Beerhive is hard to get to: it’s in the heart of downtown, on a street split by the train, where you can’t turn left if you’re coming in from the east. Parking is at a premium, especially when the weather’s bad (it’s been raining a lot here, come to think of it).
Beerhive is old, and warm. The regulars are lively and crowd the bar, leaving the window seats for me and a stiff old gentleman in a Hawaiian shirt.
My favorite part of Beerhive, though, is when the train rumbles up through the stones and the seat of your chair before it rumbles through your line of sight. The walls are full of black and white memories. And the Belgian beer list is good.
Today, it’s a story about the Sandman and a Tripel Karmeliet.
I always felt like fathers day was just a day for people with fathers in their lives.
Things I Learned from my First Half Marathon
Came into my first coupe glass today. Didn't so much inherit it as family circumstances made it available. I decided to celebrate with The Last Word, both boozy and sophisticated.
We cancelled cable three days ago.
Sometimes there's nothing you can do.
The earth has a memory.