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Posts published in “Writing”

I started a Tumblr.

“Joe,” you ask, “isn’t The Black Laser already enough of a blog for you?”

“No,” I say. “The tumblr will serve an entirely different purpose.”

I guess the idea behind the Tumblr is to collect random crap from around the internet that wouldn’t necessarily warrant an entire post on The Black Laser. I mean, I already do a lot of that here, but it’s mostly videos and other things I like mixed in with actual Joe-generated content. The tumblr won’t have real content on it. Maybe I’ll post snippets of my better blog posts here on that thing, but, fuck, I don’t know. Really, I was just pretty bored at home tonight and since starting blogs is the 21 century’s equivalent of building train sets in the basement that’s what I did.

Head on over to Tumblr and check the new hotness out: The Black Laser’s Ray Gun*

*The name may change. Don’t look at me like that.

Review From My Queue: Ancient Aliens

Written for Vox Critica

A few months ago I was out with some friends for drinks at TBD in Greenpoint (see my Get Drunk Tonight on the place) because our friend Michelle was in town to go off to a wedding the next day in Connecticut. Everything was friendly and boisterous and the drinks were flowing and life was great on a beautiful night in Brooklyn. During a lull in the conversation, Michelle pops in and asks in her finest Texan, “Have you all seen the show Ancient Aliens?” The very title inspired rounds of amazed faces and disbelieving stares, so she started to tell us about it. What she said was so insane that it spurred two hours of conversation. She told us that the show claimed that essentially all human achievements were due to aliens, that Jesus was an alien, that Thomas Jefferson was an alien, that everything that ever happened ever was because of aliens.

I put it on my Netflix queue as soon as I got home.

Now, having watched nine or ten episodes—including all the 90 minute long first season episodes—I must to say that Michelle was close but not entirely right about what Ancient Aliens has to say and offer. But before I jump into individual theories about ancient astronauts, let’s discuss what makes the show so infuriating but so intriguing at the same time.

Ancient Aliens knows what it is. It knows that it is presenting some crackpot, bullshit theories as if they were fact. It knows how insane a lot of what they present sounds. It understands that people are going to have a hard time taking it seriously. As such, they present the show as earnestly as possible. I wouldn’t call it dry, exactly, but it’s no more silly than anything else The History Channel has ever produced and it is certainly not tongue-in-cheek about anything.

The basic premise for the show is to explain the ancient astronaut theory: throughout human history aliens have visited the Earth and intervened in human events. They look to all sorts of things—Stonehenge, myth and religion, crop circles, ancient art, so many many things—and explain every single one of them as having been due to alien interference. An overwhelming majority of the alien claims are made by four ancient astronaut “researchers” who’ve written multitudes of books on the ancient astronaut theories: Giorgio Tsoukalos, David Childress, Bill Birnes, and Erich Von Däniken.

The show even goes so far as to get real scientists to lend a sense of legitimacy to the crackpots making the frankly enormous logical leaps about the course of human history. They have geologists, archaeologists, astrophysicists, all sorts of scientists with all sort of degrees talking about all sorts of stuff that is actually pretty solid, respectable science. If you pay attention, though, they’ve carefully cut around any time a real scientist might discount the alien theories. You’ll never hear a proper scientist say, “It was aliens!!!” but they almost always provide the information leading to the alien claim.

Like such:

Scientist: “I am convinced that this particular underwater formation was indeed man-made based on the tools we found there, the neat right angles in the carving, and some inscriptions. Our tests indicate that the site is 14,000 years old.”

CUT TO

Ancient Astronaut Guy: “That’s not possible! The logical conclusion is that it was aliens!”

Or:

Scientist: “Ancient Sumerian writings describe creatures that came from the sky and bestowed knowledge upon humanity.”

Ancient Astronaut Guy: “Beings from the sky obviously means aliens!”

Or:

Scientist: “There’s a rock formation in Peru that resembles a door of sorts.”

Ancient Astronaut Guy: “That is a stargate to travel to distant worlds!”

