1st Avenue
between 1st & 2nd
Along with a truly amazing selection of beers, the best part of dba's back yard is set aside for us.
East Village locale, a warm summer Friday evening, an icy cold beer and a long, slow pull on your Natural American Spirit under gently-waving trees.
Yummmm.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Monday, July 9, 2007
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Jane's House
Jane's House
Corner of Elation and Despair
Brooklyn, NY
How I could open this blog and not make notable mention of my own house as a smoker-friendly venue is beyond me.
Of course you can smoke at Jane's House. I myself do a lot of smoking at Jane's house. And if you're rolling a fat joint, all Jane asks is that you share.
Does Jane's house smell like a smoker's house? No.
Surprisingly, I am a rather fastidious smoker. I hate the smell of stale old smoke on people's breath and clothes. I'm a conscientious dumper of ashtrays, and when I owned a car, no butts were allowed to accumlate in the ashtray. Yes, I was that anal -- I would dump them into a little bag and carry them out of the car with me. This was AFTER I had wiped out the ashtray with a paper towel and Windex that I kept in the car. So my car never smelled like a smokers car either. I hate people who cast their butts into the street (LITTERBUGS!) though I shamefully admit to doing it sometimes. On the flip side of that, I have been known to carry a cigarette butt for blocks until I could find a garbage can.
I burn Japanese incense and warm fragrant oils all the time, so my house smells more like an upscale bordello when I'm not cooking than a smoker's lair. (When I'm cooking, you would expect to see a squat Italian mamma at the stove, so redolent of cooking garlic and onions is my kitchen.)
There is one place and one place only in Jane's house where smoking is not allowed and that's in the bedroom. For some reason, the idea of waking up to an ashtray full of butts next to my head is repugnant. This means that more often than not, I'm not writing in the lovely area next to the window which I've set up for this purpose -- the one with plants and art glass and a dictionary and thesaurus -- but curled into the Big Chair in my living room where I can ruminate, smoke, write, ruminate, smoke, write.
That's me, and that's my house.
Come over. I'll cook you a great meal of some sort of comfort food (my meat loaf is KILLER), open a great bottle of wine, and we'll eat, talk about the world we live in and life in general, and smoke.
Corner of Elation and Despair
Brooklyn, NY
How I could open this blog and not make notable mention of my own house as a smoker-friendly venue is beyond me.
Of course you can smoke at Jane's House. I myself do a lot of smoking at Jane's house. And if you're rolling a fat joint, all Jane asks is that you share.
Does Jane's house smell like a smoker's house? No.
Surprisingly, I am a rather fastidious smoker. I hate the smell of stale old smoke on people's breath and clothes. I'm a conscientious dumper of ashtrays, and when I owned a car, no butts were allowed to accumlate in the ashtray. Yes, I was that anal -- I would dump them into a little bag and carry them out of the car with me. This was AFTER I had wiped out the ashtray with a paper towel and Windex that I kept in the car. So my car never smelled like a smokers car either. I hate people who cast their butts into the street (LITTERBUGS!) though I shamefully admit to doing it sometimes. On the flip side of that, I have been known to carry a cigarette butt for blocks until I could find a garbage can.
I burn Japanese incense and warm fragrant oils all the time, so my house smells more like an upscale bordello when I'm not cooking than a smoker's lair. (When I'm cooking, you would expect to see a squat Italian mamma at the stove, so redolent of cooking garlic and onions is my kitchen.)
There is one place and one place only in Jane's house where smoking is not allowed and that's in the bedroom. For some reason, the idea of waking up to an ashtray full of butts next to my head is repugnant. This means that more often than not, I'm not writing in the lovely area next to the window which I've set up for this purpose -- the one with plants and art glass and a dictionary and thesaurus -- but curled into the Big Chair in my living room where I can ruminate, smoke, write, ruminate, smoke, write.
That's me, and that's my house.
Come over. I'll cook you a great meal of some sort of comfort food (my meat loaf is KILLER), open a great bottle of wine, and we'll eat, talk about the world we live in and life in general, and smoke.
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