Whitman's Brooklyn, black, chocolate and stout

It's certainly not every day that a libation from the storied Brooklyn Brewery finds itself propped up for a glamour shot on my cutting board, so a certain compulsion to fire up the old blogomobog was inevitable when this glorious specimen recently crossed the great divide and found its home in my cellar.

But I'd be lying if I didn't say that this tail-end of summer, with its lethagic dog days tinged with little specks of regret and hints that a return to the regular grind is just around the corner, has infected me with a serious case of vacation brain. So I present you with a distraction, this: Whitman's Brooklyn. From the description of the project:

"If Walt Whitman’s association with Brooklyn is not exactly overlooked by mainstream documentarians, then neither is it explicitly celebrated or, one might argue, sufficiently considered in the vast majority of critical analysis of his work. The fact of Whitman’s residency–he lived in Brooklyn for over half his life and twice as long as he lived anywhere else–might not seem so meaningful if Whitman’s poetry wasn’t so saturated with the physical world."

With a bit of the East River running through my veins (not literally, thankfully for my health), and not just a little love for Walt, this site is a true treasure of a find. Until I get my act together to do some proper blogging, I say "Damned fine beer," and leave you with this:

All architecture is what you do to it when you look upon it;
Did you think it was in the white or gray stone? or the lines of the arches and
         cornices?

All music is what awakens from you when you are reminded by the instruments,
It is not the violins and the cornets . . . . it is not the oboe nor the beating drums—
         nor the notes of the baritone singer singing his sweet romanza . . . . nor those
         of the men's chorus, nor those of the women's chorus,
It is nearer and farther than they.

Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, p. 61