More Great Adventures in Cheap Wine

Copyright © 2015 SYDNEY SCHUSTER

My last posts about liquid refreshments were such big hits, here’s some more!


And now, the bad news. 2012 wines blow.

What 1929 was to the stock market, what 1963 and 2000 were to presidential debacles, what 2001 was to the demise of the Fourth Amendment and 3,000 people who mostly weren’t bothering anyone, 2012 is to wine.

I say this because every single 2012 I’ve tried — and there is no nice way to put this — sucked so loud I needed earmuffs to drink it.

Flat. Bitter. Mediciney. Weird colors. I will not touch any more 2012s with a barge pole. Unless someone gives me one for free, in which case I’ll cook with it. Maybe. 2012s are not — repeat NOT —  going to improve with age.

Why? A good question. And I have a theory. So permit me to winesplain.

Before you suggest that perhaps my neighborhood packies park their stock too close to the radiator, let me just say this: All wines usually aren’t bad at once.

That means the problem with the 2012s is something else, something way bigger. (Although the radiator thing is pretty bad too, and it actually happened at one store I used to frequent and don’t anymore.) That’s why this is such a disaster. Being a wine aficionado without being a dick is hard enough without obstacles like this.

As you know, we here at Casa Loco are ardent fans of cheap good wine. We consume it like pop. We don’t care if it has a screw cap. We’re fond of spritzers and goofy cocktails. It’s not that we don’t have refined palates. It’s just that, for the most part, expensive wine is wasted on us because we’ll drink it with corndogs. Plus also, fake wine sucks.

Until 2012 it was easy to score cheap delicious wines from all over the world. It’s stupid not to. Our go-to winners were Berco Do Infante Regional, a $6 super-Tuscan-like red from Portugal that I just adored, and a bangin’ $9 Medoc from Chateau Haut Queyran. Good stuff! Until 2012. Our first bottle of 2012 Berco mostly went into the ragout. There was not a second. And after we cleaned out the 2011 Haut Queyran Medocs, the store didn’t get any more.

Chateau Haut Queyran

Chateau Haut Queyran Medoc

An endless parade of 2012 swill ensued, along with my theory: I suspected 2012 was the first year wine growers got slammed by climate change, and it was major. Too much heat or cold, too much rain or not enough, hail in deserts, shorter growing seasons. The result: a uniform awfulness of product beyond description (and the reason I didn’t post about wine for a long time).

I figured I’d interview some real experts to get the poop, because I was going there anyway.

Everyone should have a wine store like my favorite, owned by two guys  named Terry and Terry (I am not making this up) who sample everything they sell because they, you know, care. So I can always ask Terry, “Is this any good?” and they’ll answer “Yes!” or “Maybe get this other one instead.”

Anyway, I asked them what’s the deal with the 2012s. There was a lot of whispering and shoulder shrugging, followed by crickets.

Okay. So next I visited the Interwebs to see what I could find about the death march that is 2012 wine. Here ya go:

It turns out 2012 was a benchmark year in wine fails. According to this lady who clearly knows more than I do, European vineyards were ravaged by bad weather in 2012, “leading to what could be the worst grape harvest in 50 years.” Crop damage was so widespread, some fancypants French and Italian vintners, such as Château d’Yquem, wrote off 2012 altogether rather than produce crap wine.

So much for Europe (and my beloved Berco and Medoc). Unfortunately, I endured equally vile stuff from South America, so don’t believe any PR blather about what a great year 2012 was for their malbecs and carmeneres. It wasn’t. Although some whites took somewhat less of a beating. We did get all the way through a 2012 Concha Y Toro sauvignon blanc magnum. Not terrible, just meh.

Now if you’ll recall, 2012 also was the year Hurricane Sandy destroyed most of the east coast of the US and seven other countries, so don’t expect anything good from them. Not that I was such a fan, but Martha’s Vineyard and Newport do produce wine that some people actually don’t mind drinking when it doesn’t taste like lighter fluid.

Over on the left coast, 2011 was the start of a rough streak for the Northwest. Which makes me sad, because Oregon and Washington state wines had always been among my favorites. I remember a pre-climate change Columbia Crest Two Vines shiraz so divine, it made me weep. RIP, my friend.

Northern California wines got T-boned too, with their climate-related slide starting back in 2010. Out-of-control wildfires aren’t helping them, either. I’d bag Napa and Sonoma brands for now. Also Central Valley. The current drought there pretty much ensures they won’t be producing anything promising any time soon. (Read Wine Spectator‘s excellent explainer of events leading up to the 2012 California debacle.)

