the Neil Youngiest of Nagisa Ni Te freakouts. With liner notes (and stamp of approval) from translator/psych expert Alan Cummings."

So good.

Labels: debauchery

Sorry about the delay -- the fucking DNS has gone tits-up again, and it's taken ages for the site to come back alive. So this is several days worth of posts all at once, in a kinda-digest mode...

...

Somewhat enchantingly, the construction workers building the Vogel Annexe have begun to decorate the work-in-progress with pink stuff:


Ok so it looked better to the eye, whaddya gonna do?

...

Saturday night was footy-night and it was freezing out but luckily I was well-equipped with a flask of Scotch. In Bodega, with the big screen and the small crowd, it was not too unpleasant either. And as a general rule I don't tend to enjoy drinking beer when I'm cold but I'm telling you -- five or six Cooper's Stouts will wrap you up in a thermal blanket and get you where you're going; and in plenty of time, too.

Then it was off -- via a stopover for an iskender and more beer in John's studio -- to Happy for the Postmoderncore release gig of Unknown Rockstar's new albums "Deep Earplug Music" and "Pickle" (if you follow the link you can actually download and listen to the music). It was lovely and the Unknown Rockstar played a blinder.

Al drunkenly convinced me to blag him onto the bill at the last minute (left).

After we pretty much got thrown out of Happy we wandered with some friends from out of town down Tory Street, hoping to find somewhere to wind up the evening. Town was generally nuts -- wanna queue to get into Motel? Wanna queue to get into Hawthorn Lounge? Me either. We ended up in a dark corner of Dragon's (the Welsh bar), sprawled on the colossal leather couches. Not having been there before, it was thoroughly relaxing and I have to recommend it.

A late-evening drive-by of the Iranian Embassy was called for and duly delivered (for context: there was much braggadocio and laying-of-wagers regarding if and when a military assault on Iran would take place) and fresh loaves of bread were obtained from Hataitai Bread Shop (open 22 hours a day, dontcha know) before retiring to our respective abodes.

...

Sunday morning found me legging it first up to Brooklyn for a brunching appointment, then back down to Aro Valley again via Ohiro Road and its spectacularly tall pines. Then it was all we could do to retire to the Botanic Gardens for a picnic. Highlights: the duckpond, Druid's Hill, Andrew Drummond's Listening and Viewing Device on top of Druid's Hill, and quaffing champagne, whiskey, tequila and absinthe beneath same.

At some point Harry returned home again from his travels:


Ever tried to stop a cat from roaming? Your suggestions are welcomed.

Labels: debauchery, music

Right on. It's time to take this blog in hand. I've been unbelievably busy on so many different thangs -- work, the new Foxy Digitalis, the new AudioFoundation project, writing for FD and the Wellingtonista, running Palindrone, working on new seht material, trying to get some new Stumps releases off the ground -- who really has time to post here? Well, I have managed 20 or 30 posts since the New Year which is not tooooooo bad, but it's the quality as much as the quantity, y'know.

So this here is where I put the stake in the ground and say "NO MORE!"... where I put my hand on my heart and faithfully promise to update much more frequently (dare I say daily???) and with much better content. Oh! The melodrama!

...

Saturday night was Antony's birthday. Fifteen or so of us spent several hours on the cushions around the low tables at Cafe Istanbul, which was lovely and left me with the following thoughts:

• I'm never, ever going to do that again -- my back is still sore. Am I getting old?
• Are belly-dancers really supposed to be dangerously obese? And, even if so, are New Zealanders really ready for the challenge of upping and dancing with one in the middle of a restaurant? Or is it just cringingly, excruciatingly embarrassing.
  
• BYO whisky (in the hip-flask that Ms. Brown gave me) is a great idea and should be done more often -- it really adds a hitherto-unknown element of intrigue and danger into what is otherwise the fairly straightforward procedure of going out and eating food.
• I still really, really like Mediterranean food. Yes, sure -- it's all very low-brow and so on, but damn if it don't taste good.
  

Apparently after James and I left at about 11pm, somebody broke down in tears at the table, and the party moved downtown; Kiran didn't get home until 4am. Am uncertain at this point whether it was a good or a bad thing to have missed all this.

