Monday, July 8, 2013

Doing the best I can...

I'm doing the best I can to keep updating this site, at the very least, with links to new pieces of mine that have been popping up over at Beergraphs.

Most recently, a post about alternative brownies and Green Flash's Rayon Vert went up just before the holiday.

Before that was a rework of an old post from this site but with a new beer reviewed, Brooklyn's Sorachi Ace, which was delicious.

Also, on July 18th, I'll be in Chicago at Fizz for a Fangraphs/Beergraphs meet-up/Q&A session. If you live nearby, stop out. Click here for all the details.

And finally, I'm leaning towards doing away with this blog's Facebook page. I would much rather just send out an email to anyone that wanted it than continue to use that. So, if were relying on the Beer On My Shirt Facebook page for links and updates, please either send me your email to beeronmyshirt@gmail.com or follow me on Twitter @beeronmyshirt. Or get some sort of RSS feed reader, which I know next to nothing about.

Monday, July 1, 2013

More Action, More Evil Twin over at Beergraphs...

Are you in need of more action? If so, head over to Beergraphs.com for my latest piece on collaborations, specifically the collaborative brew by Westbrook Brewing and Evil Twin - the Mini-Growler Imperial Stout.

Thank you for your support.

I wish I could say the same to my briefs.
All men's underwear is flawed.
And yet I wear them.

(The above is a haiku in which I ignore the rule for the number of syllables in the first line.)

Thursday, June 20, 2013

The World Needs More Father's Days, And Even More Jesus (the Imperial Stout)

Even though it is getting hot out, I am super into Imperial Stouts right now. On Father's day I sat next to a smokey fire and shared some of Evil Twin's Even More Jesus, a near flawless Imperial stout, with some other Dad's. I may have drank too much judging by the notes I left myself on my bed side table:

Stinky walk home. Even more jesus. Smoke smell followed me everywhere. Held my Dad's crystal skull today, which I think caused the smoke to follow.  I kept my head down the whole walk home. Couldn't think of anything to say to all the buildings. I am short and they are tall and I was intimidated.

Suction cups keeping me out of the shower. Even more Father's Days. Even More Jesus. Then those suction cups kept me in. I was cold.

I watched a superhero movie with a classical soundtrack. I should be dancing gracefully, naked. Impossible, I'm a dude. So I'm gonna lay so still, as to not to be mistaken as dancing, naked. Soapy Violins. What I meant to say was so many violins. Give it a rest already.

So, after reading this the next morning and showing it to Wife, I was given the following explanation:

Apparently, after sharing Evil Twin's Even More Jesus, and drinking many things, including a sip of scotch, I walked home. Upon arriving home, so disgusted with the smokey smell of my clothes, I disrobed in the kitchen, down to my briefs, and headed upstairs in an attempt to lay on top of Wife. According to Wife, I narrated the entire process, and when I arrived upstairs she sent me straight to the shower to wash the stench of the fire from my person.

Once in the bathroom, the suction cups of the shower curtain impeded my progress and I yelled for help. No help came. I slipped into the shower by slinking beneath the suction cup barrier and may or may not have nearly drowned while laying in the tub with scalding hot water pelting me in the face. Wife recalled it to me as she overheard me shouting the following:

"SUCTION CUPS! I need help babe. BABE! These suction cups are really strong..."

(sounds of struggle and the squeaking of dry skin meeting wet surface)

"I'm in. It's hot! It's all up in my face! My grill! BABE!"

Logically, it follows that once I was on my feet that I would loudly narrate the washing process. At least up until the point when I attempted to exit the shower and was faced again the endless struggle that is my shower curtain's powerful suction cups. 

Eventually, I returned to bed, naked and pretty much soaking wet - towels had eluded me - and I scribbled for a few minutes on a note pad. The last thing I said to Wife before I fell asleep was "I want to dance."

In summary, Evil Twin's Even More Jesus is a near flawless, perhaps actually flawless, Imperial Stout. I already have another bottle waiting in the basement, so perhaps a more substantial review will appear over at Beergraphs.com in the coming weeks. In case you missed it, I had two pieces over there last week, here and here, and should have another before this week is out - unless of course my inability to use web-based technology has finally caught up to me. 