And so on and so forth, ad nauseam. The ancient astronaut guys never get tired of performing this sort of logical slight of hand, jumping between a piece of information and some conclusion without any structure between. Worse is that some of the claims they make are so outlandish that it detracts from other material in the show which is actually fascinating. No one on this planet will ever tell me and have me believe that human beings were genetically engineered by aliens from another planet to be slave labor to mine gold so the aliens could take said gold and replenish the atmosphere of their home planet. I don’t care what the Sumerian cuneiform tablets say. I don’t care how literally Giorgio Tsoukalos wants to equate every mythic image with something in real life. I don’t care that David Childress thinks everything ever was the doing of aliens. You cannot make that sort of claim without anything but poorly interpreted mythological evidence and have me believe it. I’m sorry, but it’s not convincing.

I am not convinced that Jesus was half alien. I am not convinced that Mount Olympus was actually an alien spaceship. I am not convinced that the Mahabharata in an ancient account of war between groups of aliens.

Furthermore, so many of their “obvious alien interventions” fall apart under the scrutiny of Occam’s Razor when you understand the theory of pareidolia, which is defined as “a psychological phenomenon involving a vague and random stimulus (often an image or sound) being perceived as significant.” Pareidolia is the reason that people see the Virgin Mary in toast or animals in clouds or Jesus on the ass of a dog. It is a basic function of the human brain used to help us identify friends from strangers or people under less than optimal circumstances or predators hiding under cover. It’s part of our deepest animal brain and meant to keep us alive. Yet these ancient astronaut researchers love to declare that rock formations that look like faces or a hole in a wall that looks something like a door or anything that looks like something else actually is what it looks like. Well, as much as you think the rock formations that look like a western face on one side and an eastern face on another side were carved by aliens, I’m willing to bet that this is a case of pareidolia. That is, they are recognizing faces where there are in fact none and we can be reasonably sure I am correct since, though we have equal hypotheses, mine makes fewer assumptions. The idea of natural rock formations playing tricks on our utterly imperfect animal brains assumes only that are brains are at fault, whereas the idea that these rocks were carved by aliens assumes a whole host of other, illogical ideas. Sorry guys, that face on the underwater rock formation off the coast of Japan isn’t a face; it’s just some chunks out of the rocks.

Then you have much better documented UFO sightings and video tape and what looks like legitimate evidence—which I find fascinating—being overshadowed by the craziness of the previous claims. I am willing to give credibility to the Battle of Los Angeles, to Roswell, to foofighters in World War II, to Columbus’ documented UFO sighting, to the 1561 Swiss alien sightings. I can’t be positive about any of those events, but the evidence does seem to suggest that what the people report could in fact be the result of ET visitation. The evidence is more direct; the data are clearer. There are photographs, eye witness accounts, film, video, written accounts. I trust those things.

Their discussion of SETI is frank and well presented. Even when it is, at times, tainted by the stink of the ancient astronaut nuts, the show sticks quite closely to the real science and history of the project. It is a deeply important thing for humanity to be searching the skies for any signs that we might not be alone. SETI’s methods are solid: they search for regular, repeating signals amidst the noise of the night sky. That is awesome and it makes sense. They are using science to search for something new. I respect the hell out of that. Even beloved Carl Sagan is well presented and respected on the show as a premier astronomer and scientist. His desire to communicate with alien intelligence made it out of the solar system first as symbols on a gold plaque and then as a golden record with images and music and information about mankind. Tell us more about that.

Therein lies the true tragedy of Ancient Aliens. It actually presents a lot of interesting, well thought out, credible material, but it is sandwiched between lunatic claims with no real evidence that follow structureless logic. The crazies do damage to the respectable claims by their foul proximity. If I were given the opportunity I would cut out all the ancient astronaut crap. The show would be much stronger.

Indeed, I take issue with the whole ancient astronaut theory that nearly every great human achievement ever was in fact the work of what they call celestial beings. As if never in all our history have human beings been crafty enough, been smart enough, been capable enough of ever creating anything lasting. Foolish and insulting. Why must everything great and lasting have been the handiwork of aliens? Because you can’t understand how they did it? How narrow-minded. As if Bill Birnes can accurately judge the mindset of an Egyptian engineer six thousand years ago. I’ve never even been able to judge the mindset of a girlfriend, much less someone cut off from me by millennia and an uncrossable cultural chasm. And then to start making assumptions about the impulses and mindset of alien cultures a hundred thousand years ago? Ridiculous! Why would spacefaring aliens communicate with something as primitive as circle of rocks? We’re not spacefaring and we wouldn’t; we’d use some sort of modern equipment. Why assume just because you don’t understand the reasoning behind why ancient man built elaborate structures that they must be communicating with aliens? Why give stone age man so little credit? We’ve put men on the moon; I don’t find it hard to believe that a group of tenacious stone age fellows would be able to erect gigantic stone structures. Why not? Why must everything be aliens? The logic doesn’t follow. Where is your faith in humanity?