...

NP: Circle of Ouroborus - pretty much everything they've ever released, actually (aQuarius).

Labels: debauchery, slackness

This is my cricket team, Falconhawk:


On Saturday night we had a cocktail party and prize-giving. Here are some pictures of proceedings:

Labels: debauchery, Falconhawk

Over on the Wellingtonista, I wrote about Negroni cocktails, free gigs at the City Gallery, and Aro Community Fair.

Now. On also on this Friday night March 23th, The Stumps are playing at Happy with our friends Zombie Fuck! and Public Toilet Ltd.



There's plenty happening, yes there is...

Labels: debauchery, gigs, music, promotions, writing

When I was in Melbourne recently, I had a new drink experience. After a show, about 2 a.m., we were at a cute little bar Little Lonsdale St called Troika. I was fucked. We'd already done three late nights on the trot and I was coming down with the nasty cold/flu virus which everyone we'd been hanging out with to that point had either reported as having had, or being in the process of getting. Earlier in the evening I'd had a full-on fevered delirium-attack which had had to be beaten off with Scotch and Coldrex, and this only-ever-temporary of poultices was starting to wear off. Putting it simply, I was in the market for the sort of "pick-me-up" I'd hitherto only ever achieved with a brace of Red Bull and Jaegermeisters.

I approached the bar with the full intention of ordering exactly that (two Red Bull and Jaegermeisters). This was when I found the cocktail menu, and what I think they called a "Coffee Martini". (Tom settle down.) (You too, J.) Since it had a shot of espresso, and a more-than-decent amount of white spirits, I made a sudden executive decision and ordered one. It was wonderful - it was like an alcoholic iced coffee laced with speed; it peeled my eyes back, and cleared my head. It was just what the doctor ordered.

Since my return, I've been trying to recreate this drink, and this is what I have come up with.

Option 1 (from DrinksMixer.com) 1 oz cold espresso 1.5 oz Absolut vodka 1.5 oz Kahlua coffee liqueur 1 oz white creme de cacao

Option 2 (also from DrinksMixer.com) 3 oz espresso 1.5 oz vodka 1.5 oz Kahlua coffee liqueur 1 oz Bailey's Irish cream

(as usual, 1 oz is one measure, 30 ml).

Instructions (for both Option 1 and 2): Pour ingredients into shaker filled with ice, shake vigorously, and strain into chilled martini glass. It should be somewhat frothy.

A good comparison between the results can be seen in the top images (In both, Option 2 can be seen to the left, and Option 1 to the right).

My comments:
I far preferred Option 1, but I don't like Bailey's to begin with so Option 2 was doomed from the start. Option 2 is extremely powerful - I began to see aliens in my peripheral vision, and worry that my heart was going to wear out. It's also just kinda too sweet.

The "head" on Option 2 is much more full and pronounced than on Option 1; conversely Option 1 has a much nicer, dark appearance.

Other comments:
Miss K (after a mouthful of Option 2): "I'm palpitating!"
Housemate N: Option 1 is too astringent (possibly due to poor quality espresso, though probably due to poor quality white creme de cacao).

Both preferred Option 2. As an occasional alcohol drinker and an occsional coffee drinker, Housemate N was up all night.

(click images to see larger versions).

...

NP: Comets on Fire - Avatar (MySpace page)

Labels: debauchery

Mr. X
Kings Liquors
Greenhithe, Auckland
New Zealand.

Dear Mr. X,

Recently I purchased a bottle of your white creme de cacao liqueur from an outlet in Wellington. I'm a bit worried that there may be something wrong with it, however, because while everything I've read and heard about white creme de cacao lead me to expect that it would taste of chocolate, your product does not. Taste of chocolate, that is. Well, possibly very faintly, but only that. In fact I would be much more prepared to suggest that it tastes like vanilla.

For your reference and mine, DrinksMixer.com states of white creme de cacao that it is "A colorless chocolate-flavored liqueur made from the cacao seed". While your product is cerainly almost colourless (a faint but acceptable yellow-ish tint is observable), there ain't no "chocolate-flavoured" to be spoken of.

