Disclaimer: Do not read this post unless you’ve got absolutely NOTHING better to do. Seriously. You will not feel better about yourself for knowing the following, though it may give you and your co-workers something to gab about over happy hour at Fuddrucker’s tonight.
Keith Olbermann just went public with what the conspiracy theorists among us have suspected for weeks: Charlie Sheen’s “meltdown” seems to be an act inspired by San Francisco Giants closer Brian Wilson.
It makes sense, and it’s not complicated: Wilson reportedly flew from spring training in Arizona to Los Angeles on Friday, February 18th, to meet with the actor and several former ballplayers — Kenny Lofton and Lenny “Ashtray Money” Dykstra among them. They all hung out at Sheen’s house. They reportedly did guy stuff. They probably ate things and said cuss words. Cocaine, alcohol, video games and/or prayer may have been involved. Who knows. Who cares. At some point, they allegedly watched Major League with some other Hollywood folks in Sheen’s private theater.
The details are irrelevant. What matters is the overarching plotline, and this can be boiled down to two all-important events:
February 18, 2011: Wilson jets to Sheenland for several hours of male bonding.
February 24, 2011: Sheen delivers the infamous rant; “meltdown” media frenzy ensues.
The common thread between the two happenings: As Olbermann observed, Sheen’s rant (and subsequent media appearances, hastily-produced online videos, etc.) reflect a persona that mimics Wilson’s in many ways. Peep the videos:
More than a passing resemblance.
Wilson told the press that he flew out to help Sheen understand the mentality and preparation that define a successful big-league closer — this in anticipation of the apparent unwarranted resuscitation of the Major League franchise (does nobody remember this?!). But Sheen’s vocabulary, cadence of delivery and overall demeanor in his subsequent meltdown productions suggest that the Wilson’s visit impacted the actor in a more immediate manner. The resemblance is too uncanny to be purely coincidental.
This assumption, then, prompts other questions: Is Wilson writing Sheen’s material? Did he help Sheen draw up the meltdown blueprint that fateful Friday night? Or did Sheen hijack Wilson’s persona without the pitcher’s permission? More importantly, did Dykstra wear shoes or arrive barefoot?
Then there’s the “Machine” angle. Wilson surpassed his teammates as the media fave last season thanks partially to the appearance of recurring masked S&M character “The Machine” (lifted from Nic Cage’s 8MM and reportedly reprised by teammate Pat Burrell) in televised interviews. As SF Weekly’s Peter Jamison points out, Sheen, playing himself in Being John Malkovich, is referred to as “Ma-Sheen” in once scene (a point not lost upon the creators of insta-site www.DreamMasheen.com). Tenuous, yes, but another similarity between the two.
The Sheen story is dumb, but that’s the point: He has capitalized on America’s celebrity obsession to reinvent his career, feeding his tabloid tormenters a perfect “Hollywood crisis” story — a paparazzo’s wet dream. True, Sheen may have lost millions by seemingly slamming the door on “Two and a Half Men,” but hey, now he doesn’t have to be on “Two and a Half Men.” Overnight, he again became relevant to the under-35 crowd (while simultaneously alienating millions of senior citizens who never bought into the radical notion of cable television). Let’s hope he can parlay this into meaningful projects and avoid becoming this year’s Betty White.
The extent of Wilson’s involvement in the saga may never be revealed, and Sheen may, indeed, prove to be mentally ill, but what’s clear is that there’s more to the story than People would have you believe. As with Banksy’s Exit through the Gift Shop and the Joaquin Phoenix faux-breakdown before, gamesmanship appears to be at play. The media, with its 24/7 emphasis on immediacy over accuracy (which encourages the publication of planted stories and devalues time-consuming endeavors like investigative journalism), are the enablers — though they also join the American public, once again, as the pawns.