Reportedly SoCal wines dodged the ick bullet. But I tired of them a while back — the whites are too minerally and acidic for my taste, the reds too big and unnecessarily complex, and most are stupid expensive.

Doubters: Check out this chart below from Wine Folly. It only covers 2004 to 2011 vintages, but the point’s pretty obvious.

Vintage Badness Chart

Vintage Badness Chart

For what it’s worth, this guy here swears some 2012 German wines aren’t so bad. And while Australia had smaller 2012 crop yields due to drought, they’re not necessarily nasty-ass ones so don’t dismiss them out of hand if you can afford the jacked-up prices.

Now if one were to ask me, I’d guess that many 2012 wines that did make it to stores are “special blends” cobbled together from leftover dregs of previous years and recent rejects that in a million years would never have made it into any bottle. Except, obviously, in an emergency. Which clearly 2012 is. And I’m guessing the few 2012s that don’t suck aren’t really made from 2012 harvests.

Mystery wines to try at your own risk

Mystery wines to try at your own risk

I’m telling ya, it’s been a long year waiting for reinforcements to replace the dogshit 2012s that still bogart the store shelves. So it was with great emotion and gratitude that I flung myself upon the 2013s that finally rolled in and, just last week, a 2014! I was so happy to see it, I took a picture.

Frontera malbec

Frontera malbec (above) is a long-time bargain fave here at Casa Loco. (If you have a choice, 2014 is better than 2013.)

And now you know what torpedoed 2012. Take a moment. Breathe. Then buy something else, okay? Anything else. Thank me later.

Herewith are some wines that are affordable, available now, pretty damn tasty and, most important, not 2012s. Enjoy!

🍷Tricky (Rabbit) Reserva Sauvignon Blanc/Carmenere blend (white, from Chile) 2013 $11.49
🍷The Bean Pinotage (red, from South Africa) 2014 $12
🍷Concha Y Toro Frontera Malbec (Argentina) 2014 $10 magnum!
🍷Concha Y Toro Frontera Carmenere (Chile) 2014 $10 magnum!
🍷Black River Malbec (Argentina) 2014 $12 magnum!
🍷Hedges Family Estate CMS Red Blend (Cab/Merlot/Syrah from Columbia Valley, Washington state) 2011 $12
🍷Lab Vinho Regional Lisboa White Blend (Vital, Arinto, Moscatel, and Sauvignon Blanc, from Portugal) 2013 $6
🍷Lab Vinho Regional Lisboa Red Blend (Castelao, Tinta Roriz, Syrah, and Touriga Nacional, from Portugal) 2013 $6
🍷Slavcek Sivi Pinot (white, from Slovenia) 2014 $13 (a splurge for a bargain wine, and totes worth it!)
🍷Mandrarossa Nero D’Avola (red, from Sicily) 2013 $10
🍷Purato Nero D’Avola (organic red, from Sicily) 2013 $13
🍷Tilia Bonarda (red, from Argentina) 2013 $10
🍷Fairview Goats Do Roam (Cote du Rhone-style red blend from South Africa) 2014 $10
🍷Segura Viudas Brut Reserva Cava (bubbly goodness from Spain) 2014 $11
🍷Mionetta Prosecco Brut (bubbly goodness from Italy) $13
🍷Terrilogio Primitivo (red, from Italy) 2014 $10
🍷Morgan Cotes du Crow’s (syrah and grenache blend from Monterey) 2013 $18 — well worth the splurge!)
🍷Ninety+ Cellars Old Vine Malbec (Mendoza, Argentina) 2014 (earthier) and 2015 (cleaner; Lot 23 is awesome) $11


Copyright © 2015 SYDNEY SCHUSTER — All Rights Reserved

I make no money from this blog. If you find it interesting or useful, please buy Dead Spot. The Kindle version’s only $5 and you’ll love it! Thanks.
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Sydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party video advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.


Eureka Hits the ‘Burbs! | My New Article in New England Home

One of my favorite magazines to write for is New England Home. My latest contribution is this fun update about smart home technology. Enjoy!

Copyright © 2012 SYDNEY SCHUSTER
Sydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorsed any unrelated video advertising that may appear on this blog, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

Wedding Music

This is an article about wedding music that I wrote for the current issue of Rhode Island Monthly Engaged. The photo here is just a screen grab. To read the entire article, click this link, or cut and paste the one below into your browser.