So I would greatly appreciate it if you would please either (a) convince me that my expectations for its "chocolatey-ness" (is that even a word? I'm sure you know what I mean either way) are far too high; or (b) agree that there may be something wrong with the bottle of liqueur in my possession.

Yours in cocktails,

stephen clover.

NP: Lomov - Mounting Stags EP (Thinner netlabel)

Labels: debauchery

I think it was only about a year ago that I discovered that I liked tequila (Wiki) a lot. Well, ok, let's be honest. It wasn't just that; but that I like it much, much more than whisky, which was until this point my late-night like-to-pretend-I'm-a-classy-fucker drink. In fact, it's worse than even that. I think I'm in love.

I love the lush bouquet of tequila, and the complex, aromatic, almost botanical notes that drift across your tongue as you hold a mouthful. I like the lack of bite'n'burn as it hits your throat, and the lack of acidity as it traverses your gullet. I adore the absence of any of the cloying saccharin of whisky; instead the delightful promise of sweetness on the nose is delivered in a measured, flat, dry way just like the best Martini. I actually love that it is brewed from a specially grown, tended, and harvested cactus in the arid desert-heat of Mexico, instead of from mashed-up bird seed in some god-awful rainy bog in Scotland.

Up until this point, my conception of tequila was some shitty drink which you consumed with the direct aim of getting wasted. And that in order to be able to actually just accept the stuff in your mouth, you needed salt and lemon juice. And you gagged when you swallowed it. And sometimes you climbed up on the bar and let someone pour it down your throat. And you invariably drank far too much of it and did stupid things and got yourself into compromising situations (Tequila Suicide here). And let's not for a minute pretend that that is not still true of low-cost muck like Jose Cuervo*.

Occasionally you meet somebody who changes your life; sometimes you have sex with them, sometimes you don't, sometimes you spend years wishing you had, or hadn't, or whatever. Sometimes you just talk to them for an hour or two. Most recently it was the Turkish guy who kept laughing uproariously and saying "You New Zealanders, you're crazy! You invaded my country! What were you thinking?" over and over.

But I digress. It was Carlo the Mexican who set me on the righteous path of true tequila appreciation. One drunken night he suddenly turned to me and with a grin said something along the lines of "you New Zealanders, you don't know anything about tequila". He produced a bottle of Herradura (mythology), furnished me with a measure, and that was me. Done. Sold to the gentleman trying not to spill his Negroni, trying not to slide off The Sifter's chaise lounge.


We will continue my Tequila Odyssey soon.


* and the exact same could be said of a poor-quality blended Scotch like Clan MacGregor, or Grants.

...

NP: Sleep - Dopesmoker (allmusic)

Labels: debauchery, tequila

Here's a quick one for you liqueur connoisseurs: how chocolate-y should a white Creme de Cacao be?

Because, the one I bought on Friday (Kings brand, out of Greenhithe, Auckland) ain't that chocolate-y at all.

Labels: debauchery

Talking about beer, the Tuatara Pilsner on tap at Bodega is superb this week. I say this week because as we all know, some of the Tuatara stuff is notoriously variable in consistency. But yeah, the stuff we were drinking last night was dangerously quaffable. I actually remarked at some point that it tasted like a half-decent sauvignon blanc.

It didn't mix at all well with the Coopers Stout I had been drinking up to that point, though, and I reeeeally should have known better.

I also had the worst Martini I've ever had last night at Mini Bar, but that's another story. So too is the reason I had a second one.

...

Had a couple of Coopers Sparkling Ales at San Francisco Bath House last night too, where I witnessed the strangest thing. Before opening the bottle, the barman laid it on its side and rolled it up and down the bar for a few seconds. Who'd have thunk that that would be an effective way of combatting the characteristic sediment that is found in a bottle of Coopers Ale.

Nasty little tipple it is, too, with its oh-so-moreish fruityness and positively deceitful 5.8% a.b.v.

...

The sediment must have affected me more than I realised, because in my dream last night, I invented a bar/bench-top device for serving Coopers Ale and other sediment-ridden drinks. It involved a centrifuge-chamber, some muslin-cloth, and a new revolutionary design one-way ladle. The patent is, as they say, pending.

