16 February 2010

The Great Persecution and its Consequences - Henry Chadwick

The Diocletianic Persecution lasted from AD 303 - 313. In a series of edicts released between AD 303 and 304, Diocletian ordered the destruction of all Christian churches, the confiscation of all Bibles, liturgical books, and sacred vessels, forbade the gathering of Christians to worship, ordered the arrest of all clergy, and made refusal to sacrifice to the pagan gods punishable by death.

The worst legacy of the persecution was once again schism. As in modern times the Christians differed among themselves about the point at which resistance to the State must be absolute. In the East sacrifice was regarded as apostasy, not the surrender of sacred books and church plate. But in the West opinion was divided, passion ran high, and in consequence, although persecution was briefer and left most western provinces unaffected, the scars were more serious than in the East.

...in Numidia especially, the surrender of the scriptures or indeed of any books which the police were ready to accept as such (one bishop handed in medical treatises) was regarded as apostasy. To think otherwise was to derogate from the glory of those who had died rather than surrender, since it implied that they had been overdoing it [emphasis mine].
Have a contemplative first week of Lent (Clean Week!), ladies and gents.

28 December 2009

Birdy: The Steel Jaw

"Y'know, when the doctor, the major, told me that one of the things they had to do was give me a steel jaw, I thought, 'Great, maybe I'll be the next LaMotta or something.' Turns out a punch can actually knock the pins into my brain, so actually it's worse than a glass jaw. That's pretty funny, huh?"
- Sergeant Alfonso Columbato
(Nicolas Cage) in Birdy

23 December 2009

Staropramen Czech Pilsener

As yesterday's post no doubt made clear, my alcohol hierarchy puts light beers- especially lagers- way at the bottom. For the longest time I thought all beer tasted like Corona and Red Dog, so the first two years of my drinking life were limited pretty exclusively to vodka and, on exceptionally rash and desperate days, gin.

That said, I can't help put pick up a Czech beer once in a while- granted my blood is Slovak and I'll rant for hours about the pathetic Europhile spinelessness of "the Czech Republic" and its Bavarian bootlicking, but standing in the Bull's Eye Beer Depot surrounded by pretentious Belgians, imperious Germans and the blood-thirsty Irish, I have to reach for what's most familiar, and Prague is often as close to home as I'll get.

So now I'm sitting in my living room watching Evan Lysacek (American born, looks vaguely South Slavic, apparently Greek Orthodox) win the 2009 ISU Grand Prix of Figure Skating with my youngest brother and knocking back a Staropramen "Premium Lager".

The tag line on their website says "Get a taste of Prague." Good lord, if this is what Prague tastes like no wonder it's become the Niagara Falls of Central Europe. Praha is supposed to be zlaté město- the golden city, the mystical and ancient city, the fountainhead of western European sorcery and enchantment. I've been reading tarot since I was about eight years old, but my favorite deck is The Tarot of Prague because of the way it integrates the city's breath-taking art and history into the major and minor arcana.

The Staropramen Lager is, yes, several steps up from the Coronas I've been drinking lately (it's my parents' favorite beer). The carbonation isn't overpowering, the 5% ABV is very subtle, the aroma is light- in general there's nothing at all striking about this beer. Maybe that's the point of a pilsener, I don't know. Seems to me Prague deserves better.

22 December 2009

Russian Imperial Stouts

The first beer I ever enjoyed was, perhaps unsurprisingly, a Russian Imperial Stout. One night I found myself at a great burgers 'n brew joint called Prime 16 and saw "Old Rasputin Russian Imperial Stout" written up on the chalk board-- me being me, I had to order it, as a joke if nothing else. It was amazing, and I've been a die hard stout drinker ever since.

Apparently Peter I and I finally agree about something:
When Peter the Great opened Czarist Russia to the West in the early 18th century, dark ales called "Porter" were all the rage in England. Porters, named after the working class who devoured them, were relatively easy-drinking brews with a small percentage of highly roasted malt. The result was a dark brown, toffee-flavored libation fit for mass consumption. Arthur Guinness took the idea to Ireland, increased the dark, coffee-tinted profile and added “Extra Stout” to his label, thus creating another new beer style.

Peter the Great fell in love with stouts during his 1698 trip to England, and he requested that some be sent to the Imperial court in Russia. Much to the embarrassment of the English, the beer had spoiled somewhere along its tedious thousand-mile journey! Determined as always to save face, the Barclay brewery of London came to the rescue by rapidly increasing the amount of alcohol and hops for their second effort. The result was an inky black concoction with enough warmth and complexity to immediately become a sensation throughout Russia. The “Russian Imperial Stout” had been born and quickly became popular throughout European Russia.
That's about as good a back story as something called a Russian Imperial Stout could hope to have. On to the fun part: I went beer shopping today.