Copyright © 2012 SYDNEY SCHUSTER

Sydney Schuster
and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorsed any third-party advertising that may appear on this blog, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

Five O’Clock World | Was (Not Was)

I used to be the nightlife columnist for a newspaper. The column was called Five O’Clock World, after the old Vogues song. I’ve already explained this a gajillion times, so won’t bore you with the details again. The following is a club report I wrote in 2005. I’m posting it as a tribute to my departed friend, Josh Barber. Cheers, Josh.

Five O’Clock World
Was (Not Was)
Copyright © 2014 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Old clubs around here never die. It seems they just change names and reopen with different management. Such is the case with a couple of “new” lounges I checked out.

The first was Rusty’s (Wave Ave., Middletown), which in a former incarnation was the popular neighborhood watering hole called Overflo’s.

Though it has changed hands as well as names, everything at Rusty’s seemed comfortably the same on a recent Saturday night: the usual highly animated customers; a local band from the regular rotation; the familiar cheesy decor; the squirming line outside the miniature restroom; the rutted, parked-out parking lot.

As ever, the place was jammed. A cadre of loopettes commandeered the dance floor, boogying manlessly to driving rock‘n’roll and R&B tunes. The band providing them was Smokestack Lightning, the totally awesome project of Jamestown’s Josh Barber. A guitarist who’s a devotee of Stevie Ray and Jimmie Vaughan, Barber possesses staggering musical ability all his own that belies his tender age (25). Plus he’s really cute, which explains all the chicks.

As it turns out, one critical element of Rusty’s is different. I ordered a straight margarita and received — check it out — a straight margarita. I couldn’t remember the last time a bartender didn’t load up my margarita with ice and other useless crud. Score!

The way Rusty’s is losing money on the bar, you better go before you have to call it “the place that used to be Rusty’s.”

Josh Barber

Josh Barber


Being from a land where businesses stubbornly remain in the same families for all eternity, I find it amusing how the natives here describe everything in terms of what it used to be (as in “the place that used to be Overflo’s”). So don’t be surprised when you phone the new club Area Venue (3 River Lane), and the recording assures you “it’s where the back door of Friends used to be.”

Like Rusty’s, Area Venue lived a prior existence (in addition to Friends, apparently) as a place called Area 22. It was bigger then, and its front door on Broadway was easier to find. Area Venue is about half the size of Area 22 and its front door, to be honest, is in an alley. An alley exactly like the one with the bistro where Buffy and Principal Wood battled vampires on their first date.

Spooky? Kind of. But on the plus side, no vampires here yet. And Area Venue’s dance floor is now the perfect size. Its stage is elevated so that overwound drunks can’t slam into the band, only each other, as it should be.

The bar is on sort of a terrace that offers terrific people-watching opps for armchair dancers like me. No margaritas, alas, but you got your beer, wine, champagne, sake, juice, and endless combinations thereof. The bartender is indefatigably cheerful.

It’s all charmingly reminiscent of the punk-era pubs of London, especially the bathrooms. Not only don’t the stalls lock, but they have swinging saloon-style doors — the better to see you with, my dear.

Despite this one drawback (or value add, depending on your perspective), it’s just incomprehensible why a place this awesome is flat empty on a Saturday night.

Remembering the great wriggling hordes at Rusty’s, I ask the bartender whither Area Venue’s. Well, it’s been open for barely a couple of cold, nasty months, she explains, and “we’ve only had our liquor license for two weeks.” Another mitigating factor, she says, is that “people travel in clusters, following ‘their’ bands around. When we get an out-of-town band, it’s tough.” Ah, Newport — every touring band’s dream.

Indeed, the night’s music is provided by a New Jersey group, The Commons. They’re plenty good enough, playing original dance material for their sound check when we walk in at 9:30. They stop playing at 10:15, presumably to wait for more customers to arrive.

Now the band’s at the bar with us, drinking suds and watching “Design on a Dime” on the huge flat screen. (“Here, you hold the remote,” the bartender told me and then promptly regretted it.)

Me, I think an imported band is a fine reason to go anywhere. I hope others cluster on over to Area Venue, because I like this place and want it to stay open, swinging doors and all.