I believe in extra terrestrial life. The math supports it. It is too illogical to assume that amongst the billions and billions of stars there isn’t some other planet that has also figured out how to make an apple pie. There are too many opportunities for life to spring up on one of the countless balls of rocks floating through space. But I don’t believe that aliens have played a role in every significant human endeavor throughout history. I don’t believe that aliens have been monkeying around with us. If they’ve been so ever present, where are they know? Where are the new star children? Where are the new battles in the sky?

I am a skeptic. I believe in evidence. Where there is evidence in Ancient Aliens, I am totally on board. Where they make absurd leaps of “logic” they lose me. To say that I hate Ancient Aliens would be wrong, yet to say that I love Ancient Aliens would also be wrong. In fact, neither statement quite describes how I feel about the show; I love AND hate Ancient Aliens equally and passionately. The show is a bastion of insane crackpot theories and solid science. It is abhorrent and fascinating. It is illogic and logic. It is stupid and it is brilliant.

Editor’s note: the meme is spot on.

Soon to be posted at:

A Letter to Ugg Boots In Reference to My Extreme Hatred For Them

Ugg Boots,

You’ll notice, Ugg Boots, that I did not use the word “dear” to begin this letter. I don’t want you to hold the mistaken assumption that I have anything but the greatest contempt for you. But I don’t believe that even conveys how utterly I hate you. I possess nothing but the sincerest enmity, the most profound disdain, the most resounding loathing for you. You inflict ruin on the feet and ankles of women everywhere, women gullible enough to believe that how they appear to other people is less important than that their little toesies are warm and cuddly. You are emblematic of the laziness that is ruining humanity. For every silly woman wearing you with tucked in sweatpants and a sweatshirt or North Face fleece (the gray and black one, you know the one I am talking about) I want to kick a defenseless puppy. I shed a tear for the future of the human race every time I see a pink pair attempting to navigate the filthy Manhattan snowbanks. I want to choke someone until I see the light drain out of their eyes every time I see a mother/daughter pair dressed similarly, wearing Uggs, and holding shopping bags.

You are the ruin of The United States of America.

As a Californian, I never experienced a real winter until I moved to the North East. The worst we had it, Ugg Boots, was 40 degree days, perhaps a frost over night. But it never snowed. Never sustained sub-freezing temperatures. Never had to worry that the wind chill was going to make it feel like temperatures below 0°F (-18°C). Yet people would flip their living shit about the “cold” and how “freezing” it was. And that’s when you came out, Ugg Boots, on the feet every silly, stupid college girl going to class in her pajamas. It would be 60°F (16°C) and girls would be out with fleeces and Uggs and I would want to stab them.

Even here in New York, you’ll start seeing your hideous visage as early as September once nature delicately hints that perhaps maybe it might just not be warm enough to wear flip flops anymore. Then I must endure you until May when the sweat on a person’s brow suggests that perhaps maybe it might just be too warm to continue wearing vile, wool-lined skin tubes your feet.

That segues nicely into another gripe of mine. Winter boots need not be ugly, shapeless masses of material slipped onto the foot. They can be stylish, too. They can accentuate a figure, the can add height, they can be designed. But you, horrid defiler, you are not. You make women—even women who might have lovely, slender ankles—appear as if they have wooden pylons for ankles. The only thing I find more unflattering than you, Ugg Boots, is track marks.

Look, I’ll admit something to you, something that pains me to no end. I once purchased a pair of you for an ex. I know, I know. The self-loathing will never cease. It was our first Christmas and she had moved to New York not long before. I got her a pair of the black ones and she wore them for years until it became painfully and slushily obvious that you were not up to the job of keeping her feet dry as well as warm against the New York winter.

In summation, you can go to hell along with wedges, sweatpants with words on the ass, Ed Hardy clothes, and Tap Out. A winter without you would be the most pleasant summer of my life.

Sincerely,

The Black Laser.