Labels: debauchery

So I was hunkered down with the boys at The Adelaide the other night, sippin' on a brew.. watching the footy.. listening to the bands.. and thinking "so.. what is it with this Oranjeboom muck, then eh?".

I mean, despite being rated as a "premium lager", and being described as.. uh.. "lamb dressed up as mutton" it never was particularly good to start with, even when it was imported by the case from Holland. But it was ok. They're now selling it on tap at all the cheap undergraduate dives now, and they certainly wouldn't be doing that if it was still imported; it turns out that good ol' Lion Nathan has got its hand on the license to brew it domestically. Or should that read, "ruin it" domestically. As one of my companions remarked, "it tastes like a yeast infection." (Read into that what you will.)

...

Yeah, so RealBear.co.nz is "the leading source for online beer industry information in New Zealand" and features "the latest beer news, beer events, listing of New Zealand's breweries, plus online beer forum." New Zealand Beer starts here, apparently.

...

As for The Adelaide, it's a good spot to do any/all of the above (bands, beer, footy). And the Brian Le Gros-era fitout is fantastic, and I hope they never see fit to change a thing. (photos to follow). Personally I'm super-fond of the super-comfy padded-leather bar-top.

Awesome.

Labels: debauchery

Mystery bar:



So. What the hell was up with town last night? At 10pm, closed were Concrete*, Dojo** and Beaujolais. A quick glance from the top of Woodward St suggested heading in the direction of Confidential, or even Liquidate, was a waste of time. So, a quick cab to the other end of town and the discovery that the slapper-barns (Maya, Red Square, Establishment, Jet, U-U et al) were virtually deserted. Were the girl-slappers and 'tards (boy-slappers) on strike in support of the junior doctors? Hmmm. Who can say.

On the upside, Ponderosa was nice, apart from being insanely warm (the upstairs area was like a sauna!); Mercury Lounge still show good films, but play bad music and can't make only average drinks (dry martini: 6.5); and Motel is for me streets ahead of the competition on all counts - two FLAWLESS 1951 Martinis.

Highlight of the night - apart from the aforementioned '51s - was the conversation with the barely-dressed 'hostess' outside Mermaids:
Me - "That's not a skirt"
her - "Yes it is"
Me, insistent - "That's so not a skirt"
her - "In there," pointing, "it's a GOWN".

Notes:
* So much for $8 cocktails on a Thursday night.
** So much for "open 11.30am til LATE" on a Thursday night.

(click images for larger versions)

Labels: debauchery

Oh goodie, look what I found. More photos from Nelson, thought lost, but (re-)discovered filed in the wrong place.

First up, an advertisment from a bakery in Nelson, touting what has to be the most amazing pie EVER:


Secondly, a couple of shots from the 90's Retro Theme Party at Harry's Bar in Hardy St.


Though a poor second to a good 24 Hour Party People, it was good fun, despite a little too much reliance on cultural artifacts like glow-sticks, flashing jewellery, shirtless djs, head/sweat bands, yada yada, and, er, the "hostess with the mostest" (pictured). The Sifter would have had a huge one.

A word about Harry's. I may have been previously graceless enough to bemoan the lack of decent bars in Nelson. It's certainly a popular topic of conversation amongst the locals whenever I am there. Until recently the only viable options have been these barn-style beer halls (The Grumpy Mole, below left), or "hip" little bars like Fiction (below, middle and right) which try oh-so-hard to get it right, but get it oh-so-wrong - attractive and well-meaning but clueless midgets rather than competent barstaff; wretched djs and live acts at innappropriate volumes; Playboy-theme parties, anyone?


There's even dives like the Rock Bar, with its wall-to-wall RTDs, large screen music videos, on stage sex sandwiches at 3.05 am, and a cocktail list which can at best be described as humourous:


But of late things have started looking up. There's (the bizarrely and slightly unfortunately named) Bar Delicious in Trafalgar Street, where the staff actually appear know how to make drinks and serve them. And then there's the adforementioned Harry's, which serves delicacies such as the "Long Beach Iced Tea" - a Long Island Iced Tea made with 'premium' spirits (Grey Goose, Tanqueray 10, Club 151, Jose Cuervo 1800, and Cointreau) and something kinda different as the split (this is all from memory - forgive me if I'm slightly hazy on the details). They still don't seem to know how to make a good Martini though, which is why I have to resort to ordering straight spirits.

