Game On.

Okay, everyone, I just want to clear the air before I get too into this post. I am not an unrepentant, recalcitrant boozehound. I know that the nature of the majority of my posts is discordant with this claim, but I’m only giving the people what they want. I know my reader (hey, Harrison) and I know they would much rather hear about this stuff than any other topic I employ a semblance of authority over. What’s more exciting, a story about how Incrediboy and I got butt-housed and wandered through a bad neighborhood or the development of the post-revolutionary American identity as expressed through the novel? I mean, I could replace all the stories about me yakking in the bushes with considerations on the functions of the comma in dialogue, but let’s be real, no one wants that. That being said, let’s talk about boozing.

This post is about when it’s ok and when it’s not so ok to drink certain things. We live in an age of seemingly limitless alcohol selection and myriad social settings. Pairing the right alcohol to the right surroundings is not an easy task, but if you keep your wits about you most major crises can be avoided. Note: none of this applies to Hurricane Brien. That guy can drink whatever, wherever, whenever.

Coors Light/Crown & Coke



These are your safe zones. I compare Coors Light and Crown & Coke to khaki pants and a polo shirt. It can be classed up or made casual. You can untuck the polo and spend 20 bucks on dollar bottles, or you can iron your khakis and just sip your Crown with supper. If you’re not sure what to drink, drink either of these. They’re both rugged, American brands that earn you some modicum of street cred with the ardent loyalists both these labels have inspired. These are your safe bets.

Margaritas



I’ll be the first to admit, I used to a detractor of this beverage. I thought it was for girls or people on beaches or in Mexican restaurants. I was wary of any drink that chartreuse. Then, I slugged a few $2 day-margs at Danny’s and all my dismissive presumptions went right out the window. A margarita is like tequila candy. Children love candy and Mexican cowboys love tequila, and if I drink too many margs, my coherency will degenerate to the level of one of these. But when do you drink a marg? Generally, it’s ok to drink a marg if it makes you look like a badass. To elaborate, a marg is best enjoyed early in the day (the oft mentioned and revered “day-marg”), preferably over a meal featuring beef, while talking about sports and/or outdoor activities with 4-5 of your buds. All this machismo will cancel out any feminine connotations the margarita may carry. Also, I’ve found that cutting out the “-arita” from the name makes enjoying it easier. Finally, it is important to remember to always drink more than one marg. Two to three are necessary to ensure that people know you’re aiming to get pile-drived, not just enjoying a cocktail with lunch. Oh, and get it on the rocks, salt on the rim. That's the only way.

Keystone Light/Natural Light/Busch Light



These three beers are all ranked together because of their similarities in taste (watery), quality (low), price ($14-$17), quantity (30 pack of bust), and appeal (near universal). This is basically the same beer sold out of three different cans, a beer known as “the Easy Drinker.” And while the Easy Drinker renders mass appeal, there are a few regulations for its consumption. As the Easy Drinker is sometimes known colloquially as “frat water” it is best to keep it within those frat-tastic confines. The Easy Drinker is reserved for house parties, gamedays, grillouts, field days, or booze cruising. Any situation that calls for a large group to congregate and chill out while downing copious brewskies is acceptable for the Easy Drinker. The Easy Drinker is not welcome in contexts featuring people who are above you and your peer group in social station and rank; if there are parents or other older, semi-respectable types present, the Easy Drinker ought naught be.

Keystone Ice/Natural Ice



A doctor would probably say that it’s never okay to drink this puissant libation, but doctors are lame and most of them can barely spell. That being said, the same provisos that apply to the Easy Drinker apply here, with one added stipulation: no girls. Never, ever under any circumstances should you drink Ice beer around girls. They may not look like they’re judging you, but they’re judging you. Sipping from a black can tall girl is par to having spinach in your teeth or rubbing french fries on your hair as a surefire way to not successfully chat up a gal. Ice should be reserved for when you and the boys want to get full on plastered in the comfort and safety of your own home.

Zima



If you can somehow get your hands on a Zima, you drink it as soon as possible and savor every drop. Also, put a Jolly Rancher in the bottle for a fun flavor.