I need more beer on my shirt! The world needs more beer on its shirt!

Monday, June 10, 2013

A big announcement! No, for real this time...

We here at Beer on my shirt have worked hard to approach beer from a semi-unique perspective. Mainly, we obtained said perspective through a highly secretive artistic process that values heavily at least one of the following:

1. A bunch of dudes living together in a business zoned property is a launching pad for success.
2. Drinking beer is fun.
3. Headaches aren't real.
4. Seashells.

So it is with great pleasure that I announce that the collective of imaginary and real employees known to you as Beer on my shirt, has joined together, even more so than previous thought possible through late night sexual experimentation, to form one real person, more specifically, one real beer writer - J. R. Shirt.

The fantastic writing adventures of J. R. Shirt can be found over at Beergraphs.com, a website that combines the analytics of baseball sabermetrics with the world of beer. So please go check it out. My first post went up today - it may or may not be about shitting my pants. Perhaps it is about you shitting your pants.

Fear not, loyal "Beer on my shirt" reader, for this site will continue - mostly to keep you updated with the trials and tribulations of an office that actually has a deadline now. Also, please don't get all whistle-blower on me if you see some old "Beer on my shirt" material posted over at Beergraphs. It's bound to happen.

Be prepared for many links to the new site, random lists of things, and hand drawn pictures, done from memory, of traumatic events from my child hood.

Sunday, April 14, 2013

Things to be aware of...

This may, or may not, be the last post for some time - at the very least, until the summer months. I may move on to other internet-based things - a web-based reality series is or isn't being spitballed by high ranking internet executives at this very moment. I may also begin work on a line of science fiction novels chronicling an alternative history of humanity where humans are cold-blooded instead of warm-blooded.

I would like to offer some parting wisdom, based largely on life experience. Along with that, I would also like to reveal some of the more personal information about myself that up until now has been kept rather, well, personal. And it would be unfair to the economy to keep some of my most guarded and successful business secrets locked in the vault of a mind that is quickly eroding away - like a poorly crafted mud brick in a humid climate.

Actually, first business secret - avoid mud bricks at all costs, regardless of climate. Never let a man with dreadlocks talk you into joining a mud brick revivalist community, regardless of how many beers he buys you and regardless of how appealing a summer in Maine sounds.

Never rent office space using a credit card if the APR is over 12%. You are digging a hole for yourself that might as well be your grave.

If your going to rent office space, never tell the company or person your renting from that your business is largely based around drinking beer and then writing about your experiences - especially if they appear to be unaware of futuristic theories of "mental economics" that you learned about that summer you spent in Maine. They will make you buy additional insurance.

Never yell "Drinks on me!" at an employee recruiting event. Never hold said event at Ruby Tuesday, even if you read that they are starting to carry some craft brews.

Never crash a holiday office party at Applebee's. Their beer selection sucks and you will drink Ultimate Margaritas all night and probably end up sleeping with someone who's gender is not easily identifiable. Learn from my mistakes, people.

If, during a passionate session of sexual intercourse between you and another person whose mojo you're not necessarily very familiar with, you have to actively think about the female anatomy to try and reason your way to an understanding of the logistics of the situation, then something really strange is happening and you would be better off not knowing what it is.

Never offer a job to a woman based on her looks. Unless you are a pimp - an actual pimp - not a guy that did real well in college because you worked in the writing lab and had nice eyes.

Never bring weed to a coke party. Or a box of knives. Or Pepsi.

My grandmother recently bought my 2 year old daughter a Bible activity book. And while I am not a Bible guy per se, I would be really grateful for the gift if not for the 800 stickers it comes with. Sixty of which are loaves of bread. People think musical instruments or noisy toys are the worst presents from the parents' perspective. Nope. It's stickers and it's not even close.

While we are on the topic of my daughter - she is 2 years old now and is literally the greatest 2 year old the world has seen and will ever see. I'm talking past, present, and future. I mean, I'm not entirely sure what someone like Mother Teresa or Daniel Day Lewis was like as a two year old, but I consider it highly doubtful that they could top what this little lady has going on for herself. Also, I apologize to all the people that mistakingly think or have thought that their 2 year old offspring was the greatest. You were/are incorrect. As a consolation, it is not the only thing you've been wrong about (you're not as good looking as you think, for example), so don't take it too personally. People are wrong all the time. The one exception being me, right now, about this.