Note: With baseball spring training opening this week and March Madness nearly upon us, we thought it wise to revisit a topic we originally dissected last August, lest any of you end up sober at a sporting event this fine spring. (Re-)Presenting Dunce Cap’s Guide to Sneaking Shit In:
by Trash Mulligan
On a sultry Friday eve last summer, DCQ’s New Yeez contingent ventured out into the wild bacteria stew of the Hudson on a decrepit ferry stocked with booze, 150 people and one RJD2. With payday a distant glimmer on the horizon and said booze bogarted behind a “cash” bar, we resorted to the familiar tactic of “sneaking shit in (SSI).”
This is an art form we’ve refined over the past dozen years, with the primary media being sports and concert venues. Our first stab at SSI came in September 1997. Giants vs. Padres. It began with a friend’s spectacular fake ID, used to procure an armload of Mickey’s 40s from the Oak Grove corner market (‘bodega’ hadn’t yet entered our lexicon) behind school. We had the angles scoped: Malt brew transferred to green 7-Up two-liters and hidden in closets overnight, then wrapped snugly in hoodie cocoons as we pulled up to Candlestick Park. This being the glorious buyers’ market of pre-South Beach Giants baseball, security shoved us through the turnstiles with nary a sideways glance. As it happened, the game was actually sold out, and we sat in the second-to-last row of the upper deck in center field — approximately 1,200 feet away from the plate. But all was good: By the third a sickly Mickey’s buzz was had, by the fifth we were bouncing off the walls of the concrete spiral stairways that encased the hulking mass, by the seventh we were taking turns calling earl in the nearest bathroom stall, and by the end of the ninth, as Barry made his famous stand atop the home dugout, we were passing out where we sat.
In the years since, we’ve become more efficient and creative. The prevailing opinion is that hard liquor’s the way to go, and a fifth is the biggest you can pull off with confidence. If it’s a day game and you’re nursing a hangover, long pants and knee-high socks filled with tall boys are acceptable. The fifth — whiskey or rum only, child — goes right-side-up directly in front of the jimmy, belt buckled as tight as possible so as to secure the bottle with the bare minimum of above-waist frontage. If possible, go for the male security guard — he’ll be less inclined to check certain essential areas. In rare cases, through extensive field research, you may uncover a unique perimeter flaw that allows you to do wondrous and otherwise unimaginable things: At the Giants’ new(ish) baseball stadium, for example, you can bring in giant beers in styrofoam cups, purchased for a pittance at the pizzeria across the way, simply by entering the park through the team store.
Large sporting events are fairly easy. The latest innovation came in the recent discovery of an MLB-sponsored DUI prevention program that doles out free Cokes to attendees who identify themselves as designated drivers. These make cheap grog more palatable. AND you get to show all the college girls your hero-status DD bracelet! Bonus. Where it gets tricky, however, is at certain music venues where organizers seem to expect most patrons to be carrying some form of intoxicant. Many a would-be SSI champ has been knocked down to amateur status here. In such situations, we’ve come to employ a tactic used for decades by certain Suburban-driving Sinaloans: The mule wave. Break the juice into as many pint-sized water bottles as possible. Give one or two to each person you’re with (better make it two or three if it’s an all-day festival). Use the same crotch placement process as with full fifth, tightening belt to keep bottle from sliding down to your ankles (mysterious bulges are to be avoided). Spread out as you enter so that security doesn’t recognize that you’re together. This way, you’re virtually guaranteed a passable stock of booze even if one or two of your homies takes a fall.
As any nimrod (that’s you, Jack) can see, we’ve had some time to fine-tune our playbook (though perfection, as always, remains elusive). Which made it surprising — nay, stunning — when the token security guy checking passengers boarding the RJD2 boat nabbed the bulk of our supply during what experts predicted would be a harmless formality. We suspect somebody dropped a dime on us because the guy went straight for the above-junk area without any attempt at acting out the proper pat-down sequence (ankles-legs-hips-ribs-arms-back-THEN abovejunk as an afterthought, if at all…everybody knows that). Luckily, despite all signs pointing to an SSI Level Green, we’d divied the stash up beforehand, and our backup made it in.