Bud Light Lime



The rules for drinking more than one BL Lime:
-it has to be summer
-you have to be outside
-you must be wearing sandals/Sperry’s
-reggae/Vampire Weekend has to be playing
-you can not buy in quantity greater than a 12 pack
-if you do not oblige the above, you better be lacking male genitalia.

Alternatively, there is a more radical approach that makes drinking BL Lime outside the aforementioned parameters ok, but few have the gumption or time to commit to such an endeavor. This approach involves pouring the BL Lime from its markedly lame looking can/bottle into something a bit more respectable; an empty Steel Reserve or Axe-Head can is best suited for the job. This toughens your image up enough to keep you with society’s tolerable range. Or, you could just paint some fire and skulls on your bottles. That works, too.

EverClear



Any alcohol that can run a gas generator has to be approached with caution/circumspection/awe. This stuff should not be taken lightly. I have seen EverClear send people to the hospital. I have seen a lit cigarette ignite spilled EverClear and burn a hole in a picnic table. I have been paid $50 to mail a bottle of it to Virginia, where it is illegal to sell or purchase. The motto “don’t fear the ‘Clear” is entirely infelicitous by nature, but “just respect the ‘Clear” doesn’t have the same ring to it. If you don’t give EverClear credit where credit is due, it will knock you on your ass, spit in your face, and steal your bike. EverClear is only to be enjoyed—and I use that word very loosely—within a large group, preferably mixed into something, thus limiting the potency of its chemistry of nearly pure alcohol. Oh, and one more thing: any time you drink EverClear, it is imperative that everyone knows you are drinking EverClear so they can recognize how hardass you are.

Wine



Excluding a glass or two with a nice meal, drinking wine in a social (read: house party) context could be opprobrious to your reputation. Even though wine has a higher ABV than beer, there’s nothing respectable about walking around with a glass of wine. I don’t know what it is because the social constructs and mores at work here are beyond my grasp, but it’s just not cool. However, if you are going to insist on drinking wine at the next frat house rager, there are a few ways to do it with style. First, do not drink nice wine. The cheaper, the better. If the wine you’re drinking tastes like Kool-Aid mixed with nailpolish remover, you’re on the right track. Also, try to get the biggest bottle for the lowest amount of money. If your wine comes in a $12 gallon jug, it’s no longer a beverage; it’s a personal statement. A box of Franzia is the gold standard here. Second, drink straight from the bottle. No cups and for God’s sake so wine glasses. This is a party, not a poetry reading. Grasp the bottle by the neck and drink in overblown, forceful motions, like a hobo looking for a reason to eke out one more second of wretched existence. If at all possible, finish the bottle. Bonus points for breaking it.

Alright, that’s all I got for today, as anthropology class is winding down and schoolwork calls. I hope this guide is a handy reference as you wander your local liquor store.

Get weird.

Last Nite Isn't Just a Strokes Song

Last night I went out with the infamous Constantine and my perennial compadre Aaron. This is what happened.

We began our night by splitting a six-pack of Sam Adam’s Summer Ale on our way to a fine eatery. You guessed it, Applebee’s. Applebee’s, long known for its horrifyingly pawn shop-esque décor and median quality fare, actually has a pretty boss happy hour. For 3 bones you can get a Brewtus of any draft beer (FYI, a “Brewtus” is A-bee’s’ probably trademarked name for a 32 oz. glass) and apps are half price. We found ourselves pretty well occupied with Boulevards and wings, after two of the former and a dozen of the latter we left. We made our way to the movies, where we saw The Ugly Truth (don’t judge). This is where the night took a turn for the strange.

