Slip'N Cup

I'm glad to see that the bros and broettes out there are finally finding ways to make flip cup fun. This is a close second to twerk cup.

Post by MrTechnicalDifficult.

Anchors Away

I can't say that I've ever drank a bottle Safe Harbor. I can tell you with absolute certainty, however, that I never want to drink anything but Safe Harbor from now on.

Fancy That

Australian beer company TV commercials > American beer company TV commercials.

FKi -- "Hello"

Straight turnt up. I'm kind of mad this puppet lives a better life than I do.

Wifey Material: Maria Menounos

I mean, do I even have to explain why?

Just look at the flawless form she shows while holding her glass of wine...in front of her flawless form. You've even got to give it up to her for the cleverness of the caption she included: "Life is good."

Nasir Jones couldn't have said it better himself. And if you think life is good now, Miss Menounos, just wait until you're Mrs. D.E.F.I....

...or when you're eventually ex-Mrs. D.E.F.I. That, I'm sure, will be pure ecstasy.

SoCo with Banana

Ironically, he's the only one who's really comfortable during this ad.

Dark Country

The muffled bars of Childish Gambino’s “Lights Turned On” broke me from the blackness of unfiltered sleep, and into the bright, balmy late-morning air that filled my bedroom last Saturday.

“Swag…
2:30 and we still makin’ progress,
Talkin’ on Twitter to see where to go next…”

My phone vibrated near my outstretched right hand. I picked it up and forced my eyes to focus on the screen. I didn’t recognize the number, so I hit ignore. I glanced over at the clock. 11:02 a.m. My phone buzzed with a new message; it was a text from the same number that had just called. “Hey are you down here for the tailgate?”

“Wait…” I said, picking my head up off the pillow. “I’m supposed to be at a country music tailgate right now…”

A little over a week before that, my friend Bill was once again attempting to persuade me to come to the tailgate party he and his boys throw each year for the Kenny Chesney concert. The show is a huge event in Pittsburgh every summer, and it brings in country music fans from as far away as western New York and Michigan. Bill, Steph, and others had petitioned me for years to come to the party. I flatly refused each and every time, usually countering by naming another activity I’d rather do than sit through a country music concert. Like…solder my tongue to a bus.

As we sat in Bossa Nova at a friend’s birthday party [Note: Their caipirinhas are still magical.] that Friday night, Bill finally won me over with a simple clarification. When I reminded him that I love nothing less than country music, he laughed it off. “I hate it too! I don’t actually go into the concert; I just go to McFadden’s once everyone else goes to the show.” Now he had my ear. And so, when he then reminded me—for the 5,309th time—that the tailgate is always packed with scantily-clad tail, I finally saw the wisdom in exploring this local tradition. You know, for the blog. Yup. *sips drink*

As the week had went on, Dupa and Jay Swag were convinced to join me. Armo decided to have a pool party that same Saturday, and the forecast of temps in the mid-90s indicated that making our way to his place to end the day would be in our best interest. I made preliminary plans to meet up with Dupa and Swag on Mt. Washington around 11 a.m…

…Well, that part was going to have to be amended. I climbed out of bed, exchanging texts with each of them as I looked for my phone charger. My Droid's battery was at less than 20%; which, for a smartphone, means it was running on fumes. When my charger wasn’t in its usual place, I remembered having put it in the gym bag I’d taken with me the night before—I had gone to Dupa’s to pregame by his pool before catching “Ted” on its opening night [absolutely hilarious film, by the way]. And my bag, more than likely, was still in the trunk of my car. I grabbed my keys and stumbled out to my garage, hitting the trunk button along the way. When I didn’t hear the normal sound of the trunk unlocking, I looked up: My garage was empty. What…the…fuuuuuuccccccccckkkkkkkkkkkkk?…

11:21 a.m. text to Swag and Dupa: “Ok, got a whole new problem. My car is missing.”

Part of me felt I should call the police. Another, much more logical part of me felt that my propensity for drunken foolishness may be a more likely culprit than a thief. I threw on a shirt and some sneakers, grabbed a bottle of Gatorade, and trudged up the sidewalk. I could only guess that maybe I had, for whatever reason, parked on the street instead the night before. Then, about halfway up my block, a memory jolted awake inside of me: On my way home from Dupa’s place, I had met up with Pakistanimal at Shady Grove. And I had parked near the bar. It seemed probable, then, that I had never moved my car from that spot. The fact that I had no clue if I had, indeed, left my car at the bar—and barely remembered being at the bar at all—made me all the more thankful that this scenario was the most likely one. I found my Bavarian chariot exactly where I had parked it the night before, now with a fresh parking ticket tucked under one of the wipers.