So you see, DCQ nation, the key to a successful SSI operation lies in the artist’s ability to assess and adapt — that is, to change up the strategy on the fly and, to be certain, on the sly. But even the most practiced and universally-lauded practitioners sometimes slip up.
A skeezy Little League baseball coach once told us a common off-color joke he’d blessed with a personal touch: “Close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades and fat chicks.” We were only 10 at the time, so we didn’t really get the last part, but the rest seemed to have some sense to it. In any case, replace “fat chicks” with “SSI operations,” and it rings true. But it still won’t make sense to a 10-year-old.
(Note: Yes, another re-run. At least we can call this an anniversary commemoration. The bulk of this post originally ran on February 5, 2009. Yes, it’s completely obsolete at this point. Read the part about the celebrities — it’s okay. At the very least, you’ll be four minutes closer to happy hour by the time you finish. Dicks.)
We were in the rafters at MSG last night to watch BronBron dump 52, 11 and 10 on the Knicks. Among the highlights:
The Celebs: The second quarter is apparently when the arena Jumbotron guy decides to get close-ups of all the famous pretty faces and pretty famous faces in attendance. I think my grand total from last year (in only like three games, but still…) was James Blunt, who warranted a couple “oh, that guy”s from a 60 percent-full house. Last night’s game was sold out, and the celeb faction repped hard: First up on the big screen was Chris Rock, ten seats down from Spike Lee near the scorers’ table. Today’s tabloids ran a photo of Lebron taking a break to give Spike dap. I’d accept said dap too if I thought it might convince the dapper to sign a megalo-contract with my team come 2011. Two minutes later they flashed to the token black Spice Girl, who’s a.) still alive; b.) promoting an exercise video or some shit; and c.) much less scary in real life. She scored courtsides as well. THEN they scanned up to Willis Reed, the one guy in the building who’d have a legitimate claim to a lifetime of comp courtside tix…and he’s in like the third tier. It was kinda sad. Apparently Whoopi and Jay-Z and Puff fucking Daddy were all in the mix as well (check out the ridicu-fotos of Diddy flashing cash to buy kettle corn and poor Bobby Bacala sitting next to Whoopi and Ciara but nobody gives a shit; come to think of it, Bobby actually got Jumbotron Love at a game I was at last season versus the Bucks or some embarrassment. They probably just comp him seats so the Jumbotron dude has a reason to get paid on slow nights). Apologies for this fanboy rant — it was just cool to sit and look down from the 12th deck while sipping on a fine spiked beverage and be like, “Hey, Chris Rock’s scratching his nose, maybe. Spike Lee’s baggy sweatsuit looks really comfortable.”
The Delicacies: The biggest hot dog on the menu is, indeed, impressive. Concessions people’s approach to the bun, however, is one-size-fits-all. Which it most definitely does not. The result is like squeezing a whale into a pair of Tic-Tacs connected by another Tic-Tac. That hijacked and bastardized analogy worked better in its original form. They also sell delicious Cokes that are complemented exquisitely by most brands of mid-range Kentucky whiskey, the latter preferably served in a reused plastic Tropicana orange juice bottle.
The Last Rebound: Win in the bag, Lebron had his teammates clear out on the last Knicks shot of the game, then almost broke an ankle falling out of bounds after lunging to grab a meaningless 10th board. People cheered like we all got free tacos or something, which we didn’t. He became the first player to score 50 in a triple-double since the 70s with that rebound, which was essentially the basketball version of Michael Strahan’s record-setting “sack” of Brett Favre in 2002. And speaking of Fav-rah, check out his douchey cousin, Trent. He’s into sexy shit like “Premises Liability Defense,” proving that the family is good at offense and defense! Ugh. Somebody smack me with a frozen Eggo.
We caught the end of the Yankees’ victory parade this morning. Aside from the requisite Jay-Z performance on the City Hall steps, there wasn’t much to talk about. I mean, it’s championship number 27 — no cherries popped here.