We left the theater and headed towards our favorite liquor store, Cheema’s. Cheema’s is in a shadier part of town, but it is worth the potential beatdown and robbery. Cheema’s is in an old gas station and looks super sketchy from the road, but once you step through the door it is a veritable treasure house of alcohol. Wall to wall booze, the like and variety of which seem superfluous. Once, out of curiosity I counted how many different kinds of tequila they had in stock. 23. Who the fuck even makes 23 different kinds of tequila? On the far wall, there are cases of beer six deep stacked to the ceiling. In my daydreams, I take these cases and arrange them into a castle like structure and wile away my days inside my daddy soda fortress. Cheema’s is owned and operated by a dude named Cheema. Cheema is of undetermined Middle Eastern descent, rocks a vicious mustache, and is usually working on some kind of online college course. Cheema is friendly to a fault, as any good liquor store guy should be, however, he holds a special ire for Constantine. This ill will stems from the time Constantine asked Cheema what was the difference between the green label and black label Jack Daniels. Cheema didn’t know/care, yet Constantine persistently pursued the question. Finally, Cheema threw up his hands and exclaimed, “They ran out of black labels, dumbass!” Since then, a mutual distrust has festered between the two. This manifested rather hilariously last night when we walked up to the counter to purchase our 40s of cold Coors Light. When Aaron and I reached for our IDs, Cheem-nasty waved us off nonchalantly in a way that said, I know you guys. However, when Costa plunked down his $2.88, the Cheem-ster piped up with, “ID please!” He then put Constantine through the wringer, demanding birth date, address, and a spelling of Constantine’s last name, as well as inquiring into the nationality of said last name. This was particularly hilarious to me, since I used Constantine’s old license as a fake for most of last year. With 40s in hand—Aaron and mine’s almost half gone at this point—we left Cheema’s, presumably for home.

It was not to be so. About 10 minutes and 3 empty 40s onto the road—where ever we go we are a DUI/open container charge waiting to happen—Constantine got a call from “some girl” saying she was at the Oregon Trail Bar for ladies night. Before I go any farther, I need to define two important terms in that last sentence. The first is “some girl”. For most of his life, Constantine has been in the pursuit of “some girl”. It is never the same girl and his pursuit rarely lasts more than a month, but the pursuit while it lasts is hot-blooded and earnest, albeit always fruitless. The second term worth clarifying is “ladies night”. Ladies night at the OT means that pitchers are 4 dollars, and there are lots of creepy dudes of all ages packing this tacky saddle-barn of a tavern. What ladies night at the OT doesn’t entail is that there will be ladies. The usual unfriendly ratio of 3 guys for every 1 girl plummets to a shudderingly awful 5 to 1 on ladies night, and the ratio of dog to fox is and even more discouraging 4 to 1. I’m no mathemagician, but this means that there is one hot babe for every 25 creepy, lecherous men. We had trouble from the get-go when the Wranglers and ostrich-skin cowboy boot wearing bouncer tried to turn me away, stating that my ID wasn’t mine. Normally I would have gotten pissed and left, but this guy looked like the Nazi Indiana Jones pushes into the plane propeller, so I calmly produced my school ID and my debit card, as well as citing the rarity of glorious nature beards, one of which I sport currently as well as in my ID picture. After some terse negotiation, Stone Cold Steve Austin let me into his shitty bar. As predicted, it was packed with dudes. I don’t want to go into details regarding the clientele, but on the douche bag scale they were somewhere between a Hollister t-shirt and a Kenny Chesney song. So, we are settled into this sausage fest, Aaron and I going after a pitcher of Coors Light with gusto while Constantine tries to charm the flavor of the week. She’s not bad looking, and her friend is even kind of cute. Aaron and I take up the mantle of wingman, engaging this friend in small talk, growing increasingly belligerent. As previously mentioned, attractive girls are at premium in this place so the fact that two of them are sitting with three dudes who are the rough equivalents of Frodo, Grizzly Adams and the guy that drives the Cash Cab is definitely going to draw some negative attention. Eventually, some archetypal douche—Abercrombie, excessive hair gel, the works—walked up, asked both of the girls we were sitting with if they wanted to dance, and was roundly denied by both of them, much to his chagrin. The conversation around our table continued, this guy still standing there, baffled. After a very awkward minute, this guy is still standing there, and he taps Constantine on the shoulder. Their conversation goes as follows.

