Several of you have emailed me recently, complaining that the duties of my new job may interfere with the progress of this blog. Apparently, there is a widespread concern out there that "working" will get in the way of the regular updates to this blog that you have come to know and trust.
I hear you. And I'm touched that you have such affection for this little place of wine, poetry, and Mariah Carey fandom.
But I must admit something to you, a little secret of mine: I need to be able to pay for stuff. You know, a cup of coffee now and again, quarters for the laundry, rent. The little things. And frankly, Brooklynguy is getting tired of spotting me glasses of wine on the Brooklyndime. So, I have to get back out there. I hope you'll find a way to understand that this is what I need to do right now. I have to think about me and my desire for aspirational hand soap, the nice kind that costs a dollar and fifteen cents extra at the Duane.
Plus, I want to see all of your smiling faces again. And many of you have declined to come around my apartment to hang. Something about a gross smell or some such nonsense like that. Pansies. So now you have a place that you could see me and chat about wine that isn't a "total man cave disaster" as one of you recently declared my pad to be. See the potential upside here?
Anyway, I'm at Bar Boulud, kicking it with my bud Michael Madrigale, who is awesome. I'll be there all summer long. After that, I'm going out to do the harvest at Bartolo Mascarello, and you'd have to come all the way out to Alba to hang. So it would probably just be easier to get over to midtown west sometime soon.
Now you know.