Brief observations:
a.) Nick Swisher is officially the new biggest tool in the American League. With his two-years-too-late faux-hawk, white-rimmed shades and long black trenchcoat, he managed to look like an extra from Blade and the new celebrity spokesman for Ed Hardy in one fell swoop.
b.) Outer borough New Yorkers hate Bloomberg! They booed him heartily when he took the stage to fellate George, Girardi and Jeter (this despite the fact that Bloomie three-peated on Tuesday).
c.) City officials made noise about how eco-friendly-ish the celebration would be, promoting the fact that the confetti would be composed of 100 percent “recyclable” paper (is there any other kind?). After the festivities, with the streets, trees and window ledges of lower Manhattan awash in detritus, city workers promptly used a fleet of gas-powered leaf blowers to move all the refuse into giant piles that was 100 percent definitely not recycled because that would just take forever.
With a lack of further inspiration on this dreary Friday afternoon, then, we revert to an old tale of exploitation: Back in my salad days, I drove a beat-up Ford Ranger pickup truck because I thought it looked cool and someday I might need to drive through giant croc-infested mud puddles. That never happened, and the truck broke down every six miles, so I finally decided to put it up on Craigslist.
To my delight, some poor sucker responded almost immediately. Friendly exchanges quickly devolved into pseudonymous backstabbery when I realized that this trick was trying to Nigerian email scam me. I managed to string the ne’er-do-well along for a while until he or she realized I wasn’t a senior citizen and scurried away.
We join the story in progress as the protagonist responds to the villain’s initial inquiry:
From: Ben Fuchs / To: Esther Page / Subject: Re: 1991 Ford Ranger / Date: Mon, 27 Feb 2006 02:30:12 -0800 (PST):
Hello - Yes, the Ranger is still available. You can check it out in the attached photos. If interested or if you have any questions, feel free to give me a call at [redacted].
Ben
From: Esther Page / To: Ben Fuchs / Subject: Re: 1991 Ford Ranger / Date: Mon, 27 Feb 2006 03:48:52 -0800 (PST):
How much is the ford going for?
(Note: At this point, I’m simply thinking old Esther is a moron who has managed to miss some rather basic information in the Craigslist ad. Desperate to unload the truck, I plod on:)
From: Ben Fuchs / To: Esther Page / Subject: Re: 1991 Ford Ranger / Date: Tue, 28 Feb 2006 09:17:42 -0800 (PST):
Esther - I’m asking $1850. Kelley Blue Book value ranges between 1800 and 2100, roughly, so the asking price is already toward the cheap side for what the truck is worth, according to Blue Book.
Ben
From: Esther Page / To: Ben Fuchs / Subject: Re: 1991 Ford Ranger / Date: Wed, 1 Mar 2006 02:50:23 -0800 (PST):
Hello, Thanks for the reply i will issuie you a check of $3900, you will remove $1900 for the vehicle and you will send the excess of $2000 to my shipping agent in England, who will get in touch with you once i notify them.
Please get back in touch with me with your contact address phone number so i can send the check as soon as possible. I will want us to be through with this transaction before the middle of next month. I am having some problems with my phone company,they gave my number to some one else and they promised to give me another one so there is no way i will be able to get you on phone.
Hope to hear from you as soon as possible.Best Regards
(This strikes me as a tad suspicious. I respond accordingly:)
From: Ben Fuchs / To: Esther Page / Subject: Re: 1991 Ford Ranger / Date: Wed, 1 Mar 2006 10:22:53 -0800 (PST):
Greetings Esther - Gosh, that offer sounds fantastic. Don’t you want to test drive or at least see the truck first, though? Typically that is how I am most comfortable working out such transactions whenever I deal with 1991 Ford Ranger buyers who have no phones and who use English shipping agents to issue checks that can only be made out for $3900.
I hope you understand, Esther. That’s a beautiful name, by the way. Vietnamese?