By 1:10 p.m. I was at the Wendy’s drive-thru, picking up some spicy chicken fortitude and receiving confirmation from Dupa that my sunglasses weren’t at his place, which meant I had, indeed, lost them the night before. The very same sunglasses that I’d bought less than two weeks before, to replace the pair I’d ruined at the Furry Safari. Which were purchased in March to replace a pair Dupa stole from me the day after the Super Bowl…

There’s a reason I buy my shades at Target.

I met up with Dupa at his place, parked my car in his apartment building’s garage for safekeeping (I wasn’t going to risk losing it again), and rode with him to Swag’s house. Once Swag had made some quick modifications to his facial hair (see right) and we’d done a shot of Dr. McGillicuddy’s Mentholmint, the three of us set off for the nearby T station. Dupa had brought half a case of Miller Lite with him, but by the time we were boarding the train there were only three cans left. And since Swag is continuing to obey the open container laws while on probation, that damage was done entirely by Dupa and me.

Once we reached the North Shore’s parking lots, where container laws don’t apply, Swag joined us in killing the remaining beers. We waded through thick 95 degree air and thicker swarms of people, many in cowboy hats and little other clothing. The attire for this tailgate has always been described to me as “slutty casual”, and those reports came in years where Pittsburgh wasn’t suffering through a record heat wave. With the sun burning away any fucks that people might otherwise have given, nary a Chesney fan in this land—male or female—hid behind stitched modesty. While surveying this landscape, we walked right into Bill’s party, completely by accident. Even the drunken squirrel finds a nut. They had cornered a large section of Gold Lot 2; here we found music pumping (mostly hip-hop, I believe), kegs tapped, a buffet of food set up, and red plastic cups a-tippin’.

We stopped only briefly, as we each needed to hit an ATM, and had other people we wanted to catch up with first. We walked along the river, taking in the sight of hundreds of boats docked with people partying and dancing everywhere, many of those people being young, tanned women in bikinis. I mentioned I was doing all of this strictly for the blog, right?

Swag broke off to catch up with Belle and her posse, while Dupa and I found Shannon and her girls crowded under a 5’-by-5’ blue canvas tent, tucked in amongst a hundred others like it, a broad ocean of asphalt, sweat, and beer away from Gold Lot 2. They fed us cans of Labatt Blue while we hung out, and we appreciated the cold sustenance and familiar faces.

Occasionally I looked around to find an inquisitive eye staring at me from a pickup truck or tent in the wilds beyond Shannon’s plot of land. Let’s face it, a Kenny Chesney concert tailgate isn’t the well-trodden domain of my people; when I did happen upon a fellow person “of color”, we gave each other knowing nods, as if to say, “The world done changed, homie.” Yet, what struck me more than how many people stared at me, was how many people didn’t stare at me. The overwhelming majority of revelers seemed indifferent to the fact that a 6’6” half-Black man was walking amongst them at a country music concert. The world done changed, homie.

Dupa and I journeyed off to Bill’s party once more. Upon arriving we found Swag, Belle, and the other gals, including Stacks and “AIDS”. [Note: This nickname is real, though it is hardly based in reality. The story, in a nutshell: Upon meeting this cute blonde friend of Belle’s for the first time some years ago, Swag thought it would be charming and/or clever to tell her that she looked like she had AIDS. Needless to say, it didn’t win her heart.] While her girls wore shorts and little t-shirts, AIDS went all-in with a little pink cowgirl hat, a tiny blue bikini, and cowgirl boots. “I told you,” she reminded us, “I don’t really like wearing clothes.”

By around 6 p.m. Dupa, Swag, and I were ready to switch things up, since everyone else (save for Bill and a few of his boys) was heading into the concert. The three of us flagged down a cab, and headed for Diamond Market Bar & Grill in Market Square. I know I ate while we were there, but all I really remember consuming was Moscow Mules. Swag disappeared mid-meal, and was gone a long while. Just when we had begun formulating plans for moving on without him (and eventually exacting revenge upon him for ditching us), he reappeared with a look of pure glee on his face. He had gone outside to smoke a cigarette; while out there, he ran into the ex-WWF wrestler Virgil. Twenty minutes of conversation and an autograph later, Swag was like a kid that had just met Mickey Mouse. He was so giddy, in fact, that he volunteered to pay the bill. All plans for revenge were scrapped.

We caught another cab; Swag, being averse to all things swimming pool, had us drop him off at his second home, Rumshakers. Dupa and I continued to his car on Mt. Washington, and then found our way to Armo’s. My Polish homie was soon snoring from an inflatable raft as the breeze gently pushed it to every corner of the pool. I occupied the rest of my night swimming, eating burgers from the grill, and kicking it with TJ and other party guests. I awoke the next morning to Armo poking my arm, for no other reason than his sheer desire to not be the only one awake. For a solid five minutes I puzzled my mind around how I had even gotten there. A short time later, as Armo drank a Bloody Mary to kick off his Sunday Funday and Dupa moaned like an orgasm-faking porn star from the kitchen for no reason whatsoever, a thought popped into my mind.