Text, Art & Photo Copyright © 2014 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved
Sydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

Margaritaville | You Know You Want to Go

Copyright © 2012 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

I love margaritas! There. I said it and I’m proud. Bite me.

I slouch with distinguished company. Other lovers of the Elixir of Youth include Rachel, Joey, and Charlie (a.k.a. Aisha Tyler) on Friends. Bing Crosby loved margaritas so much, he became the original importer of Herradura (my fave tequila!), because how else could you get a decent margarita in Hollywood in the 1950s? Ernest Hemingway famously drank 15 margaritas in one sitting, and they’re what he was chugging when he died (and the reason it took so long to finish the job). I am not making this up.

“I had a dream last night that I drank the largest margarita in Texas,” said P. Salyer, a total stranger on the Interweb. “When I woke up, there was salt on the toilet lid and rim. Sure, it sounds gross, but at least now I have an explanation for the blue tongue.”

Yes, the margarita is a widely beloved American libation. Okay, an American libation probably invented in Mexico. (They make them with key limes there. You can too — yum!)

Depending on which story you believe, the drink’s origin was a bar in Ensenada, or Tijuana or Galveston or Acapulco, in the 1940s. The bartender was farting around with new cocktail recipes when in blows the German ambassador’s daughter, or a Ziegfeld girl or a Dallas socialite or Peggy Lee or Rita Hayworth, all of whose names coincidentally are (or translate to) Margarita in Mexicanian. You can guess the rest.

More recently, Esquire Magazine interviewed four Wall Streeters in a bar who gave the following reasons why they were drinking margaritas:

1. “Because he got one.”
2. “The vodka didn’t go down well.”
3. “Because it’s been a long week.”
4. “Because I’m an alcoholic.”

Yep, you just can’t go wrong with a margarita, be it basic or tarted up. Tequila. Triple sec. Fresh lime juice. Heaven in a trough, I say.

There are many kinds of margaritas, some quite tasty and worth trying. That’s why this special holiday installment of Drink To Write, Write To Drink focuses on — duh — margaritas.

Don’t get me wrong. I won’t drink just ANY margarita. Like, I think most frozen margaritas are stupid. And stay away from that fake lemon/lime stuff in a packet — that crap’s for astronauts. And I hate cocktails that don’t taste like liquor (mudslide, dog?). They’re for teenyboppers (and my next post), not sophisticated sots like me and you. On a diet? Can’t help you there, either. This is a different type of therapy.

To me, a margarita says, “So what if my day sucked? I have THIS!” I even own a collection of ridiculous glasses just for serving margaritas. I say if the Lord didn’t want you to drink margaritas, S/He wouldn’t have put so much vitamin C in them.

So here are some great margarita recipes. Each makes one drink unless otherwise stated.


Let’s just get this part out of the way upfront. Always use fresh juice (and fresh fruit, if possible and where applicable).

And here’s how to rim a margarita glass with salt (or whatever):

Rub the rim of a chilled cocktail glass with a lime or lemon wedge and dip the rim in salt until it’s coated. Coarse or kosher salt works great.


Classic Margarita
2 parts tequila
2 parts triple sec
1 part lime juice

Rim the glass with salt. Shake all ingredients with ice, strain into the glass, and serve.

Chocolate Margarita (C’mon — I dare you!)
1-1/2 oz tequila
1 oz Godiva liquor
2 tablespoons chocolate syrup
3/4 oz cream or half and half
2 oz orange juice
1/2 oz lime juice
Stirrings Cocoa Rimmer

Rim the glass with the cocoa rimmer. Combine all ingredients in a shaker full of ice and pour into the glass.

Chambord Raspberry Margarita
4 cups frozen raspberries
2 tablespoons lemon juice
6 oz tequila
2 oz Gran Marnier
3 oz Chambord
2 oz lime juice
Whole, fresh raspberries (for garnish)
1 cup sugar (for glasses)

In a blender, combine frozen raspberries, lemon juice, tequila, Gran Marnier, Chambord and ice. Blend until smooth. Rim margarita glasses with sugar. Pour the raspberry margaritas into the glasses.

Strawberry Margarita
Cracked ice
1 oz lime juice
2 oz strawberries (frozen okay)
1/2 oz strawberry schnapps
1 oz tequila

Rim a cocktail glass with sugar. Fill the glass with cracked ice. Add tequila, strawberry liqueur, lime juice, and strawberries. Shake and strain into the glass.