Sincerely,
Joe Mama
(Cliche joke name gets by Esther. She WANTS this freaking truck, and she WANTS it for exactly one $3,900 check:)
From: Esther Page / To: Ben Fuchs / Subject: Re: 1991 Ford Ranger / Date: Fri, 3 Mar 2006 00:36:15 -0800 (PST):
Hi, I live in England but you can send me pictures of the Ford. Also email me your full name,contact address and telephone number so that i can arrange for the check to be sent out to you,
(That’s it, Esther — I’m pulling the rip cord:)
From: Ben Fuchs / To: Esther Page / Subject: Re: 1991 Ford Ranger / Date: Fri, 3 Mar 2006 04:49:35 -0800 (PST):
My Dear Esther,
I’m so sorry to say the truck has been sold. I received a different $3900 check from Sri Lanka, where the exchange rate for $3900 checks is exceptionally good at the moment. The final straw was when they offered to include five donkeys with the $3900 check. I plan to ride two of them at the same time to and from work in order to save money and cut down on pollution. As for the other three, I would be willing to trade them for that $3900 check of yours.
Unfortunately, at this time I do not have photos of my donkeys, for they are still in the mail. (It takes longer to mail donkeys than $3900 checks because you have to find larger mailboxes for the donkeys, and this can take time, as mailboxes of this size can be hard to locate in most countries. Surprisingly enough, there are actually more donkey-sized mailboxes per capita in Sri Lanka than there are in the U.S. and England combined. Mind blowing, isn’t it? Anyway, I digress.) Should you wish to see what I imagine my new donkeys will look like, visit the online version of Encyclopedia Britannica and enter “Donkey” in the search prompt. I think mine are all brown, but perhaps not. In any case, my offer for the three donkeys stands.
Please reply ASAP with your contact address and telephone number if you wish to proceed. Oh, that’s right…Has the phone company fixed your phone line yet? Those guys never seem to get anything right, do they?
Last Sunday, those fucking hipsters from the Brooklyn Kickball league gathered at The Woods to close out the 2009 season, which lasted four and a half years and involved more plot twists than the secret script Tarantino wrote in the Video Archives bathroom one night while railing banana-slug lines of glass and Adderall. The friendly folks who man the taco truck at Metropolitan and North 3rd St. drove the whole operation over and slung tacos out back, Miller provided three kegs of shit beer, and a scrumptious cake was supplied by one league authority who does not appreciate it when people point out his resemblance to Dave Attell (shades of the latest episode of Curb here).
Flip-cup, cake-eating (insert pun here), racist jokes, white-person dancing, and copious Jameson consumption ensued. Some assholes decided that chasing whiskey shots with pickle juice was a good idea. Turned out it was. Who knew? Like chicken-n-waffles but you end up barfing all over your shoes and missing work waking up slightly later than usual the next day.
Despite the presence of all these vital components of unnecessary Sunday-night debauchery, something was missing: Gawker. If you, like most other cubicle captives, pass your weekdays before noon reading bullshit like this very “‘zine,” you might recall that Gawker’s aspiring fameballs grew a massive hard-on for “Kickball Hipster” mockery just last year. Sometime in the past twelve months, though, the hipster kickball beat writer either got canned or found a job that didn’t involve giving a fuck about narcissists like Julia Allison; the relevant posts now read “contact information for this author is not available,” with bylines removed.
So here you go — the much-discussed EXCLUSIVE! DCQ drunk-photo gallery of all the totally normal partying:
Late yesterday, the group bidding to buy the St. Louis Rams attempted to salvage its efforts by giving the heave-ho to its most controversial member, right-wing bobblehead/Hillbilly Heroin addict Rush Limbaugh. An apparently even-more-outraged-than-usual Rush responded by striking a grandiose tone:
“This is not about the NFL, it’s not about the St. Louis Rams, it’s not about me,” Limbaugh told his radio audience following the announcement. “This is about the ongoing effort by the left in this country, wherever you find them, in the media, the Democrat Party, or wherever, to destroy conservatism, to prevent the mainstreaming of anyone who is prominent as a conservative.”
