The World's Most Macho Beer

Years ago, when I lived in Brooklyn, there was a hugh sign I would pass traveling on the BQE.  In the daylight it said Bruno Truck Sales.  At night, the two neon S's were blown out and it read Bruno Truck Ale.

I couldn't imagine a more macho sounding beer.

"I'll have a Miller," your friend says.
"Make mine a Heineken," says another.
You say, "Gimme a Truck Ale."

That trumps 'em all.  And it's Bruno Truck Ale, a real man's name.
And it's made in Brooklyn, the unfancy part of the city.  The gritty, rough-edged, blue-collared borough.  Not like fancy Manhattan at all.

We have Little Italy and our Chinatown, Brooklyn is our Detroit.

So Bruno + Truck + Ale + Brooklyn.  Needs a solid logo.  And the typeface has to look like it was not designed, just put on as if those fancy details don't matter.  Here's my solution. . .

Now, it can't come in a namby-pamby bottle, but a Foster Lager sized tin.  And it has to pack a punch, halfway between a regular beer and Colt 45 Malt Liquor.

Cars

 

On our trip to Vermont, my son and came across several sections where roadwork was being done.  Each time there was a sign warning us that, up ahead, fines would double in the construction zone.

My son translated the sign into adolescent male language. “Dad,” he said, “if you’re going to do something illegal, do it now.  Fines are half-priced for the next couple hundred yards!”

Not tempted, I never the less thought it would be fair play for some minor government worker to be handing out coupons to all of us drivers.  Hey!  We were delayed, we couldn’t go our 65 miles an hour.  We were stuck going 5 or 10.  The coupons would allow you to go over the speed limit later on and make up for the inconvenience you suffered.  

A state trouper would pull you over a week or several months later, ask for your license and registration.  

“Did you know you were going 114?,” the officer would ask.

At that point, you'd get to ceremoniously whip out you coupon (like a Monopoly Get Out of Jail Free card or the gold captain’s badge my uncle from New Jersey would use on such occasions).  

“Have a nice day, officer,” you'd say before continuing down the road humming a tune, happy as Mr. Magoo in his roadster.

I’d love to be able to use the coupon.  Wouldn’t you?

While we’re on the subject of cars, a small architectural jewel was lost in May.

New York city had at one point four Frank Lloyd Wright “buildings.”  Can you name them.  The Guggenheim, of course; a private home on Staten Island;  a temporary pre-fab building at one of our museums; and a small, glassed, car showroom on Park Avenue.  If there were more, let me know, this is just off the top of my head.

The landmarks commission sent the building’s own a letter on March 25, telling him that the car showroom was being considered for landmarking.  The owner got a demolition permit right away (Hey, it’s another department) and a week later there was no showroom to landmark.  

Imagine if it had been kept. . . and MoMA had bought it and used it for as a small, satellite museum for a few great cars?  They have some wonderful ones.  And the perfect name?  They could have called it MoVE, the Museum of Vehicular Evolution.  

Think of the shows!  The Wright (no, the other Wrights) plane on loan.  Moma's green helicopter next to a Da Vinci mockup.   James Bond's Aston Martin and the TV Batmobile together.  Some tiny military drones with those small robotic fish and jellyfish from Japan.

And all wrapped in an elegant, Frank Lloyd Wright package.  The lines would have been, well, like museum lines at Moma on a Friday night.

Good Morning!

We had an old stove that came with the apartment.  After many years we got a new one.  A restaurant quality Viking.  The old, cheap one had a nice clock with a timer.  After we got our restaurant stove, occasionally, one of us would look over and wonder what time it was.

Instead of getting a new clock, I taped a sign above the stove.  It says "Morning."  I figured we call Japan or think of it often, and when it's evening here, it's morning there.  In the evening, we catch a couple minutes of "Good Morning, Japan."

So, either it is morning here in Manhattan or there are people waking up to a new day in Japan.  It's always morning somewhere.  The sign clock keeps perfect time and it's comforting.

My giraffe wants to remind you that it's evening somewhere now, if not here, perhaps Africa.  I recommend clicking on her to enlarge the picture.

Some days, I can get tunnel vision and stay in the apartment working on music or work.  I forget there's a world out there sometimes.  Then, when I actually take a walk through the 840 acres of Central Park, or if I stroll Riverside, I go "Whoa!" at the real world.

The little paper sign works a bit like that.