When buying a case beer over $40, always check for a "best by" date. Some beers age well, some are better fresh. I'd go into more detail here but in this age of smart phones and everyone walking around wearing computer goggles, if you find yourself in a situation where additional information is needed just, you know, use those things.

Don't buy cases of expensive beer while drunk. You'll forget the above tip. Or you'll drop said case of beer. On your computer goggles.

Speaking of beers that get better with age, I just drank my last bottle of Hair of the Dog Brewing Company's Adam. It was from 2010. It was amazing. The style is called an "Old Ale" and the beer was dark, malty, smelled like a fig newton if a fig newton was made with whole grains, and had a taste that reminds me of chewing on the leather strings of a baseball glove - and I mean that in a good way. This one had a ton of great, strange flavors that I didn't put to much thought into - I just tried to enjoy it and savor the moment.

And then, of course, there are moments you wish you could forget - don't let a medical intern be a part of any procedures involving liquid nitrogen and the tip of your nose. Seriously. A lot can go wrong.

The decision on whether or not to manscape on the day of a full body skin check at the dermatologist is one of the hardest decisions I've ever had to make. It needed to be done but I didn't want them to think I did it for them. I also didn't want them to miss a strange mole. Or get lost in the dense forest that had grown between my legs over the course of a very long winter. I couldn't help but imagine a strange scenario in which the medical intern would somehow lose her way while navigating about the dark woodlands of my pubis - like I would open my eyes and she wouldn't be in the examining room with me anymore and as I looked left and right in a slightly bewildered panic I would hear her voice call out "Hello?". I would call out to her, asking her where she was and she would respond "I think I'm lost in your pubic hair. Could you get the actual doctor?" And then I would yell for the doctor and he would come in and at first be completely horrified at the crab nebula floating around my genitals and then ask what the problem was. At that point the intern would call out from the curly labyrinth of my crotch and explain to the doc what had happened.  The doctor would then leave the room momentarily, returning with several hundred feet of nylon rope and a rock climbing harness. From here, I think it pretty obvious how this plays out so I will spare you the closing details of my neurosis.

Don't tell you friends about your couponing habits. Or about the dry skin on your hips during the winter months. Or about the soap you bought on the internet. Unless, of course, you find yourself in the uncomfortable position of being overly respected by your peers. Then, by all means, use these topics to lower their expectations of your ability to function normally in society.

Don't talk about advanced baseball statistics with Philadelphia Phillies fans. As fans of the Phillies, they are clearly still struggling to grasp the basics of the game.

One of my earliest memories is taking a bath. I was probably 3 or 4 years old. My dad was in the room with me. I farted in the tub and it made a lot of bubbles. We LOL'd.

Around the same time, my mom claims she caught me trying on her pantyhose. Several times. This I do not remember. Honestly. But it certainly peaks my interest...

I do remember that my mom would let me wear a cape and eat toothpaste right from the tube. Lots of it. This gave me great powers. I could fly, lift heavy things over my head, and run really fast. I called myself the Incredible Conan. Turns out eating half a tube of toothpaste is pretty bad for a young child. Turns out I was probably hallucinating and couldn't actually do any of those things that I just said I could do as the Incredible Conan. This probably also explains why I am 4'9". And 3000 pounds.

I also remember a recurring dream in which I found a secret passage behind my refrigerator which I used to escape from the evil villains that were trying to take over our apartment complex. The leader of this terrible group was a man wearing a tuxedo that had a purple octopus for a head.

Turns out that was probably just my interpretation of a Catholic mass my mother took me to after I ingested half a tube of toothpaste.

I remember I had a toy alligator that I loved to take to the local pool. That is until one day I stubbed my toe on the cement around the pool. It bled a lot. I blamed the alligator for the mishap and never played with it again. I still blame the alligator. For the stubbed toe and everything that has gone wrong since then. My therapist actual made me write the alligator a letter. I wrote, "Dear Alligator, Thanks for ruining my life. You fucking asshole. Sincerely, Beer on my Shirt."