Note: If you follow the link to the Long Island Iced Tea recipe - don't even think about making one with cola; dry ginger ale is the only thing you should ever put between you and a conglomeration of loverly tipples like that.

(you know the drill, click for larger)

Labels: debauchery

Was in Nelson over the weekend for my little brother's 30th birthday party (and my little sister's 23rd). My god they grow up fast, don't they. My god I sound like a twat, don't I, saying that.

I was able to check out a group show that Andy is participating in at The Suter gallery. It's called Undercurrent. The Suter Te Aratoi o Whakatu is pretty much Nelson's paramount art-space.


Andy exhibited a colossal light box that he pinched from a closed-down clothing store and which I had helped him wire up last time I was down. It's about 3 meters wide. I think the work also comes with a t-shirt.


Our mate Jim MacKay the well-awesome glass-artist ("Fingers of God" project here [PDF 253KB]) was showing a work called "I know what your [sic] thinking". Hopefully you can see that it's a giant rendition of a Newton's Cradle (charming but perfectly awful clunky Java applet representation here), using glass brains.

I don't actually know what your [sic] thinking, but I'm thinking myself that this piece would provide a pretty inappropriate demonstration of the principles of energy transference. But at the same time, it would be pretty and spectacular to try it out.

The whole show was actually pretty great. I'd heartily recommend that you check it out if you get the chance; only I won't, 'cos it finished on Saturday the 3rd of June just passed.

We also went shopping: I refrained from purchasing any Mole SKINS, even at that great price (left), but I was able to pick up one of each of these at the Nelson market.

The Le Champs De Miel Methode Traditionalle "New Zealand sparkling forest honey wine" is perfectly dry and deliciously flavoursome. The Nymph's Kiss Manuka Honey Liqueur is currently being evaluated for it's suitability in a Cosmopolitan as a substitute for, or companion to, the tripel sec (Cointreau or similar). So far it's faring really rather well.


(click the images for larger versions, generally)

Labels: debauchery

So I've been in Nelson, for the Woom show, amongst other things. The opening of the show was a great success, with a huge turnout of happy and impressed punters. I had a lot of positive feedback about my work, and even managed to sell some.



You'll notice that the gallery walls are red, rather than the customary white. This was an experiment, and I really think it works rather well.

The refreshments were various infused vodkas, supplied by a local distillery under the auspices of "taste-testing". They were served in shotglasss and consumed neat.

Afterwards we went out for a few drinks. And ended up having an utter shitload of drinks. Ow. I won't be posting the photos of, for example, my brother's partner and I dancing the Charleston on top of every one of those little green electricity transformer boxes on the walk home. Or of my brother and I wrestling with temporary speed restriction road signs (me: Greek-style, him:WWF-style). Or the video-clip of me bellowing at the top of my voice "I LURRVE MACROCARPAS" and leaping from the top of one of those afore-mentioned little green electricity transformer boxes into a finely-topiaried specimen of same.

Well, ok, maybe one.

Here's a tally of my consumption for the evening:
4 x Carlsberg lagers
between 8 and 11 shots of infused vodkas of varying strength
1 Monteiths Original
3 x Guinness
4 x triple Centenarro Blanco tequila
1 x triple Tanqueray gin
2 x Frangelico and lime
4 x Smirnoff Black Ice RTD (don't ask) (seriously)

Compiling that list, I am left feeling a strange combination of awe and shame. I got off lightly though; all I ended up with was a scratched arm, and a nasty afternoon-hangover.

(hover mouse over images for captions; click for bigger versions)

Labels: debauchery

Went to Martinborough. Had wedding. Much drunk. Very drunk. Armed with BBQ firelighters, three petanque sets, and the inspiration that only comes at around 1am, we constructed our own little inebriated vision of lawn sports in hell.