“Wait...I was at a country music tailgate yesterday…”

Wifey Material: Jenna Marbles

She's hot. She parties. She go-go dances. She can actually make you laugh...like, on purpose. And did I mention she's hot?

Do you need anymore reasons why Jenna Mourey (a.k.a. Jenna Marbles) is of high-quality wifey material? Take it from an oldhead: If you're going to be wifed to a woman, you'd better be sure you can stand to talk to her for more than five minutes. Should she have a great body and pretty face? Well of course. But that stuff eventually fades. If you're under 21, you probably don't realize it, but Madonna used to be the hottest woman in the world. Let that one soak in for a second...Yup. And it happens to everyone. Now that Madonna's looks have left her, and she doesn't have an actual personality to fall back on, well...

Yeah, trust me, you want a girl like Jenna. Because, although she may not be as hot in a bikini as she is now, she'll still be cracking you up when she's 60. And she will probably still be partying and getting hammered like any senior has earned the right to do. She'll probably be the coolest grandmother on the block. Stated.

Wifey Material: Brittany Dailey

Brittany is a new fav of Crooked Straight's. And as you can see here, she also knows how to relax like a true "On the Rocks" wifey: day drinking.

And anyone who knows me knows I like my women well-rounded.

Lanie's Seacrets

2003 was a good year, and an especially good summer. In the spring of ’03 I got my first full-time job. And with my first big boy paychecks rolling in each month, I made two expenditures that would help set the stage for one of the best years of my life: (1.) Along with several friends, I reserved a condo in Ocean City, Maryland for a week in August; and (2.) I bought a camera phone.

The technology was cutting edge at the time. My odd-looking Nokia 3650—and its now-primitive .3 megapixel camera—was downright space age in '03. The clunky cell phone with a dial pad designed to mimic that of a rotary phone was an instant conversation piece. And since MySpace, Twitter, and Facebook had yet to be created, the paranoia that enters the mind of anyone today who sees a cell phone raised in his or her direction was unknown to society. As a result, friends and complete strangers alike were all-too-eager to pose for pictures. I now own a portfolio of photographs that many future politicians and captains of industry are going to be paying me a pretty dollar to keep under wraps.

In July my family had a small reunion at my sister’s house, just outside of Washington, D.C. I would be staying in Baltimore over the weekend with my cousin, Mrs. Blue Moon, and alcohol would be our copilot (this was the same reunion where her father, Uncle Red, displayed his Dos Equis generosity). I hit the road after work on a Friday, and before I was a quarter of the way to Bmore my cousin was hitting me up to get an ETA. She wanted to hit the town, and was itching to start boozing. When I finally arrived at her place, I had barely dropped my bags in the guest room before she was dragging me—albeit willingly—to the Baja Beach Club.

I haven’t really been club hopping in Bmore since that night, so I can only guess as to whether or not Baja is still a preferred destination in town. The odds are against it, considering the typical nightspot only has but so much time in the limelight before another takes its place. But, if you were to tell me that it is still thriving today, I wouldn’t be all that shocked. That’s because they had a simple—yet genius—business model in place: Take a big, sprawling nightclub in the heart of the Inner Harbor district; serve reasonably-priced alcohol, and throw in a dollar-drink special on Fridays; play top-40 dance music; and hire only the most beautiful young women Baltimore has to offer to be waitresses, bartenders, shot girls, and beer tub vendors. Granted, this fits the basic description of just about any moderately successful big city bar or club. But Baja’s secret weapon was this last detail: all of those waitresses, bartenders, shot girls, and beer tub vendors were dressed in the sluttiest role-playing costumes you can find. Bikinis, naughty cop outfits, dirty nurses, you name it. It was like being surrounded by the greatest collection of beautiful women in skanky Halloween costumes I had ever seen—and it was only July. [Note: Later that year, the benchmark that the Baja Club had set for a night of girls in slutty costumes would be obliterated by the Ohio University Halloween Party. But, on that balmy Friday night in July, I thought there would never be anything better. Never. You just couldn’t tell me otherwise.]

We fired back shots and went through a quick succession of dollar drinks, and I felt that warm, fuzzy feeling of my copilot taking the reins. MBM and her girl, Nina, hit the dance floor, but I decided to do some exploration. And I soon found my Northwest Passage. Standing at a large metal tub filled with various brands of beer bottles and ice that was perched on a platform near the center of the club, Lanie was 5’2” of long, curly brown hair, twinkling eyes, and bikini-accentuated oh-my-damn. She smiled at me, and then fate stepped into the DJ booth.