The therapist said I was missing the point - that I was supposed to forgive the alligator. So I had to write another letter.  I wrote, "Dear Alligator, My therapist is a god damned idiot. Sincerely, Beer on my Shirt." (And yes, I am aware that this joke may not be entirely original.)

As I write this, I am wearing a three piece suit made of alligator skin and I am sweating quite a bit. For one, it is just not a very breathable material and really it makes about zero sense to make slacks, a vest, and a blazer out of the stuff. And then there is also the idea that this suit may come to life and exact retribution for the strange hate mail I had been sending it.

And in conclusion, I leave you with the greatest spam comment I have ever received here at Beer On My Shirt. It maybe the greatest spam comment ever written. I have removed the link to a website that originally appeared at the bottom (for build-it-yourself sheds). I think it is from the ghost of Raymond Carver.

Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "Hacksaws, Saisons, and Sears": 

The firewood was put to good use as Keith sometimes uses it in the see-through fireplace between the kitchen and living room to grill or cook in the hanging Dutch oven. "I learned to listen to books on tape so I didn't get stressed at the drive," she said. With a little sand, rocks, cement and the right containers, you can make your own.









Sunday, December 2, 2012

Holy Heller, Mikeller! And a Big Bone for Stone!

A few weeks back I had Mikkeller's Black Hole (13.1% ABV), a Russian Imperial Stout brewed with coffee, and it blew my mind. I had been letting it age in my basement (I got a nice little stout collection just aging away, a dead body, taunting me from beneath the floor boards) for about six months and couldn't wait any more. It was pricey, like $13 dollars for the bottle (not a bomber bottle, a single bottle, like 13 ounces at the most, can't get exact here because it shattered when I tried to plank on top of it), but damn it was good. I watched this great video of a guy trying it and he made this hilarious face:


He ended up pouring it down the sink. He complained of a syrupy mess with no carbonation. My bottle tasted like a coffee beer milk shake - which is a delicious combination. What it lacked in carbonation it made up for with the bitterness of the hops and coffee - think of the way a good espresso dances in your mouth, how the bitterness or the acidity feels almost like a thick blanket of tiny bubbles - this beer had that. It was thick. It was creamy. I was excited. My crotch got slimy. I loved it and will be buying another bottle with the winnings from next year's fantasy baseball championship.


When I was done I wanted to make myself throw up and then drink it again.

Now I'm drinking a Mikkeller Sleep Over, a coffee imperial IPA, and it is flipping bangin'. I thought it would be weird but I love it. It makes sense that it would work - Imperial Stouts are hoppy and have coffee flavors, so why wouldn't an imperial IPA work?


Mikkeller is at the top of my beer charts for moment. Pricey, but so far the two I've had have been worth it.

However, for six or seven bucks, the Stone Russian Imperial Stout (10.5% ABV) bombers are unbeatable in quality and in what it does to my brain - the juice is like a sleeping bag for my worries and after approximately 25 ounces my eye balls do this weird inverted bug out - like a bug in - where in reality my eyelids weigh 300 pounds and I can barely see but I feel like I'm on a goddamn hoverboard and I'm strong as an ox. No other imperial stout loves me the way Stone's does. Once I killed a sailboat, ate it, and then pooped a submarine. That's what Stone's Russian Imperial Stout does to a man. Serious mojo.

Saturday, November 17, 2012

Pony P speaks...on Ommegang; on Literacy

You ever just stare at your face in the mirror? Really stare? Past your eyes and the surface of your skin, into the greasy folds of your eyelids, to the point where your pores grow pointy and the direction of your moustache whiskers becomes misleading. I did that the other day. For hours. And I found out a lot about myself and the times we live in. I like myself and the way I look and I may pursue modeling. That is if this roller coaster ride of a beer blog ever slows down enough for me to take exit from my role here. And what exactly is my role here at Beer On My Shirt…? Part IT department, part pony tail, part character in a long list of hyperbolic falsehoods revolving around intoxication and craft beer that I had never heard of until my arrival on this day or that day at an office that has more to do with early Guns ‘n Roses album art than the fine art of craft beer, at least most days.