Fine, sure, whatever. Rush will be Rush, and Rush is known for hyperbole and stoking political division. In concluding, had he wished to be entirely forthcoming with his loyal legions, he should’ve added that “Furthermore, this is about my ratings — increasing them, to be specific.”
But he chose a different route:
“Therefore, this is about the future of the United States of America and what kind of country we’re going to have.”
Well, then…this is a whole ‘nother story, Rush. You didn’t miss out on this nation-shaping moment because you once played a “comedic” song on your show titled “Obama the Magic Negro.” Or because you villainized welfare and essentially characterized the entirety of Black America as a collection of deadbeat dads and lazy sons in a single broadcast. Or, on a slightly related note, because the NFL is 65 percent black, and that these players (and, more importantly, their union) actually hold some sway over things — a fact apparently overlooked until yesterday by your would-be partners.
No, these matters are inconsequential. You lost your bid, Rush, because of a vast leftist conspiracy, driven by Enemies of America who don’t want you to have a 5 percent stake in an abysmal collection of football players. At stake: ONE COUNTRY.
So let us take a moment to pray, then, for the future of our nation…and for those insufferable Rams, who must now face a season of universal health care, Spanish in the locker room, and bottles of painkillers that don’t go missing while their owners are out on the field.
In keeping with the childhood reminiscence tip we’ve been on recently, today we reflect on two men who provided us with some of the weirder sub-pop culture moments of our youth before dying too young. Jim Varney, known for his franchise-friendly “Ernest P. Worrell” redneck character, succumbed to pack-a-day-spawned lung cancer in 2000, further proof that the bulk of those who provide America with good, wholesome family fun are not themselves living that same charmed portrayal of “life” (see: Ray Kroc, anyone from Disney).
Varney’s influence on much of DCQ cannot be overstated. But we’ll try. Another day. For now, let’s just say we miss the guy. And that wherever he is, we know a turtle’s biting his nuts, or he just tripped over a tree trunk, or the chef just made him eat something green and gloppy.
Then there’s Craig “Ironhead” Heyward. He was Zestfully Clean for a good chunk of the 1990s. He was also 300-plus pounds! And a competent running back! !Ke increible! For the fashionistas out there, the always-reliable Wikipedia credits Heyward, via commercials aforementioned and embedded below, with “introducing a generation of American men to the modern version of the Luffa that is now a fixture in many showers and bathtubs.”
Ironhead died of brain cancer in May 2006. We’ll tip one tonight to the last of the fat backs.
When we were wee bitty Dunces growing up in the Bay Area, we idolized our 49ers. This was before we knew (or cared to know) about collective bargaining, steroids, domestic violence and salary caps (or even ‘salaries,’ for that matter). They were Niners, and they kicked most everyone all over the field, and they were awesome.
We knew them all — even the offensive lineman. We had Joe and Jerry and Roger and John and Harris and Guy and Jesse and Steve (Wallace) and Steve (Young) and Charles and Eric and Ronnie and Keena and Brent and Tom and even Mike Fucking Cofer. The only question was whether we’d beat the Vikings, then the Giants, then later the Cowboys, and finally the Packers, in the NFC Championship Game. Sometimes we would and sometimes we wouldn’t, but we’d almost always get close (I vividly remember winning ‘only’ 10 games and missing the playoffs in 1991). Either way they’d riot in the Mission, which, though only a mile and a half from where I grew up (which wasn’t a perfect place, either), might as well have been present-day Juarez for all I knew (though it looked OK from the Laidlaw bus on the way school every morning).