On the Advice of Torgeir, The Black Metal Extremist III

Question:

My fiancé and I are researching venues for our wedding rehearsal dinner. We found an Italian restaurant that seemed perfect. We sat with the manager and came up with menu ideas, and told him we would come back that night to try the food. We returned with a couple of friends and spoke with the night manager, who knew about us and promised to “take care of us.” The meal was multicoursed and delicious, but we were shocked by a $300 tab. Were we wrong to take the manager at his word and assume the meal would be free?

You are always wrong to assume things whether you are assuming your sacrificial dagger is sharp enough to cut the still beating heart from another human or that you are in a place to receive charity from a restaurant owner.

Have you used your brain for even a moment and realized that the manager might have meant something other than “I will give you free food, you pathetic worms”? That perhaps he just meant that he would ensure that you miserable cretins would have a nice time and have your desires tended to? Have you thought about that? Of course you hadn’t, you presumptuous cow. You think that you should be given something for free because you asked or because you misinterpreted what he said? Do you think he needs to court you to ensure that he can continue to put food on his table? I assure you, wench, that he does not.

Your mewling cries for charity are pathetic. You are weak. Charity is the refuge of those who lack the strength to care for themselves and affect their own futures. “Oh!! We expected free dinner! We are getting married! Poor us! It was 300 dollars! The manager said something vague that we thought meant one thing but meant something else! WHINE WHINE WHINE!!!”

While you are out there planning for your “rehearsal dinner” and “wedding” and “reception”, I am carrying on the more important work of purging this world of the blight of Christianity and spreading the unholy power of black metal. Do you think I ever once expected to get anything for free? Never. Though a vast majority of my income is paid through Norway’s generous social welfare system, I never took a handout a day in my life. You could learn from me what it means to be strong, to fight against adversity, to struggle. Instead you whine and complain about how hard it is to find a place to fill the fat, unrelenting mouths of your “family” and “friends”.

Furthermore, your adherence to the Christian tradition of marriage makes me vomit blood into the snow. The steam rising from my vomited blood stinks of copper and bile and whiskey and even this stench does not accurately describe my disgust for you. Don’t get married. Break off the wedding. Your fiancé will be better off without you.

Die in a fire.

Soundtrack: Gorgoroth’s “Under the Sign of Hell”

Also posted at:

Creative Projects-August: The Black Laser Gets Redesigned, or, Giving Advice To Those Who Don’t Want It

Another month, another series of successes! WOO WOO. I was able to successfully finish the redesign of The Black Laser which was long in coming. I am glad it is done. That was project 8.

I also debuted as Torgeir the Black Metal Extremist over at Vox Critica which is pretty sweet. Giving people advice they don’t want might be the most important thing a person can do for others and I am glad to be inflicting that trauma. Enjoy it. Torgeir was project 9.

You’ll also notice that the counter for this year so far is already at 11. That’s right. Nearly all the way there and only mid-way through September. It’s a far cry from earlier this year when I was struggling to get things done. Feels damned good.

On the other half of the tip, August was a pretty good, moderate month for me. Nothing terribly exciting to report there. The whole “Don’t Go Drinking During The Week By Yourself” thing is working out pretty well for me. Next up? “Don’t Go Drinking By Yourself At All.” Baby steps.

There’s a bunch of stuff to talk about during this month’s wrap up, but it will have to wait. Until then!

A Letter to My Landlord Frank That He Will Almost Definitely Never Read

Dear Frank,

First, let me just say thank you. You’re the best landlord I’ve ever had.

Now, let’s jump backwards a little bit. For 5 years I lived in an apartment at 310 S 3rd St. It was a fine enough apartment and I was basically happy with it. I lived there with my former girlfriend and life was mostly good. I liked the neighborhood (except on Puerto Rico/Dominican Republic days when it was constant Reggaeton until dawn—yuck) enough and everything was close and accessible and easy.

But as soon as we had problems with the apartment, we ran into roadblocks. Since my girlfriend was generally less employed than I was during that time, it often fell on her shoulders to make calls and see that repairs were taken care of. Unfortunately for us, she was a woman and good luck getting our old landlords to listen to a woman for anything. Even when we spoke to women, nothing ever happened. Repairs went untended to and things fell into our laps. A prime example, when we first moved in the apartment was newly renovated, which was nice but it also meant that we had no stove or refrigerator for like 2 weeks. Pretty annoying. And when they finally did drop them off, that was all they did. I had to figure out how to connect the stove to the gas, purchase a tube and thread goop from the hardware store, and do it myself. I imagine that this isn’t up to code, but call me crazy.