*intro to “Shake Ya Tailfeather” comes screaming over the speakers*

Moments later, the now-infamous beat began thumping, and every female in the building cheerfully obeyed Diddy & Nelly’s command. Lanie gyrated and wiggled like a pro, and I reached for my phone. She saw me snap a picture, and leaned over in curiosity to check it out. Shouting, “Cool!” she returned to her body motion serenade. When I raised my phone for another picture, though, she grinned. She spun around and—just as the song’s chorus chimed in—flipped up the back of her cover up skirt to bare her thong-creased tailfeather for the camera. Click.

The next morning I showed my father my prized picture from the night before. Between his amusement and my stepmother’s disgust, I totaled it as a win.

All of two weeks later, I was in the sun-soaked sands of OCMD with my knuckleheaded friends. For seven days we unleashed ourselves upon a small city built specifically for people in their early 20s to unleash themselves upon it. I’ve spoken of this trip before; in fact, three different posts have each been entirely about respective stories from that week. And other On the Rocks posts have included quotes and mini tales birthed in the trip’s pool bars, Rum Runners, and ocean air. And I’ve really only scratched the surface. I mentioned before that I did a write-up of the event when we got home, and then later gave copies to those who lived it with me. At different times I’ve toyed with the idea of posting that write here on the blog, but have always balked at the idea due to the sheer size of it. And because it would probably cost me money (see future blackmail plans mentioned above). It was just an incredible series of escapades the likes of which you only experience once in a lifetime.

The trip culminated in a Friday night at Seacrets. Odds are, if you’ve been to Ocean City for a vacation, you’ve been to Seacrets. It’s a huge, open-air bar that attracts people during the day with its beach activities (like floating on an inner tube in the bay), and during the night with its raucous live music. To get there, some friends and I decided hopping into a taxi van would be faster than the city buses that we’d used all week to get to our drinking destinations. Four of us (the rest were either already at Seacrets or moving a little slower—like our friend Amazon, who had drank herself into a Rocket Fuel coma earlier in the day) squeezed into a van with some strangers all headed towards the same alcohol-fueled madness that had us revved with anticipation. Seated near a cute blonde girl, I struck up a conversation.

Me: “Are you in Ocean City on vacation, too?”
Blonde: “Yeah. I’m from Baltimore.”
Me: “Oh yeah? I have all kinds of family there. I was just there a couple of weeks ago, actually. Ever been to Baja Club?”
Blonde: “Yeah, I used to work there!”
Me: *grin* “Do you know Lanie?”
Blonde: “Yeah! *I show her the picture* Yeah, that’s Lanie’s ass!”

She then dropped a bombshell on me: Lanie was 35. Now, at my current age of thsmmhhfffsha, a gorgeous 35 year old club worker doesn’t sound all that mythical. But when I was 24, telling me this goddess in a lycra thong was 35 was like telling me that the Pope is Buddhist. It was simply inconceivable.

My 3650 had one last beach memory in store for me that night. A couple of hours later my friends and I stood in the overflowing crowd at Seacrets, watching the in-house reggae band. After one of my boys pointed out an attractive brunette dancing down in front of us, I snapped an up-close-and-personal picture of her well-defined booty. It was kind of like with Lanie, only this girl was fully clothed…and unaware of me and my camera [hmm, I don’t remember it seeming quite so creepy back then]. Standing to my left was a middle-aged guy and an attractive woman in her late 30s that appeared to be together. The guy had watched my stealth photography session with curious interest.

Guy: “Did you just take a picture of her ass?”
Me: “Yeah.” *I show him the picture*
Guy: “That’s AWESOME!! *pointing at the woman with him* Take a picture of hers! She’s got the best ass ever!”

Anyone Else Thirsty?

The fellas over at SloshSpot have put together a photo gallery that is perfect for a Friday—especially if your week has been anywhere near as fucked as mine has. Pour yourself a glass of something strong, sit back, and enjoy (below I've provided a few of my favorites from their collection).

[click here for SloshSpot's "Ridiculously Sexy Alcohol Ads" gallery]

The Official "On the Rocks" Beer Cozy

Find yours all summer at any local pool bar, beachside bar, concert, etc.



Ahh, summer...

(Click here for CollegeHumor.com's entire "Girls of Summer" gallery.)

Wife Material

This video brings about some conflicting emotions within me. On the one hand, I'm inspired and joyful that this beautiful creature is out there, somewhere; and that she may be teaching her gift to others. On the other hand, seeing bikinis, swimming pools, and outdoor beer pong is a dirty, dirty tease at the moment, when the thermometer in Pittsburgh is showing "-3ºF".