Phillipe Seymore Hoffman

1937 – 2014


Rare as it is, some nights do in fact start off with good intentions. It was supposed 2 be an evening of quiet conversation with discussion of the changing of times, of politics…of DeBlasio’s new New York; all framed within one of New York’s charming speakeasies: the Burp Castle, low down on the Lower East Side or somesuch, slinging out ample quantities of expensive craft beers and free pommes frittes. Look sometimes these things sound good, and they really should be, but there are some places we just don’t belong. They say that you’re not a true New Yorker until you break dawn on the streets, nude and chained to the giant cube at Astor Place, condemned for all eternity to push it around and around and around; like some new Conan or strange Sisyphus.

Eh, truth be told it was a quiet night spent in lower Manhattan purgatory. The Burp Castle was a wash; they ran out of fries, and thus we tucked in at the Tuck Shop, an Australian meat pie factory on 1st and First. Lively discussion with the Scottish pieman would lead to more rounds and dashing in and out to relieve oneself on a metal storage container or somesuch, positioned such as to allow for nonchalant street urination. It also had a handpainted memorial to what looked like Phillip Seymour Hoffman on it. Man, even on a slow night, one designed for quiet conversation and contemplation, a body still ends up soaking Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s face, neck, and chest with streams of piss. RIP, bro.

The Burp Castle: I actually like the Fart Burp Castle, but it’s souring on me as of late. It’s alright I guess but I can’t really swing this place all that often when two beers plus tip results in the loss of $20. Ambiance is choice, with dark woodwork and beautiful murals adorning the walls. The murals are cool and all but they don’t fit the reality of the place. I kind of wish I was inside of them instead of this joint, with it’s pasty bespectacled bourgeois clientele. There are no nude nymphs at the Burp Castle. A good bar to enjoy a book in but there’s not enough light to read, so it’s a good bar to sit and enjoy your beer. It should be noted that the schtick here it that you’re not supposed to raise your voice above a whisper, with the bartender letting out a ‘shhhhh’ should the din grow too loud. They also advertise free pommes frittes (french fries) at certain times of the day and moon, although when I went the place was packed and the fries were gone in about 20 minutes…although after that everyone left.


The Tuck Shop: An Australian eatery located at the nexus of the Universe, 1st and 1st in the Village or LES or whatever it calls itself. Little meat pies and sausage thingies are delicious indeed. A cool place, unique. The pieman is from Scotland and his assistant Hector is from Honduras. A strange combination that makes winning pies. They also serve beers here, in the bottle. One has a choice of 3 delightful Australian beers that are not Fosters and not that bad. Expect good banter from the Scottsman and be sure to mention Archi Gemmill’s classic strike for a free round of suds. Curious patrons often note the controversial outdoor urinal, a hand painted mural of Phillip Seymour Hoffman.


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