The Niners, good guys that they were, played a charity basketball game in Kezar Pavilion every offseason. This was your chance to see these heroes in the flesh, up close and without all their armor. We were there. With much trepidation I approached John Taylor and asked for an autograph. He asked, “You got 10 bucks?” I said “N-noo” and started retreating to the bleachers. He hollered out something and I turned around and he signed my ticket stub. I still don’t know if he was messing with me or actually trying to extort 10 bucks out of an unemployed, half-grown person, but I’ve since concluded that this was the moment when I realized not all athletes were as great as I’d previously assumed they were.
Years passed and we grew somewhat and saw the Niners in a different light: They were still very good — not dominant, but very good — every year. But the cast had changed: Where there had been Joe, there was now Steve. We were OK with that because he, like Joe, tore up defenses without fail, which was nice. We also had Charles and Deion and Richard and Rickey and Ricky and William as new complements to Steve. It was this year — 1995 — when I became aware of the concept of ‘buying championships.’ But we were still the Niners, and kicked everyone’s asses, and it was awesome. A precocious tween with no bills, job, nagging wife or serious work ethic, I had all kinds of time to absorb every number in the Chronicle’s sports section. And soon it was decided: Ricky Watters was the new BEST PLAYER EVER. He scored five — FIVE! — touchdowns in one playoff game. He could run, catch, spin, high-step…the Man. Like Taylor, he came to the local basketball gym to play a charity game with other Niners, and we all got him to sign stuff and he was the coolest. I think he even threw down a dunk, though maybe not.
But Ricky, like the Niners of the mid-to-late 90s, never achieved greatness, though he was consistently very good, and occasionally spectacular. Then he bolted for Philly and had a couple decent seasons there and places beyond before retiring after, according to the omniscient and infallible Wikipedia, reportedly turning down Cleveland’s contract offer out of fear that terrorists would blow up the next plane he boarded (this being the age of 9/11 hysteria, and he being a man not paid for his intellect).
Recently, our thoughts returned to the guy. An extensive Google search followed. His modest personal website indicates he does promotional speaking, helps run football camps, and bankrolls a positive-vibe rap label.
But he also proffers up a glimpse into his personal life:
On a recent Friday eve, DCQ’s New Yeez contingent ventured out into the wild bacteria stew of the Hudson on a decrepit ferry stocked with booze, 150 people and one RJD2. With payday a distant glimmer on the horizon and said booze bogarted behind a “cash” bar, we resorted to the familiar tactic of “sneaking shit in (SSI).”
This is an art form we’ve refined over the past dozen years, with the primary media being sports and concert venues. Our first stab at SSI came in September 1997. Giants vs. Padres. It began with a friend’s spectacular fake ID, used to procure an armload of Mickey’s 40s from the Oak Grove corner market (‘bodega’ hadn’t yet entered our lexicon) behind school. We had the angles scoped: Malt brew transferred to green 7-Up two-liters and hidden in closets overnight, then carried in hoodie cocoons as we pulled up to Candlestick Park. This being the glorious buyers’ market of pre-South Beach Giants baseball, security shoved us through the turnstiles with nary a sideways glance. As it happened, the game was actually sold out, and we sat in the second-to-last row of the upper deck in center field — approximately 1,200 feet away from the plate. But all was good: By the third a sickly Mickey’s buzz was had, by the fifth we were bouncing off the walls of the concrete spiral stairways that encased the hulking mass, by the seventh we were taking turns calling earl in the nearest bathroom stall, and by the end of the ninth, as Barry made his famous stand atop the home dugout, we were passing out where we sat.
In the years since, we’ve became more efficient and creative. The prevailing opinion is that hard liquor’s the way to go, and a fifth is the biggest you can pull off with confidence. If it’s a day game and you’re nursing a hangover, long pants and knee-high socks filled with tall boys are acceptable. The fifth — whiskey or rum only, please — goes right-side-up directly in front of the jimmy, belt buckled as tight as possible so as to secure the bottle with the bare minimum of above-waist frontage. If possible, go for the male security guard — he’ll be less inclined to check certain essential areas. In rare cases, through extensive field research, you may uncover a unique perimeter flaw that allows you to do wondrous and otherwise unimaginable things: At the Giants’ new(ish) stadium, for example, you can bring in giant beers in styrofoam cups, purchased for a pittance at the pizzeria across the way, by entering the park through the team store.