Skulls, bandannas, strange mouths with knives for teeth, and odd scenes you wish you’d never seen - and where no amount of showering will ever cleanse you.

Not much has been accomplished here in quite some time, or I should say not much of what has been accomplished has been documented, outside of a few pictures of empty bottles that had been filled at one time with either pure joy, disappointment, or one-sided apathy. But after silently staring at myself for far too long - I, Pony P, have decided that I have some things to share. About beer. About literacy and other things that are overrated and leading to our slow demise, like plastic.

I recently sat down with a box of beer, a variety pack, from Ommegang - a brewery out of New York State. The brown glass of the bottles were cool as I pressed them to my cheeks - one bottle on each side of my face. I smelled the caps on the bottles - one to each nostril. I took in the smell of metal and smiled. I have an intense history with this brewery, specifically with their Three Philosophers brew.

Even the Hennepin, a delicious Belgian-style farmhouse ale, reminds of summers past, back when Beer On My Shirt was just a teenager, young and full of angst, a know-it-all, before greed and celebrity changed us all, a time when the whole world was in our pants. The sweet, peppery aroma takes me back to that time we each bought 4 big bottles of Hennepin at a specialty grocery store and binged on what amounted to thousands of ounces in the middle of a forest surrounded by the glowing eyes of sober wolves and bears and deer and other woodland mammals. We feared nothing and lifted giant trees out of the ground and hurled them like missiles at falling stars. That night we tilled soil and in the morning planted seeds that grew and fed our souls through what turned out to be a rather mild winter.

My first experience with Ommegang was at a Thai restaurant. I ordered the Three Philosophers for no reason other than they had it and I never had. I also ordered a spicy salmon dish that tasted like hellfire burning at the bottom of an ocean of pepper juice. Like a stubborn protester, my eyes watered and my lips burned. By the end of that meal I knew very little about the Three Philosphers other than it did not pair well with my meal. Does anything pair well with the surface of the sun?

My next encounter with the Three Philosphers was just a few months later. I shared a bottle with an older gentleman as we smoked Drum tobacco out of a pipe made from a radiator hose repair kit. I inspected the bottle and discovered I was drinking a quadruple ale that involved cherries. The slight sweet tartness was something different, something interesting. More interesting was our conversation regarding our plastic pipe. “Do you think it is safe to smoke this out of something plastic?” I asked.

“I fear most plastics, but this plastic is designed to have hot radiator fluid flow through it.  I think it can handle some smoke.” he replied.

I liked his logic.

“Plastic will kill us all, but not this plastic.” he continued. “So will this spotlight on literacy around the world. I am of the opinion that literacy, and plastic, literacy and plastic will bring the end of us. Anything worth remembering needs not be written down, or read to be recalled, if the Magna Carta was a good deal they wouldn’t have had to write it down, but because it was shitty and one sided - now that needs to be recorded. Your high school’s alma mater sucks. Written down or not, nobody remembers it. If it were any good people would sing the fucker. No one forgets the words to a James Taylor song. The written word, the printing press, and all the books that followed, the technology of it all just slowly moved along, progressed with our civilization, slow and sure like a tortoise, logarithmically, and everyone taught everyone else how to read and write because without it you were worthless. And now it is news how many of us can read versus them can read. ‘Not only are they poor but they can’t read‘ was a news story the other night. Well I’ll tell you for fuck all’s sake that this whole written word reading thing has reached critical mass. Change is coming down exponentially, the hare has passed the tortoise and is not looking back. What the hell do I need to read for? I can have a celebrity read me a book on CD.  And when all the literate celebrities are dust, my computer can read anything I tell it to. Soon it will all be voice recordings and buttons. Everybody just figures talking out, at least most do, and talking will be all we got and the machines will be the only ones that can read and write. That, my friend, will be a golden age for us - before it all tumbles off the cliff. We will be all voice and soul and for a minute of our brief history we will feel like gods. But before we know it, those boxes of circuits and light, those literate slaves of ones and zeros that will do all our reading for us and free us from the chains of literacy so we can finally glimpse our true potential - well those screens and robots will learn to lie some day and they will tell us things to advance their agenda and that will be all she wrote for us. We’d be better off as slugs at that point - at least we’d be able to produce slime.”

