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A collection of letters to my best friend, Booze

Central California
Joined December 2010
Photo by Love, Me (@Dear_Booze)Photo by Love, Me (@Dear_Booze)Photo by Love, Me (@Dear_Booze)Photo by Love, Me (@Dear_Booze)Photo by Love, Me (@Dear_Booze)Photo by Love, Me (@Dear_Booze)Photo by Love, Me (@Dear_Booze)Photo by Love, Me (@Dear_Booze)Photo by Love, Me (@Dear_Booze)
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Here’s a teaser from my noir story, “The Mayor of Rush Street,” published in the all-new GRITMAS 2 anthology. The collection, featuring 14 sinister holiday tales, just went on sale today. Link in the comments. #Noirvember
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Sometimes a dollar buys you information. Sometimes it buys you a front-row seat to the party you should’ve been at all along. dearbooze.com/cocktales/f/a-…
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Blah blah blah. This guy WILL NOT SHUT UP. I get it. You were in Vietnam, raced motorcycles and 'you only live once.' Now, QUIET
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Gather 'round, dear friends and hear my #Halloween tale of unthinkable horror. Last year, on this very day, I ran out of Captain Morgan.
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My local has decided to get into the Halloween spirit. Great. But I don't care. Just put my drinks in front of me and I'll be gone before the people who care arrived. I promise.
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Probably the worst time in a drinker's life is when he has to murder the bartender because she poured Sailor Jerry instead of Captain Morgan. Sorry, Kathy.
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Halloween. The day to fuck with your kid's head by contradicting everything you teach them about taking candy from a stranger.
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Ah, it's Halloween time. Reminds me of the rhymes from my childhood neighborhood. "Trick or treat, smell my feet give me your cash or I'll slit your fucking throat."
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And, of course, the Halloween pranks, like throwing eggs, soaping windows, and burning down my fifth grade teacher's house.
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Without fail, my inner dialogue always wraps with "..ahhh, fuck it!"
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In “Hayden Carruth Has Had Enough,” C. W. Parker wanders through dive-bar shadows, neon-lit regrets, and the wreckage of dreams that have been boarded up like abandoned storefronts. dearbooze.com/cocktales/f/ha… @kitparker
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In “Low End Chardonnay,” Brooks Thomas makes a compelling case for boxed wine, hot baths, and telling the world to go fuck itself. dearbooze.com/cocktales/f/lo…
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Gabrielle Munslow’s “It Started So Well” is proof that a woman can begin the evening dressed for the VIP lounge and end it as a public safety concern. dearbooze.com/cocktales/f/it…
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Some bars are just bars. Others become part of your personal history. Red’s Place was one of mine. Somewhere between the drinks, the conversations, and the nights wandering through San Francisco, it became one of those places I could count on being there. Now it won’t be. nbcbayarea.com/news/local/sa…
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Honestly, Red's wasn't a very good bar. But it opened earlier than other bars in China Town, which made it a very good bar.
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At least we still have Mr Bing's
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San Francisco is losing Red’s Place. I’m losing a few memories along with it. Pour one out for Red’s.
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In Jersey Jerks, @HughBlanton5 takes a switchblade to Robert Pinsky’s Jersey Breaks, a memoir full of street cred, gangster lore, political name-dropping, and enough self-congratulation to fill a private dining room. Not the smaller private dining room where he swaps stories with presidents, the big one. @GorkoThe thegorkogazette.com/2023/07/…
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Friday. Optimism. Drinks. Confidence. Karaoke. Regret. Saturday. Hair-of-the-dog. Jameson. Capitan. Bad-decisions. Tacos. Nap. Sunday. Anxiety. Aspirin. Existential-dread. Football. Bloody-Mary. Denial. Monday. Fuck.
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