Tag Archives: Drunk

Craft Beer New York: On Android!

drunk-robotYou asked. We listened. At long last, my Craft Beer New York app is not only available on iPhone. We’ve now created an Android version. As the drunk robot would say, “Awesom-o!”

Flyin’ High

Like many air travelers, when I fly on a plane I like to tie one on. For me, drinking alcohol is the best way to endure a screaming infant two rows over or turbulence as rocky as a roller coaster. Look at it this way: If the airplane is going down, then I’d rather be flying high.

My preferred liquid medicine is beer. Sadly, most airlines stick to wan offerings such as Budweiser, Miller or, if they’re feeling particularly thematic during international jaunts, Corona or Sapporo. Hey, you’re flying to Japan! Though I’m a captive customer, I can’t fathom paying Manhattan-bar prices for these weak, watery suds. Instead, I stick to the airplane-size bottles of vodka or whiskey, relishing the fact that every single sky-high sip is a rapid trip to inebriation. (That’s due to a one-two punch of altitude and low cabin pressure.)

But last week, the website CraftCans.com (yes, I’m the sort of man who spends his days perusing websites dedicated to canned beer) dropped this tidbit of titillating intelligence: A few select airlines had come to their senses and started to stock cans of quality craft beer. My world was rocked.

Which beers will I drink while flying high? Head over Food Republic to check out my picks. Drink it up!

Chinese Bai Jiu Can Make a Man Cry

Photo: Flickr/MunkeySpasm

Over on Food Republic today, I pen tale of my time spent drunkenly in China. At a diplomatic dinner, the host heard that I was a spirits and beer journalist. Thus, he demanded I knock back shot after shot of potent, rotgut bai jiu all under the guise of gan bei—a phrase that roughly translates to “bottoms up,” and requires that the drinkers drain their cups. It’s a ritual repeated, over and over, till intoxication is achieved. And then more booze is consumed. Curious? Drink it up!

Beer and a Shot, Via the Netherlands

You know you want a little headbutt. Photo: Lucas Bols

The other night, after drinking far too much beer during my latest homebrew tour, I decided that I needed a little headbutt. I poured myself a bolt of beer. Then I poured myself a shot of Genever Bols. Not using my unsteady hands, I leaned over the table and slurrrrrrrped up the spirit. Satisfied, I slumped in my seat and proceeded to sip both inebriants till the night slipped away. That’s called a kopstootje, the Netherland’s signature one-two combo of genever chased by a beer. I touched on the tradition in my latest Food Republic post. Curious? Drink it up!

New York Press’ Gut Instinct: Come on, Feel the Cane

The tale of how I got drunk with the vice president of Panama begins, most perversely, with porn.

Several months ago, an editor at a skin magazine asked me to pen an article on rum. This ain’t strange. Porn mags are packed with stories on sports, video games and booze—even the horniest horndog will tire of gazing at endless pages of theatrically contorted women. This is where I, pardon the pun, come in. The article concerned itself with the rise of rhum agricole, a specialty of the French West Indies fashioned with fresh-pressed sugarcane juice, and aged rums. Taking cues from bourbon and Scotch, rum distillers such as Ron Zacapa and Mount Gay have begun releasing spirits that’ve slumbered in oak barrels for 10, 15 or even 30 years. Instead of being consigned to a piña colada, the heady, complex spirits are served on the rocks or straight up. Continue reading

New York Press’ Gut Instinct: No Worms Allowed


The first time I drank mezcal almost doubled as the last. It was the summer of 1999, and I was on a foolhardy road trip to Mexico with my best bud, Andrew; pal Jesse; and ex-girlfriend Lindsay. Her attendance, a last-gasp attempt to win back her fickle love, was enough to doom the jaunt. Then came the hurricane.

As we reached the border in eastern Texas’ Laredo, not far inland from the Gulf of Mexico, gale-force winds bent our car’s antenna in half. Rain shot down in diagonal bullets. “The border is closing in two hours,” the immigration official declared. “The river is flooding. Hurry!” We sped across the border into Nuevo Laredo, finding the roads ankle-deep with agua and rising. If we ventured deeper into Mexico, we ran the risk of being stranded till the raging Río Grande receded.

“We need to turn around. Now,” Andrew said, his voice urgent. In my reptilian brain, I knew he was right. But we’d driven more than 1,500 miles to reach the border. I needed a totem of the trip. “OK, OK—but first we need to buy booze,” I said. We splashed into a liquor store, indiscriminately grabbing bottles of tequila and worm-filled mezcal. Afterward, we high-tailed it to the States and, by the grace of youthful fearlessness and dumb luck, made it to a Texas hotel to ride out the storm. We were safe. My half-cocked plan to woo Lindsay on a Mexican beach was destroyed.

“Come on, let’s drink,” I commanded, eager to blunt the pain of foiled puppy love. Continue reading

Drunk of the Day: Gator Fun

Ahh, nothing like sweet alcohol to make you consider beastiality with an inanimate object.