Blue Margarita
Yields: 2 to 3 servings

1 teaspoon coarse salt
4 oz tequila
2 oz triple sec
2 oz lime juice
2 oz blue curacao
2 teaspoons superfine sugar
2 (1/4-inch) slices of star fruit for garnish (optional)
1 lime, cut into wedges

Fill a cocktail shaker halfway with ice. Place tequila, triple sec, lime juice, blue curacao, and sugar in the shaker; shake hard for 30 seconds. Rim margarita glasses with coarse salt. Strain the margarita into the glasses. Garnish each with a slice of star fruit or a lime wedge.

Carrot Margarita (sounds worse than it tastes)
3 oz blanco or reposado tequila
3 oz carrot juice
1 oz lime juice
1-1/2 oz orange liqueur
ice cubes

Combine all ingredients and serve on the rocks.

Red Chile–Guava Margarita
Yields: Many

2-1/2 cups chile-infused tequila (see recipe)
1-1/2 cups triple sec
1-1/2 cups guava nectar
1 cup orange juice
1-1/2 cups lime juice
10 lime wedges
10 small red chiles, for garnish (optional)

Chile-Infused Tequila:
6 small, dried red chiles (or fresh serranos), halved lengthwise, seeds removed
1 750-mL bottle of tequila
Place red chiles in tequila. Allow to infuse for 1 to 2 days.

Drink prep: Combine tequila, triple sec, guava nectar, orange juice, and lime juice in a pitcher and reserve in the refrigerator until ready to use. To serve, rim a rocks glass with salt. Fill the glass with ice, add the margarita mixture, and garnish with a skewered chile pepper (but only if you want to).

Banana Margarita (just shut up and try it)
1 oz creme de bananes
1 oz gold tequila
1/2 oz triple sec
3/4 oz lemon juice
1/4 mashed banana

Rim a frosted double-cocktail glass with sugar. Fill the glass with crushed ice, add the ingredients and blend briefly. Serve with a lemon juice-dipped slice of banana.

Blackjack Margarita
1-1/2 oz tequila
1/2 oz triple sec
1/2 oz Chambord raspberry liqueur
4 oz lime juice

Fill a large margarita glass with ice. Add tequila, triple sec, and Chambord. Add the lime juice. Shake, garnish with a lime wedge and serve.

Watermelon Margarita
16 oz seeded, blended watermelons
1/2 lime
6 oz tequila
3 oz triple sec
1 tablespoon sugar

Cut up a watermelon, removing seeds. Liquify in a blender until you have about 16 oz. Add remaining ingredients, top with ice and blend until smooth. Taste and add sugar if watermelon isn’t sweet enough. Serve in a margarita glass with a sugar-coated rim.

Jamaican Margarita
This recipe uses hibiscus blossoms. They can be found at Latin grocery stores. Take the time to boil the blossoms in sugar and water as described and then steep; this infuses more flavor than just steeping them in warm water.

1 cup dried hibiscus blossoms (about 2 oz)
3 cups water
3/4 cup sugar
1-1/4 cups tequila
1/2 cup lime juice
1/3 cup triple sec or other orange-flavored liqueur
8 lime slices

Place blossoms in a strainer; rinse under cold water. Combine blossoms, water, and sugar in a medium saucepan; bring to a boil. Reduce heat, and simmer 10 minutes. Strain; discard blossoms. Cover and chill hibiscus mixture. Combine hibiscus mixture, tequila, juice, and triple sec. Serve over ice. Garnish with lime slices.

Blackberry Margarita
Yields: 8 servings (about 1/2 cup each)

1-1/2 tablespoons granulated sugar (for glasses)
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 lime
1 cup water
1/2 cup sugar
1 cup blanco tequila
3/4 cup Grand Marnier
2/3 cup lime juice
12 oz fresh blackberries

Combine 1-1/2 tablespoons sugar and the salt in a dish. Cut the lime into 9 wedges. Use one to rub the rims of 8 glasses, and dip them in the salt mixture. Combine water and 1/2 cup sugar in a microwave-safe glass cup. Microwave at high for 2-1/2 minutes, stirring to dissolve the sugar; cool. Combine syrup, tequila, Grand Marnier, lime juice, and blackberries in a blender; process until smooth. Strain mixture through a cheesecloth-lined sieve over a pitcher; discard solids. Serve over ice. Garnish with remaining lime wedges.