At some point in our tenure in that apartment, our bathroom ceiling started dripping. It was a pain, and we called about it. No response. As the months of dripping went on and the damage it was causing to the bathroom ceiling became evident, we started calling on the regular. No response. So we wrote letters. No response. I spoke to the super. No follow-up. The drywall of the ceiling became wetter and wetter and moldier and stained and fucked up, but they didn’t care enough to send someone over to fix it.

The final straw with them came the day I lost my job in June 2009. It was an overcast day and I had to go to the office to turn in my ID and keys and sign some paper for our corporate overlords agreeing to the shitty severance package I was getting and that I wouldn’t sue them. Spirits were high. Jesse, who I worked with at the time, picked up a bunch of beers and headed back to my house to mourn the loss our of employment. We arrived home just in time for the bathroom ceiling to explode into a great torrent of water that spread all over the floor of the kitchen and into the living room. I called my old landlords furious, yelling and cursing that this problem had gone on a year and now, on the day I got laid off, I have my ceiling exploding water all over the place. I yelled. A lot. The woman on the phone was afraid and they actually sent someone right away. It still took them weeks to fix the now gaping hole in the ceiling.

I was glad to move out of there.

When I moved into your building, Frank, I was prepared to have the same sort of shitty landlord/tenant relationship I had always experienced while living in New York. They are, generally, a bunch of assholes. Luckily, you are not.

On the wall of the kitchen of my then-new apartment there was a mirror, which is cool and everything, except that I intended to put a kitchen island against that wall and the top of the mirror only reached my collarbone. I suppose the previous tenant was much shorter than I am. I very carefully attempted to remove the mirror from the wall, but when you’d painted the place the wet paint had dripped behind the mirror and glued it to the drywall. I used a knife to remove the mirror, like a surgeon, but I was unable to take it down without damaging the wall. And then there was a giant unpainted rectangle mirror ghost. Oops!

I went to Richie, the amazing super intendant, and told him what happened. I offered to fix it myself if he could provide me with the tools, since it was totally my fault. I went to https://toolsduty.com/best-portable-tool-box/ and bought a tool box so I wouldn’t lose anymore tools. He told me it was no problem and that you’d take care of it. The next day before I returned fro work, the wall was patched and painted.

Amazing! I had never in my adult life experienced such rapid turn-around on a repair in my apartment. I expected the damage to mar my wall forever. I was glad to be wrong.

But it doesn’t end there.

One day I was here at work and I got a phone call from Jesse (same one) around 4:30, 5 o’clock. He told me he had good news and bad news. I told him to give me the bad news first.

“Your doorknob fell off.”

“What?”

“Your doorknob fell off. You can still get into and out the apartment, though.”

“What’s the good news?”

“I cleaned your apartment. I got on the phone with my mom and instead of just sitting around, I cleaned. For an hour and a half.”

“Ah, uh, cool. Let me call my landlord.”

So I called and left a vou voicemail and by the time I got home from work around 9, the doorknob was back on. And, thanks to Jesse, I had a sparklingly clean apartment. Awesome!

And then there was the time I got home around 2:30 in the morning and you had locked me out of my place and you can all the way from Queens to let me in and then we discovered that I had not been given a necessary key when I moved in. And then I had a copy of the key on my counter the next day. Amazing!

Most recently, I noticed that my microwave kept losing power because I kept having to reset the clock. Then I noticed that my fridge was also losing power, which was a drag since it meant that a whole lot of food in my fridge spoiled, but that’s no one’s fault. It’s a good thing I rarely have food in my fridge. I called and left a voicemail the next morning at work saying that I think the outlet was bad, even though the breaker is not switching off. When I got home, I saw that you’d run an extension cord from the fridge to another outlet in the kitchen. Smart. And though this is all starting to sound repetitive, the next morning at 9:30 while I am getting ready for work you show up with an electrician. Who does that? Awesome. That evening, the outlet was fixed.

