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low-information hipsters
Saturday, February 13 2016
I didn't want to go, but today Gretchen dragged me down to Brooklyn to participate in a retail orgy at the Pine Box Rock Shop, which was hosting another vegan shop-up. Eva traveled with us to partake and to also pick up a dog to foster and perhaps adopt. One of the main reasons I hadn't wanted to go was the onset of a severe cold snap, which had sent temperatures plunging at least twenty degrees below normal for this time of year. I stuffed the woodstove before we left and also raised the temperature floor for two of the house's hydronic zones.
I drove us to the southernmost gas station on the Palisades Parkway, where gas is now $1.77/gallon, and from there Gretchen drove us to an open parking space within brisk walking distance of the Pine Box Rock Shop.
Though the streets were desolate, cold, quiet, and mostly deserted, the inside of PBRS was crowded and noisy. And the collective farts and exhalations from all those live humans were well on their way to giving the place a jungle-like atmosphere. In terms of finding one's way through the mob, part of the problem was that everyone was wearing a big winter coat, which cut down further on available space for maneuvering around. Initially all my reasons for wanting to stay home were validated as we fought our way through the crowd to see what our food options were. I didn't much care about getting the perfect thing; I was hungry and just wanted something to eat and a place to eat it in peace. Unfortunately, there wouldn't be much of the latter the whole time we were there. But soon enough Gretchen handed me a half of a panini sandwich. Later there would be mac 'n' "cheese" and a tempeh reuben. And there would also be drinks.
The Pine Box Rock Shop is famous for its wide variety of bloody marys, though I actually don't think vodka goes well with tomato juice. For this reason, I tried their Sunday Bloody Sunday, an Irish-themed bloody mary made with Jameson's whiskey, some sort of Irish-style stout, tomato juice, and a wide variety of picked vegetables attached decoratively. It tasted bloody awful, like the contents of an Irishman's stomach (complete with gastric juices!), though it was nevertheless drinkable in that way that bloody marys are: disgusting, yet somehow compelling. Well, it was drinkable to me but not Gretchen, and I ended up drinking hers as well.
After doing much of our eating in a standing position in front of some upended barrels set up as tables, we made our way to the bar, where we knew one person. Eventually that person's friend left, and Gretchen got her stool. And then an adjacent stranger left and I got her stool. Eventually we had three stools at the back corner of the bar, and we added a fourth from where Eva had been hanging out. By this point, we'd been joined by Jules, one of Gretchen's old Bard Prison Initiative students. He recently got out of prison after completing a 21 year sentence for an incident of self-defense that didn't involve him killing anyone.
Sitting at the bar, it was a simple matter to keep drinking beer after beer after beer. I started with a 10 oz glass of Southern Tier Warlock (an Imperial Stout that was a bit too sweet and chocolatey for my tastes). Later, I discovered that the best beer on tap was the Laguinitas Pale Oat Ale, and I had several of those (they come in 10 oz glasses as well). Periodically I'd take breaks to go socialize with the dog Eva was picking up; our friend Erica had brought her over and she was hanging out in the bar back near where our friend Maresa had been selling macarons. The dog was still unnamed and was about seven months old, with a big (though not completely Pit-Bullish) head and a scrawny body in need of fattening, a legacy of whatever horrible experiences she'd been through before being rescued. Despite all that, she seemed friendly and curious (and rubbery in that way that all young dogs are).
At some point, Gretchen got a voice message on her phone from Mark (of Mark and Maresa) saying that Antonin Scalia had died and was now dead. In case Gretchen missed the point, Mark went on to spell out the word "dead" multiple times. He then said he'd be having a celebratory drink and that he hoped we'd be having one too. I couldn't believe the news, and immediately had to confirm it by going to the HuffingtonPost.com. When I saw it there, it was cause to celebrate. We'd been worried about Ruth Bader Ginsburg dropping dead, but it seems that all along the right wing of the Supreme Court had been the more brittle of the two.
I was pretty drunk by the time Gretchen and I walked to the place where we'd be doing dinner: a vegan Ethiopian restaurant nearby called Brunna Café. I thought the food was great, but Gretchen only thought it was "okay." For some reason I ordered a beer with my meal, something that made no sense to Gretchen whatsoever. But hell, I owed it to Scalia for the sacrifice he had made for America today, a sacrifice that had also resulted in his becoming even more vegan than me. On that subject, we queried some of the diners nearby about whether or not they had heard of Scalia's death, and several asked "Who is he?" These must have been low-information hipsters.
I slept for most of the ride home while Gretchen drove and Eva served as a pillow for her foster dog. After dropping Eva and the dog off at her house, I drove Gretchen and me the rest of the way home. Evidently following a day-long microbrew binge, I am good to drive after only two and a half hours of cold turkey.
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