Almond Margarita
1-1/2 oz tequila
1/2 oz triple sec
1/2 oz lime juice
1 dozen almonds

Put all ingredients in a blender with ice and pulse for a minute. Pour into a salt-rimmed margarita glass. Garnish with an almond.

Asian Pear Margarita
Yields: 2 servings

3 oz fresh lime juice
2 oz asian pear cider
3 oz silver tequila
1 oz triple sec

Put ice in a cocktail shaker, add ingredients, and shake vigorously until ice cold; strain and serve on the rocks or straight up.

Ginger Margarita
Kosher salt
1 quarter-size slice of fresh ginger
One 1/4-inch slice of Thai chile
1 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon lemon juice
1-1/2 oz anejo tequila
1/2 oz Cointreau
1 lime wedge

Rim a margarita glass with the salt. In a cocktail shaker, muddle the ginger, chile, sugar and lemon juice. Add the tequila, Cointreau and ice and shake. Strain into the glass over ice. Squeeze in the juice from the lime wedge and fasten it to the glass.

Blood Orange Margarita
Yield: Serves an army

1 quart fresh blood orange juice or fresh orange juice
1-1/2 cup lime juice
1-1/2 cup Cointreau or other orange liqueur
3-1/2 cups silver tequila
Coarse salt
1 blood orange wedge or orange wedge
12 thin blood orange slices or orange slices
12 small sage sprigs or leaves

In a large pitcher, mix the juices, Cointreau and tequila. Refrigerate until chilled, at least 30 minutes. Rim a couple million martini glasses with an orange wedge and salt. Add ice to the pitcher and stir well, then strain into the glasses. Garnish each drink with a blood orange slice and sage sprig.

Azuñia Margarita
2-1/2 oz Azuñia Platinum or Reposado Tequila
1 oz Azuñia Organic Agave Nectar
1 oz water
2 oz lime juice
sea salt

Combine all ingredients in an ice-filled cocktail shaker. Shake vigorously for 5 seconds and pour into a salt-rimmed Pilsner glass. Garnish with a lime wedge.

2 oz silver tequila
1 oz blue curacao
3/4 oz lime juice
dash of simple syrup
splash of prosecco
Lime twist to garnish

In a cocktail shaker, shake tequila, blue curacao, lime juice and simple syrup with ice. Strain into rocks glass with salted rim over ice. Top with prosecco. Garnish with lime twist.

Yellow Watermelon Chipotle Margarita
1 tablespoon organic sugar
1 teaspoon fine sea salt
1/4 teaspoon ground chipotle
2 oz reposado tequila
1-1/2 oz watermelon juice (see instructions)
3/4 oz elderflower liqueur
3/4 oz lime juice
lime wedge

To make the watermelon juice: Remove rind and seeds of watermelon and cut flesh into 2″ chunks. Place in a food processor and pulse until coarsely chopped. Then process until smooth and liquidy. Strain through a fine sieve. Transfer juice to a large squeeze bottle and refrigerate until ready to use. Refrigerate up to 3 days.

Place the sugar, salt and chipotle powder in a bowl and mix well. Spread on a small plate. Moisten the rim of a cocktail glass with the lime wedge and dip the glass rim in the sugar/salt/chipotle mixture. Shake all the other ingredients with ice cubes until a thin layer of frost appears on the outside of the shaker. Pour into the glass and serve.

Copyright © 2012 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

I make no money from this blog. If you find it interesting or useful, please buy my book Dead Spot. The Kindle version’s only $5 and you’ll love it! (Also available in paperback.) Thanks.

Sydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

Five O’Clock World | Rock ‘n’ Bowl

I used to be the nightlife columnist for a weekly newspaper that was so chaotic, I had a different editor for every column I submitted. In the dictionary, next to the description of “revolving door,” there’s a picture of this place. Fun!

Anyway, the running title of my column was “Five O’Clock World,” and then each piece had a subject-specific title based on a song lyric. A cool musical theme for the club column! Get it?

Unfortunately, only my first editor knew this. I’d dutifully turn in my pieces and every new editor would change the titles without telling me. Then I’d submit invoices referencing what I’d named each piece, except they weren’t named that anymore, and then I had to call and beg for my money because the poor bookkeeper had no idea what was going on, either.

I bagged the gig after getting stiffed a couple of times and the sixth editor called to say he couldn’t wait to meet me. Maybe he meant in the parking lot, on his way out, if I got there fast enough.

The following is one of the “Five O’Clock World” columns I wrote in 2005. It was a blast while it lasted.