So, basically, what I am saying Frank is that you are awesome. I appreciate how readily you take care of problems around the building. You respond right away and you treat every issue as if it were important, even if they are relatively minor. And then not raising my rent this year? Never ever has that happened before.

Wow. I am never moving out.

Sincerely,

The Black Laser.

On the Advice of Torgeir, The Black Metal Extremist II

Question:

I work for a media company. We’re quite busy lately, and I would like to send our interns, who are unpaid college students, on the occasional coffee run, but it seems wrong somehow. I know they wouldn’t be learning anything, but isn’t it better for the company to have an unpaid intern and not a paid employee do this?

If I am correct in my assumptions, you work for some miserable nameless drone factory spreading the disease of capitalism across the world. You seek to poison minds with your Christian agenda. Though I do not support your doctrine of the light, let us examine your question from an intellectual standpoint, something I am sure you know nothing about.

First, if you are going to draft students into working as slave labor for you performing menial tasks, is it really so inappropriate to send them on other less educational menial tasks? Nonsense. Banality is banality. Whether they are filing a heart-crushing stack of paperwork or fetching coffee for you and your lazy officemates, what’s the difference? Both are a supreme waste of the students’ time. What could they possibly be learning from such nonsensical tasks as you have appointed them? Don’t waste the time of people you actually pay to be there on something as foolish as coffee runs. Use the slaves.

In the darkened days of college, I spent the longest winter of my life working as the intern at a local radio station here in Trondheim. I took the job primarily to steal blank cassettes on which to release my countless, brutal black metal projects and demos. Everyone know that cassette tapes are the ideal medium for distributing black metal demos. Only sell-outs would use CDs. And digital files? Worthless.

During my internship I was sent out for coffee many times, but did I ever feel like it was a waste of time? Of course I did. It was an enormous waste of time as are all internships. Therefore your interns are wasting their time by just being there, so if you waste their time in turn by sending them for coffee nothing is lost.

You know what, maybe you should all—paid and unpaid—go on coffee runs all day. Then your pathetic propagandist media empire would crumble into dust as is the fate of all humanity. I beseech the wolves of the new moon to feast upon your bones.

Hang yourself.

Soundtrack: Darkthrone’s “Transylvanian Hunger”

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Get Drunk Tonight – TBD

TBD – Greenpoint, Brooklyn (Franklin & Green St)

Suppose that it is a nice day outside and you think to yourself, “What would be better right now than ruining the rest of my day by getting way too drunk after forgetting to eat anything? Oh, right. Nothing. Where to do my day drinking?!” And then you start to think of different places you might want to go have a drink or 17. Berry Park is full of shit heads. Nope. Radegast is terminally full. Nope. Ditto for Spitzenhaus. Nope. Loreley in Williamsburg is stuck under the freeway and the service sucks. Nope. Loreley in Manhattan is ok but tiny and gets packed. Nope. Züm Schneiders only has seating on the street which is not my favorite thing. Nope. The Bohemian Beer Garden is a bear to get to. Nope. Beer Island is great, but Coney Island is similarly hard to get to. Nope.

Where is a man with the desire to ruin his day supposed to go? The answer is TBD. Oh, how I love TBD on a perfect afternoon. The first drunken Sunday at TBD of the year is the sign that winter has broken and warmer days are ahead. This year it happened in April. I look forward to it.

Saddled with an unfortunate name and an even more unfortunate interior, one quick glance in the door at TBD and you might think, “No way, Get Drunk Tonight, you’re full of shit.” But trust me here. Go inside. And then go all the way to the back past the ping pong table, past the shitty furniture, past the bathrooms, and out in the glorious backyard fill with umbrellad picnic tables. It is a magical wonderland of empty tables and quiet and sunshine. It’s one of my favorite places to while away an afternoon with a couple good friends, my credit card at the bar, and a plan to be asleep at my house by 10pm.

TBD always has a good selection of interesting beers, usually one per variety so your palate will be tickled. They also have a grill in the back which is good, but can take quite a long time which is not a problem, of course, if you’re settling in to spend the next 6 hours assaulting your liver with foamy beer sodas. It’s a little out of the way for Manhattanites, but right near the Greenpoint G for those of you who live in real places. It’s never so packed you can’t find a table. The crowd is relaxed and diverse. TBD is just a great place to get your drink on. Just don’t go during the winter. The inside is the worst.

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