Chief co-conspirator Mr. B >>>>>>>>

(click images for larger versions)

Labels: debauchery

Feeling a definite sense of loss, especially after posting those two micro-obits yesterday for Stanislaw Lem and Nikki Sudden. Tried to drink it into submission last night at Flying Burritto Brothers, using copious quantities of Herradurra Reposado tequila, but apparently it didn't work.

So let's have a song. Fuck it, let's even have two.

David Bowie - We are the dead (right-click and Save As to download)

Swell Maps - Blam!! (right-click and Save As to download)

The Bowie song, We Are the Dead, is from his at-times testing 1974 concept album Diamond Dogs. It's very beautiful and sad. The concept album purports to be based on George Orwells's 1984, though I have reservations about the success of the project.

"because of all we've seen, because of all we've said... we are the dead"

The Swell Maps track is off their best album, Trip To Marineville, and is a rowdy-if-melancholic anthemn of lost love with almost-gang-choruses and the works. On the LP it's bookended by pts 1 and 2 of the wonderfully upbeat and surreal Full Moon.

"why did you do it... you said you loved me / I don't care, I guess I'm nearly dead"

(By the way, do be sure and let me know in the comments section if you're having trouble downloading or playing the mp3s I post here.)

Labels: debauchery, music

Ok I said, I will try.

1. Dropped a bit of cash at Kazu Bar (newish) last Friday night and had a brilliant night with Ms. Brown. Enough sake to get a salaryman slurring, delicious and brilliantly varied yakatori (barbequed to perfection on the dinky little barbeque under our very noses by the chef in the comedy head-gear), very fine and spicy ramen, and plum wine sorbet, which was delicate and quite lovely. The service was exemplary, and over our 4 or so hour session, the ambience delightful.

I thought I had a picture of the colossally juicy King Prawn yakatori, but it appears not. These will have to do:


Note the pom-poms.

2. Juniper for lunch yesterday - a martini and 2 bread rolls. The bread rolls were delicious - little long sourdough rolls, served hot and with olive oil and butter. On the other hand, the martini was verging on miserable, and this I related to the barman on my way out. (To be fair, he asked. I gave it to him with both barrels.) (I even - somewhat disingenously - enquired whether he'd ever made a martini before.)

This bar continues to disappoint in the way that only a bar purporting to specialise in your favourite drink - but doing it poorly - can. Was forced take refuge in The Feathers, where I gorged on Island Bay English Sausages (very fine, if that's your thing; it is mine) and mash and gravy; my companion demolished a huge and fanstastic-looking steak sandwich.

Horses. Courses.

3. A beer you must try, if you like dark beer, is the (sadly unimaginatively named) Hog Dark, on tap at The Loaded Hog and One Red Dog, down on the waterfront. It's not too heavy, and has an absolutely divine bouquet of malt extract, treacle, molasses - that kind of thing. The body and the finish do not disappoint, either. Somehow it manages to be refreshing and more-ish, which are not traits I would usually associate with a dark ale like this.

Oh, and props to Tom, imbiber-extrordanaire, for assistance with an urgent alcoholic problem yesterday.

(click an image to enlarge)

Labels: debauchery

I haven't really posted much of late, as I've been writing a column for an online music magazine, Foxy Digitalis. You'll notice the awesome photo of the author - luckily I was able to take an awesome self-portait with my phone on the bus one day. ("You look like you're waiting for someone to kill you" - Foxy D. editor). (Luckily, the same Foxy D. editor was also able to crop the pic and turn it into black and white, making me look even more awesome). The piece is specifically designed to stir up a bit of controversy amongst the usually-benevolent and generally hippie-like underground music community; I'm waiting for the hate-mail to start. I also did a few short reviews of various albums; this is an old tendancy which, now resumed, is probably something I'll continue to do for a wee while.

I got absolutely wankered on Friday night, and as a result spent a large amount of Saturday in the bathroom, shivering and retching, or in bed - doing much the same. With immaculate timing, around 8am the road-gang - who've been making a nuisance of themselves in Aro Street for about 6 weeks - also began work outside my bedroom. Fortunately I was able to put to good use the transcendental meditation techniques I learned from Tibetan monks while we were imprisoned by the Chinese, and transcended my way back to an uneasy sleep; by the time I woke around 2 or 3, I could actually keep down liquid, food, paracetamol and codeine. By mid-evening I had recovered sufficiently to drink lots of beer and go to Paulie's birthday party, where I had an excellent time drinking more beer, inventing champagne cocktails (Jacob's Creek Chardonnay Pinot Noir Brut Cuvee, crushed raspberries and a large dash of 42 Below Feijoa vodka), eating Comtessa's insanely decadent cupcakes, and feeling like a hungover mutant.