Copyright © 2011 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved


When I was in high school back in the last millennium, I hung with a bunch of delinquents who loved to go bowling. Actually, it wasn’t the bowling they loved so much as the rental shoes, which they always wore home.

Wondering whether things have changed any with this century’s young fashionistas, I cruised over to the Hi-Way Bowl in Middletown to find out.

Seemed like a pleasant-enough way to spend an evening. Every Saturday night from 8 until 11, the Hi-Way Bowl hosts a thing called Rock‘n’Bowl. I called in advance to get the details.

“It’s a DJ. And music. And a light show. Uh, and bowling,” said whoever answered the phone. There’s a $10 cover, too, but they throw in the shoes.

They also have a bar, which meant everyone would be too sauced to notice what a terrible bowler I am. So off I went.

It took a really long time to find the Hi-Way Bowl. First of all, it’s on a road with no street sign. And the guy on the phone had assured me that “it’s right behind the Ames.” Of course, the Ames is long gone. And natch, the Hi-Way Bowl isn’t on a highway. After driving up and down Route 114 for what seemed like weeks, I finally turned into the Home Depot parking lot on sheer gut instinct. I’ve been told I can smell a bar from the next county.

Sure enough, way behind the big box store and the Holiday Cinema and completely invisible from Route 114 is the Hi-Way Bowl. The parking lot was crammed with cars owned by people whose olfactory powers far exceeded mine.

I wasn’t sure what to expect once I finally got inside, but I figured a bunch of drunks slinging 16-pound balls around had to have some kind of entertainment value. But Rock‘n’Bowl is more than that. Much more.

First of all, there’s disco music and pulsing lights and semi-psychedelic projections on the walls. There’s a really polite, fine-looking hunk who relieves you of your cover money as you stroll in. (“Yes m’am, we do draw regulars on Saturday nights. No m’am, it’s a different crowd from the other times.”) Do people still steal the shoes, I ask? Occasionally, yes.

Sharing the building with the bowling alley are the Oddball Sports Bar and a video-game arcade. The edifice is better known to all and sundry as the “Halls of Balls.” Inside the bowling alley, the music is loud and fast. I’m reminded of marketing studies that proved customers in grocery stores that play up-tempo hits shop faster and spend more than those at stores (like mine) that play Spishak’s Greatest Hits of Plane-Crash Victims. I presume that’s the marketing tack at Rock‘n’Bowl, too, and it’s working. This place has 20 lanes, and they’re really getting down with the bowling here. It’s $3.50 per line. You do the math.

You’re probably way ahead of me here. To my mild disappointment, there was no caveman-like action with bowling balls, nor herds of snickering teens stampeding out with smelly, purloined shoes — just neatly dressed couples in their 20s and 30s, drinking and rolling in a civilized way. But Rock‘n’Bowl fans, I’m told, are eclectic. The Boston Celtics have been known to drop by.

So if it’s a Saturday night and you’ve seen every movie in town, and you’re sick of breathing other people’s cigarette smoke in clubs, and you like to bowl or just like the idea of it, check this out. It’s a great place to go with a bunch of friends. Call it a party and bring your own festive grub. The owners of the movie theater next door are threatening to expand their operation and “upgrade” the Hi-Way Bowl out of existence. Go while you still can.

Copyright © 2011 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

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Never buy a house!” my mother ragged me. “You’ll have to pay the taxes. You’ll have to fix the roof. You’ll have to mow the lawn.The horror! 

Copyright © 2011 SYDNEY SCHUSTER — All Rights Reserved

Like a lot of New Yorkers, I was always a renter. Always, that is, until the day I saw a Brooklyn brownstone with a weedy lawn and a leaky roof, fell in love, and bought it on the spot.

It was a gentrifier’s dream dump, with great bones and a provenance dating to 1887. Its first owner was a Cunard Line executive. He was followed by two less classy stewards who energetically transformed his manse into a dive. During the Great Depression it was a boarding house, its magnificent wooden mantles repurposed into magnificent firewood. Then in a chilling portent of late-twentieth century condomania, it was divided into not-so-hot apartments.

Every electrical system ever in it was still in situ, from naked DC wires we hoped were hooked up to nothing, to 1970s aluminum wiring so combustible it’s outlawed now.

A mess? You bet. But it was our mess. Many period details survived that sang to us: parquet floors, carved doors, leaded windows, stone mantles unsuitable for fireplace fuel and, as my mate and I would find out, very special guests.