Douche: Hey, man, are you gay?
Constantine: Uh, no.
Douche: Really, because my friend said you were checking him out.
Constantine: Who’s your friend?
Douche: That dude over there in the hat. (Note: This is a bar in West Nebraska. Everyone has a fucking hat on.)
Constantine: Nope, doesn’t look familiar to me.
Douche: You look kinda gay, are you sure you’re not gay?
Constantine: Pretty sure.
Douche: Hey, if you’ve got a problem we can go out to the parking lot.
At this point, this guy is way over his head. The girls he is trying to impress are ignoring him, and his verbal spars are being met with Constantine surprisingly calm attitude, my look of drunken bewilderment, and Aaron’s unfettered laughter. He turns on Aaron.
Douche: What are you laughing at, faggot?
Now I’m laughing, too.
Douche: You know what, fuck you assholes, you’re lucky I don’t kick your asses. I don’t need that kind of bad publicity.
Aaron: Yeah…(laughter)…fuckin…(laughter)…People magazine…(laughter)…and shit.
Now the girls are laughing. If this guy wasn’t such a prick, I’d feel bad for him.
Douche: (growing increasingly angry) I know people in California! I can end you!

At this, Douche-balls storms off. Turns out he has been an extra on CSI and he’s in the final audition cut for some reality show. If you are from West Nebraska, you think this makes you famous. The rest of the night went on quite uneventfully, with Constantine—to no one’s surprise— failing to close, me rattling off a string of rude comments, and Aaron quietly getting blackout. The night was closed very appropriately. As we dropped Constantine off at his house, he turned back to the car and asked, “Do I really look gay?”

Sometimes ignorance is bliss, homie.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

I went home for the summer, so, to answer the titular statement, I spent most of it cool-kicking it in rural paradise. While this did not afford me the opportunity to go to Lolla—and write a novella length review—or occupy myself with whatever the fuck the Stronghand has been doing, it has given me a few other avenues for which I may spend my days. As you can see from the picture, these included mostly drinking and not shaving. I tried to put my sentiments into words, but then I realized a picture is worth a thousand words—which would still bring me about 2000 under the Lolla play by play. All in all, it was a season of love.

Loose Skin and Old Balls

Lately, I’ve been catching a lot of heat for spending too much time and money in various bars, taverns and liquor stores, along with a seemingly complete disregard for my personal health and well-being. Fact: I go out and drink to belligerence on an average of four nights a week. Myth: this means I have a drinking problem. All this really means is I just turned 21 and I have nothing better to do with my time/money. However, I can’t help but heed a few small words of caution when I look down the bar and see my 47 year-old, twice-divorced former high school business teacher, slouching over the bar, drinking a pitcher of Busch Light identical to the several I usually split with my erstwhile compadre Aaron. Likewise, I can’t help to feel a jolt of terror when he says something like, “You remind me of myself 20 years ago.” This is one of those “Oh, fuck” moments, and it left me doing some thinking. How old is too old? This soul searching has given us the following age gauge of some of my favorite things.

Keystone Ice- I have a special place in my heart for this 5.9% ABV beverage. It always seems to heighten my charm and lower my awareness, but I recognize that there has to be a point where it’s no longer appropriate. When you get a job that pays an annual salary rather than by the hour, you have to stop buying Keystone Ice. If you get fired from your salaried position and return to by-the-hour employment, you probably didn’t stop drinking Key Ice, so feel free to enjoy the black-canned menace.

Wednesday Nights at the Jay- This one is tricky because everyone loves cheap drinks and even cheaper underage girls, so it might be hard to tear yourself from the mid-week festivities at everyone’s favorite ghetto tavern. To avoid becoming the strangely awkward, Boulevard drinking dude with the receding hairline follow this guideline: after you graduate, you have one (1) year in which it is still acceptable to go to the Jay on Wednesday night. If you are pursuing post-grad studies in Omaha, this limit is extended to two (2) years. These rules exclude any alumni gathering in which large numbers of your classmates will be in your company. Unless you graduated in, like, 1973. That’s too fucking old and you’re embarrassing your children.