You never forget your first! This stuff makes Guinness taste like a cheap rum soaked mockolate bar. You taste and feel the 9% ABV, but it's fully integrated into the flavor profile of the beer itself- I can't imagine this beer with a different alcohol ratio. I can't stand overly chocolatey stouts- Old Rasputin is nutty, fruity, and reminiscent of chocolate in ways that remind you why some people take their chocolate as seriously as their wine.

The packaging and marketing is equally brilliant. The first thing you see after Rasputin's dubious blessing are the words "NEVER SAY DIE!" written along the top of the four-pack. The Russian proverb printed beneath the portrait, "Сердечный друг не родится вдруг," means roughly "One does not become an intimate friend quickly." Style and substance- what more could anyone want?


A stout so goddamn intense they only sell it by the pint (1 pint, 6 oz, technically). 11.73% ABV. Part of Avery Brewing Co's "Dictator Series": The Czar (Imperial Stout), the Kaiser (Imperial Lager), and the Maharaja (Imperial IPA). I haven't tried this yet- I'm saving it for a really special occasion- but y'all need to know it exists, and honestly, doesn't have to taste that good to kick ass, but I bet it does.


Haven't tried this one yet either, but it looks promising. 9.7% ABV, looks just as dark as the Old Rasputin (the Czar has an interesting reddish tint to it even in the bottle)- also definitely cheaper than both the Czar and OR, so as long as it tastes better than your average Guinness it's a win in my book. I'll be reviewing all these sometime in the near future.

Other beers I bought and will be reviewing soon:
  • Peche Mortel Imperial Coffee Stout
  • Duchesse de Bourgogne Belgian Ale
  • Augustijn Belgian Ale
  • Kostritzer Schwarzbier (German Black Lager)
  • Staropramen Czech Lager
If you have any suggestions, let me know! There's a giant beer distributor around here that lets you create your own six packs.

18 August 2009

OTGDY: Smoking Sudamericano

Soon to be published in the Yale Free Press (print edition), the first instance of my smoking column, tentatively titled "Only the Good Die Young":

I had been in South America for only ten minutes, and already I was disappointed. Two hours from New Haven to JFK, eleven hours from JFK to Ministro Pistarini International, five hours of checking in, security, and idly munching on stale Hudson News muffins—I needed a cigarette, and God damn it, I was in Buenos Aires. I expected to walk off the plane into a thick cloud of smoke, men offering me a light at every other step, fedora clad and winking. Alas, EZE (Aeropuerto Internacional de Ezeiza "Ministro Pistarini") was as smoke free as any Manhattan Starbucks. The city proper, however, was more welcoming.

The city's streets are dotted with streetcarts, selling newspapers, magazines, post cards, but thankfully, especially, tobacco. You could buy them by the pack or fish your desired number out of pre-opened packs perched nervously by the register. Familiar faces greeted me: the Marlboros, Camels, Lucky Strikes, even Benson & Hedges, my old standby—but the Argentinian cigarettes (dare I say, like the Argentinian people?) were far more enticing. My tour guide, Herrrrrrnan (if you don't roll the r for two full seconds you aren't doing him justice) smoked Jockeys, and so Jockeys I attempted to buy. Attempted, because I foolishly pronounced “Jockey” as one would in English, leaving the twenty-something woman trying to serve me utterly confused. Throughout most of my trip, cigarette vendors eventually resorted to pointing at each successive brand and variety until my exasperated, over-enthusiastic nod confirmed my preference, with one exception: everyone and his grandmother knows what a Marlboro Red is. But I digress.

I was born and raised in New York, and since high school have lived in New Haven. Buying tobacco in Argentina was like frolicking through Elysian fields. American brands, and upscale foreign brands, cost around eight Argentinian pesos a pack—roughly two bucks, back in May when I was there. I could've bought packs for one American dollar or less; I also could've bought large bottles of vodka (legally! Ten-year-olds probably make liquor runs for their parents in BA) for less than $4—in both cases, I refrained.

The real beauty of my South American tobacco tourism wasn't monetary, however—even at those shoddy little streetcarts staffed by leathery old men in newsy caps, the brand variety dwarfed most American drugstores. Bright blue and red signs scream “OPEN 25 HS” throughout the city; these stores, so like our 7-11s in every other way, have an almost laughable (in that nervous, hysterical, childishly excited way) tobacco selection. It was at such an establishment that I first purchased my second favorite cigarettes of all time—Harmonys. Strong and flavorful—in a way no smokes I can buy at the 24 hour Walgreens by my New England apartment could ever hope to be—affordable, and apparently Chinese (I know, I thought the entire nation smoked nothing but 555s too); to this day I regret having bought only two packs, both now long gone. Weeks later I found myself smiling as I gave a DC bum the best cigarette he'd ever smoke: normal length, normal filter, with nothing but the English word “Harmony” wrapped around its dainty circumference.