Large sporting events are fairly easy. The latest innovation came in the recent discovery of an MLB-sponsored DUI prevention program that doles out free Cokes to attendees who identify themselves as designated drivers. These make cheap grog more palatable. AND you get to show all the college girls your hero-status DD bracelet! Bonus. Where it gets tricky, however, is at certain music venues where organizers seem to expect most patrons to be carrying some form of intoxicant. In such situations, we’ve come to employ a tactic used for decades by certain Suburban-driving Sinaloans: The mule wave. Break the juice into as many pint-sized water bottles as possible. Give one or two to each person you’re with (better make it two or three if it’s a festival). Use the same crotch placement process as with full fifth, tightening belt to keep bottle from sliding down to your ankles (mysterious bulges are to be avoided). Spread out as you enter so that security doesn’t recognize you’re together. This way, you’re virtually guaranteed a passable stock of booze even if one or two of your homies takes a fall.
As any nimrod (that’s you, Jack) can see, we’ve had some time to fine-tune our playbook (though perfection, as always, remains elusive). Which made it surprising — nay, stunning — when the token security guy checking passengers boarding the RJD2 boat nabbed the bulk of our supply during what experts had estimated would be a harmless formality. We suspect it was an inside job because the guy went straight for the above-junk area without any attempt at acting out the proper pat-down pattern (ankles-legs-hips-ribs-arms-back-THEN abovejunk as an afterthought, if at all…everybody knows that). Luckily, despite all signs pointing to an SSI Level Green, we’d divied the stash up beforehand, and our backup made it in.
So you see, DCQ nation, the key to a successful SSI operation lies in the artist’s ability to assess and adapt — that is, to change up the strategy on the fly and on the sly. But even the most practiced and universally-lauded practitioners sometimes slip up.
A skeezy Little League baseball coach once told us a common off-color joke he’d blessed with a personal touch: “Close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades and fat chicks.” We were only 10 at the time, so we didn’t really get the last part, but the rest seemed to have some sense to it. In any case, replace “fat chicks” with “SSI operations,” and it rings true. But it still won’t make sense to a 10-year-old.
The man-boy who bragged last fall (while chewing on a gob of Twizzlers for dramatic effect, mind you) that one of the myriad entities suing him had “folded like Mitch Williams in the ninth” in settlement negotiations has pulled the ultimate fiscal implosion: Lenny Dykstra is bankrupt.
Dykstra’s well-documented rise from scumbag athlete to Wall Street darling for bored bankers in desperate need of cocktail party fodder begs a number of questions:
a.) Why does anyone listen to Jim Cramer anymore? Or, more accurately, why did anyone listen to Jim Cramer up until Jon Stewart reduced him to a blubbering, goateed effigy for financial media’s rather long shortcomings during the subprime buildup and collapse?
b.) Who brings Twizzlers to a closed-door meeting in a federal courthouse? During which hundreds of thousands of dollars are at stake? “Ashtray money” aside, Lenny either planned out his Twizzler feast hours in advance and stashed the goods in his briefcase, pockets, underwear and/or socks, or employs an assistant whose sole duty as such is to keep Mr. Dykstra with Twizzler-in-hand at all times. “Where’s my fucking Twizzler brick, dude? I didn’t hire you and buy probably one of the top-five most badass Twizzler briefcases around for you to carry everywhere I go and not open and give me Twizzlers LIKE NOW!!!!”
More to come, without a doubt, sooner or later, but hopefully frequently for the rest of our natural lives.
Disclaimer: Do not read this post unless you’ve got absolutely NOTHING better to do. Seriously. You will not feel better about yourself for knowing the following, though it may give you and your co-workers something to gab about over happy hour at Fuddrucker’s tonight. 