Don't ever drink "lime"-flavoured Finlandia vodka. Especially don't ever drink about 1/2 a litre of it, after having drunk 2 huge martinis and a gin'n'tonic. I know I won't be.

Some miscellany:
1. We popped into Morocco one evening late last year, and it was shit. Utter shit. I take back everything nice I said about it.
2. No 42 Below linkage for fear of upsetting The Sifter.

Labels: debauchery

Is there anything better than a martini made with good ol' Tanqueray gin? I think actually that there may not be.

This is my Omega Martini. It's mostly made as per my 1947 Martini, but garnish instead with a large canned dark plum and a generous drizzle of the sour syrup/juice.

Sooooo good.

UPDATE: I was thinking - I didn't mean to imply that I 'invented' the Omega Martini - it's effectively the same as, for example, the Gambata (sp?) as served at Good Luck, except there's no sake. Oh, I don't know, perhaps I did invent it. Opinions invited.

Labels: debauchery

One of the reasons I love shopping for booze at Rumbles, downtown in Waring Taylor Street, is that it affords me the opportunity to visit my favourite bit of the city, Maginnity Street (right). Without fail, every time I turn the corner from Ballance Street, I'm suddenly overwhelmed with delightfully faux sense of history, grandeur, depth and scale. Only here, utterly surrounded with 10+ floor buildings at close range, do I find myself forgetting for just a moment that we're basically a piss-ant little city built around a trinity of longish streets laid out in the shape of a Mercedes Benz logo. Only here do I get the hopeful feeling that - just possibly - there may suddenly have sprung up thirty city blocks in every direction.

It's not the architecture per se; the sequence on the right side of the street - the Wellesley Club, then the State (?) building, then the somewhat grandly named Petherick Tower - is nice, I guess, if a little disjointed*. It's more just the disorientation I experience when I suddenly cannot see any hills around me by which to navigate. It's a feeling I also experienced very strongly in Sydney, and have suddenly been overcome by at other odd moments like when walking down the main street of Onehunga, in Auckland.

So much deep thought, yesterday afternoon, as I wandered about in the bizarrely warm afternoon and dreamt of g'n'ts, and pondered on exactly how long it's been since I wrote anything of any worth on this blog. Busy-ness is only a partial excuse; I shall try harder, dear readers, do not be afeared.

If you're looking for promises, that's about as good as you're gonna get.

In other news, it appears that I'm not the only person who absolutely cannot stomach oaked Chardonnay. Oaked anything, actually, including Merlot, which I'm not absolutely sure is oaked, but if it is it will explain why I can't really drink it. I don't get headaches, apart from the understandable ones (1.5 bottles of any wine will do that to ya, innit), it just makes me retch, pretty much. I've started telling people I'm allergic to it; entertainingly enough, most take me at my word.

Shout outs to the other Welly-bloggers who turned out last Friday night for the hooley. It was good to meet y'all, although I almost feel bad that I was so tired after a big week that no typical Drinks-After-Work-type behaviours were indulged in. That's my excuse, anyway. I'm not sure what The Sifter's excuse for the state he got himself into later in the evening is, though.

*As I'm no expert I'll leave it up to someone like Tom to verify the identify of the middle building; he might also like to comment on the respective architecture of the three buildings. About the best I can do is suggest the approximate era of each - 1900s, 30s, and 50s.

Labels: debauchery

WTF is this shit about. (Just photographed on a bollard in Featherston Street). Is this for real? If it is then I want some.

Dear god, it would seem that it is for real.

Plenty More Fish in the CBD is a 'Straight Eye for the Straight Guy' handbook on how to find, get and keep one of those desirable women swimming around out there; who are just waiting to fall hook, line and sinker for the right angler... If you're a wise fisherman you don't want