Using a MacBook- I have a MacBook Pro and my dad has an HP. I feel like this is the most striking and comprehensive distinction that can be made between Apple and PCs. It's not that my dad isn't "hip" or that he's "uncool". It's just that he doesn't need a Mac because...well he just doesn't. For some reason, I find it hard to believe that Apple is directing their advertising towards the 45+ set. I really struggled to find a set of concrete parameters to nail down on this one, and I finally boiled it down to what I'm going to call the Reverse Mustache Rule. The Mustache Rule states that you are not allowed to grow a mustache unless you have children or you're a cop. The Reverse Mustache Rule, when applied to MacBooks, stipulates that you are not allowed to buy a MacBook if you have kids. If you're going to blow a wad of cash on something that might make you seem younger, buy a fucking Camaro. It's more practical and it'll get you more bitches than the computer. Trust me.

Shotgunning- My preferred method of beer delivery is trademarked by the sharp punch of a car key on aluminum, the crack of a tab, and a few seconds of glorious slurping. Sounds awful in writing, but it is awesome in application. As much as I love shotgunning, I once had a vision of myself as an old man, gulping Ensure through a car (probably something sensible, nothing flashy) key sized hole at the base of its can. A true nightmare. But when to stop? Follow this rule of thumb: since keys are integral to the process of shotgunning, they are also the yardstick against which propriety is measured. When you take out your keychain to punch the hole, count the keys. If you have five or more keys, don’t shotgun. You clearly have too much responsibility to end up a shirtless, raving drunk lording over the foosball table.

Putting music on the jukebox- There is nothing I hate more than people putting shitty music on the jukebox. The people that do is are either old, tasteless, or dumb, or, in the case of the girl who puts in 5 dollars at a time and never leaves the “Most Played” screen, an old, tasteless dumbass. If I’ve just invested three dollars in a beer-drinking summer soundtrack of Animal Collective, Vampire Weekend, and Lupe Fiasco, I don’t want it to be followed with Nickelback or—for Christ’s sake—“You Shook Me All Night Long”. If you have purchased fewer than thirteen (13) albums in the last year, stay away from the jukebox. Also, if you have bought more than three (3) albums on CD in the last year, leave the tunes to someone else and, uh, buy a fucking computer.

Wearing tank tops- Never. Never, ever, fucking never should anyone wear a tank top.

Wearing your fraternity’s letters- No matter how much you love your brothers and want to cherish the good times you had, wearing your letters in public after graduation is only a few steps away from going back to the house and talking about how things were “in your day”, which is a small jump from showing up invited at recruitment events, which is a small push from thinking its ok to still party with college kids. Before you know it, you’ll be wearing your letters while pumping the keg at your high-school aged kids end of summer rager, in which at least one teenager will drive home drunk and someone will get pregnant in your guest room. DUI’s and bastard children are no joke, people, so keep the hoodie in the fucking scrapbook.

Fuck Science, Make Money

No offense to my compadre Pistol Pete, but I have few hangover cures of my own. It would be my pleasure to share them with those congregated, whether you want me to or not.

1) Drink to the point of puking. If you imbibe so much booze that your body forcibly purges your stomach, you're home clear. There is no way that the alcohol can spend the night stewing in my stomach and liver, plotting a way to give me a wicked headache and sensitivity to light, if I fire off a pre-emptive strike and leave the contents of my breadbasket in the empty lot beside the Rock'n Horse. It can't hurt me if it's on my shoes.

2) Go home with some skank. If you wake up next to a girl of either less-than-stellar looks or of questionable reputation, you will not spend much time lying in that bed. On the contrary you will be up and going in a flash. Rolling over in the morning and seeing a dragon or town bicycle will jump start your system to the point that you will be miles down the road before the naseau powers its way back through the adrenaline. This one is only moderately effective, and happens to often for all the good it does.

3) Eat a bag of Cheetohs. Seriously, it works for me everytime.

4) Never stop drinking. This is one of the most fail-safe methods of hangover prevention. A hangover is, by definition, the regrettable side effects a person feels after a night of heavy drinking. The loophole here is clear as day. Never let there be an after. Stay drunk. If the bar closes at 1, stay until 1. If you go to bed, set an alarm for every 2 hours, wake up and have a few beers. Bloody Marys for breakfast, a surreptitious mixed drink in your water bottle. Cocktails, cocktails, cocktails. If the train never stops moving, there's no way it can crash.

I don't know how this stacks up to Pete's "science" but its worked for me and--let's face facts--I'm awesome.

And drunk. Mostly drunk.