The house soon reverberated with the racket of power tools and things bashing into other things. We bounded rowdily up and down the stairs, yelling to each other from three floors away because there was no landlord yapping at us to stop. Sometimes our noise was answered by loud stomping; we reckoned it was a message from the neighbors who shared our uninsulated party wall — a lovely family of four generations who disagreed violently with each other about everything, had a boom box in every room, and flushed thunderous toilets all night. We usually forgot to apologize.

Anyway, turns out the loudiness wasn’t them. We determined this after one particularly raucous stompfest. It was accompanied by cigar smoke. See, we don’t smoke cigars. Plus the neighbors weren’t home.

At the time I was too panicked to be analytical. You smell smoke in an old house, it’s probably burning down. As I ran with the fire extinguisher to see which cheesy wiring was ablaze, the smoke stopped. Just like that.

Eventually the stomping stopped, too. It was a relief, because … well, who do you complain to?

We still hadn’t figured that out when the canceled show was replaced by other entertainment. I was taking a shower when unfamiliar singing wafted through the bathroom air shaft. It was nice singing, childlike. Not the sort of thing that sends one screaming naked into the tree-lined street, giving the neighbors even more to talk about. I decided to find it charming.

Over time my husband and I became accustomed to smells and sounds that didn’t add up, and finding things not quite where we’d left them. Many of our conversations started out with “Where’d you put the wrench?” or “Have you seen my keys?” Sometimes we’d come home to find every light in the house burning. Once I saw some kid standing in the butler’s pantry. We had neither children nor butlers.

We did have six cats we adopted. They were loads of fun. They’d abruptly launch into the air like cartoon characters, running before their feet hit the floor. Then they’d bullet down the hall after — or away from — something we never saw.

Weird? Duh. Were we budging? Nope.

I’d be yanking your chain if I said it outboogied the Overlook Hotel. Exorcism much?, you ask. No way. The landmarking had started and dumpsters were everywhere, and who needed a bunch of caped baby buggerers around messing that up?

So gradually we renovated the whole place. It was huge. We each had an “office” — big creaky rooms full of junk and dreams — where we logged quality goof-off time.

Coming home late from work one day, I expected to find my husband in his top-floor office with his guitars and amp projects and mountains of CDs. Sure enough, the unmistakable licks of B.B. King’s “Sweet Little Angel” poured forth, cranked up to eleven. I started up the stairs. “Hi!” I called out. “I’m home!”

No reply. The music stopped. I went as far as the second floor. “Hello?” I said, and got no answer. I headed back down to the kitchen and waited for my husband to come home.

The next concert was in my office, a candy-colored room full of movie posters and toys, with a cloudy sky painted on the ceiling. My guitar leaned against the wall. I was plundering a flea market score of Barbie outfits instead of writing. All was quiet. That’s when the guitar went THWANG!

I whipped around to see what had fallen on it. Nothing had. The guitar was still propped upright, exactly where I’d left it, all six strings wound nice and tight.

Above: Actual guitar thwanged by actual ghost

This seems like as good a time as any to explain that we don’t believe in supernatural events or earthly manifestations of the restless dead or any of that shit. My husband says ghosts are really other-dimensional things we glimpse by accident, because the lives of everyone who ever lived coexist in endless loops on parallel time planes that occasionally overlap. Sort of like when you take two photographs without advancing the film, producing something you’re not supposed to see.

I have a theory too. I think my husband reads too much science fiction. Hell, this was New York. We’ve seen plenty of stuff we’d rather not — Glock-toting muggers, knife-wielding crackheads, drunk drivers, car thieves. Bikejackers. Pickpockets. Arsonists. Hysterical boroughphobic cabbies. Why not ghosts?

In practical terms, the only difference between them and corporeal troublemakers is crowd control. While street hoodlums are often unresponsive to reason, or sometimes even to English, they do come with more management options. You can chase them down, show them a taser, call the cops, or (my personal fave) follow them home and tell their mothers. We were far less resourceful at dealing with our skyrocketing Con Ed bills courtesy of our guests (or maybe we were theirs) firing up every bulb in the house. Mother never warned me about that.

But I will say this: No burglar ever left a light on to welcome me home.


Well, it certainly doesn’t look haunted…

Copyright © 2011 SYDNEY SCHUSTER — All Rights Reserved

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Sydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.