Exotic varieties of Virginia Slims (the Unos come in a discrete black or white box reminiscent of perfume packaging), kretek galore, all manner of superfluously upscale sounding brands (the Hiltons stick out in my mind as both exceptionally hilarious and bad)—Buenos Aires was FAO Schwartz Tobacco, at Walmart prices. However bad the US economy is, the ridiculous exchange rate made it clear the Argentinian economy was even worse, and yet these humble South Americans stood in the shadow of tobacco heaven, while I routinely made do with $5 Liggetts (you've probably never heard of them, with good reason, but I assure you they're among the cheapest cigs available at your local drugstore).

Oh brothers, in Buenos Aires, that land of milk and honey, you can smoke in bars. From my travel diary:

“...I was loud and vulgar and threw cigarettes in the faces of the non-smokers, pressuring them to join. The Argentinians loved me and called me The Russian. We talked about trains and bars and Peru and San Francisco. The Argentinians disappeared and an eternity later I was in a bar being offered a single cigarette by a bronze Argentinian with thick white eyebrows and no tie....”

The bushy-browed Argentine was the bartender; the joint was dark and beautiful. I'd ordered a vodka tonic and a pack of Marlboros, and he'd offered me one of his cigarettes while a waitress assembled my dinner. I felt like Hemingway, Camus, and a free lancer working for Vanity Fair. It was amazing. You can't feel like that in New Haven, not even at the Owl Shop (which I nevertheless encourage you to patronize early and often).

As for Rio de Janeiro, I offer a single vignette: I was standing outside my hotel around midnight, smoking and laughing at the Portuguese warnings of impotence illustrated (!) on my pack, when a shirtless young man approached me, gesturing “Please, miss, can I bum a smoke?” Never one to break the Smoker's Code, even in a notoriously dangerous city, I gave him one, and lit it for him. He beamed, completely shocked that I'd actually granted him this small blessing, just as a security guard from the lobby emerged to angrily shoo him away. “Stay right here, by the doors,” he brusquely said to me, “don't talk to them.” He stood with me as I smoked all the way down to the filter, bitterly, in his bleached white staff jacket.

The United States welcomed me home by banning cloves and raising taxes while I was still unpacking the cartons I'd bought tax-free at Guarulhos International in São Paolo. My stash finally ran out a week ago, and even that aforementioned Walgreens, which sells at the state-minimum, hasn't been able to console me. I'm back to smoking Marlboro 100s, Reds, of course, on my fire escape right above “Soul de Cuba”, a restaurant on High Street. Argentina certainly won't cry for me, but oh, to be a girl from Ipanema!

16 August 2009

Oscar Wilde is actually rather annoying

I first encountered Mr Wilde when I was 12 (perhaps 14?...), through his essay The Decay of Lying, which I still enjoy. It wasn't until now, however, that I've begun to read The Importance of Being Earnest.
"CECILY: I am afraid I am not learned at all. All I know is about the relations between Capital and Idleness--and that is merely from observation. So I don't suppose it is true.
MISS PRISM: Cecily, that sounds like Socialism! And I suppose you know where Socialism leads to?
CECILY: Oh, yes! That leads to Rational Dress, Miss Prism. And I suppose that when a woman is dressed rationally, she is treated rationally. She certainly deserves to be."
Which brings me back to an earlier scene from the same play:
"JACK: Is that clever?
ALGERNON: It is perfectly phrased! And quite as true as any observation in civilized life should be."
Likewise here, and here:
"CECILY: ... I hope that you have not been leading a double life, pretending to be wicked and being really good all the time. That would be hypocrisy.
ALGERNON (looks at her in amazement): Oh! Of course I have been rather reckless."

"ALGERNON: ... Indeed, it is not even decent...and that sort of thing is enormously on the increase. The amount of women who flirt with their own husbands is perfectly scandalous. It looks so bad. It is simply washing one's clean linen in public [emphasis mine]."
He knew exactly what he was doing! Shameless.

15 August 2009

"Superheroes don't smoke."

From the 2007 documentary about costumed panhandlers outside Grauman's Chinese Theatre, Confessions of a Superhero:
"Superman" and "Ghost Rider" are walking down the Walk of Fame.

Superman: Ya gotta remember there's a lotta dos and don'ts, ah, as a superhero... but if you abide by 'em, you do okay.


Superman: Well, just remember, superheroes don't smoke. [pause] It's an image.

Ghost Rider: Except Ghost Rider.

Superman: No. Ghost Rider doesn't smoke.

Ghost Rider: He's made of fire.

Superman: But, still, he doesn't smoke cigarettes. [pause] You can't make exceptions for something that doesn't exist. You'll never see Ghost Rider smokin' a cigarette walkin' down the street. It's just not proper.