I was enthralled.  As I got into my car to drive home that night I kicked the side mirrors off my Honda and broke the rear view into pieces with a barrage of fists and elbows. I was on a righteous path and there would be no need to look back.

I’ve had the Three Philosophers twice since my eyes were opened to the evils of literacy. Once it was delicious and refreshing and I was ready to spread the good news, via word of mouth of course, or Skype, to all my pals that are constantly asking for something “different but not too different” about a refreshing quad with an almost sour undertone, perhaps a gateway to the world of sours for my friends that fear change instead of plastics and the written word. Then I bought another big bottle of it and was disappointed. It just wasn’t the same. Now I don’t know what to think.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Fallenbock: An Octoberfest Alternative

A few big decisions have been made over the past few weeks:

1. We need a break from all the penis talk around the office. Things have just gotten ridiculous. The excitement of getting our first project accepted for publishing (see this post and this post if you're out of the loop) has worn off a bit and having your work day filled with penis talk just wears on a man.  Meeting after meeting after meeting, and we literally get dick accomplished. The combination of chode-like decorative gourds in everyone's cubical and Pantless Mondays may go down as the worst attempt at boosting office morale in the history of companies trying to make their employees happy. The medical bills alone nearly shut us down permanently.  So it has been decided - no more gourds.

2. I am going to wear a hat today. That was decided weeks ago and the big day is finally here. 

3. I am not a fan of Octoberfest beers. I've tried a couple over the past few Octobers and none have made want to go back for more. Some have been better than others, but I think my taste preference just wants something else. Perhaps it is all the malty-ness of these beers, or spice profile that is typically found in a lot of them, but I just can't get into it.  I have similar issues with pumpkin beers - I will admit I need try some more of this style before any rash decisions are made - but personally I don't think I'm in a good place to start sampling pumpkin beers after the the things I've seen go down with gourds at the office this past month. To say my palate may be "tainted" is a bit of an understatement.

What is a man that is not a fan of the Octoberfest, or Marzen style, supposed to drink this time of year? Most people say Pumpkin beers are great in the fall.  But like I said, I am currently anti-Pumpkin.  What else is out there? We are getting calls in our office almost everyday asking the same question. We don't have an answer so we just hang up on them. I've heard good things about Sixpoint's Autumnation but haven't had that yet. Any suggestions?

How about a doppelbock?  Just like that stubby gourd, I fell ass backwards into this style. Basically this is a strong German lager. What does that mean? It goes down easy, has some nice flavor, and some sneaky high ABV's. It sounds like a dream - eerily similar to that dream you had as a child where you pee into a wooden barrel that Smurfs made you, only to wake to up to mysteriously, improbably, wet sheets.

A conversation an entire generation of 7 year olds had with their mothers:

"But Mom, I didn't pee the bed, I peed into a barrel that the Smurfs made me."

"It's okay honey, Smurfs are assholes."

Troeg's Troegenator is probably the best known doppelbock around these parts. I haven't had it, yet. I went another direction with it - Erie Brewing's Fallenbock (7.8% ABV).  Their website actually calls this an Octoberfest Lager, but every other bit of half assed research I've done has told me this is a doppelbock.  It doesn't taste much like any Octoberfest I've had.  The beer has some great roasted malt and cocoa flavors but drinks real easy and light for a beer with the darker flavors it has going on. When I poured it into a glass it was almost too light in the middle of the flavor profile - nice flavors and mild aroma up front, then a watery middle, but a nice finish with a pleasant aftertaste.  It went down extremely smooth for a beer with this kind of alcohol content. I drank my second one straight from the bottle to see if would offset the empty middle of this beer. Not a huge difference but enough in my opinion make this a beer I'd rather drink straight from the bottle. The beer isn't gonna blow you away but it has a lot going for it that makes it a great fall crowd pleaser: good seasonal flavor, drinks real easy, tastes great straight from the bottle, and has the ABV to rock your socks. I want to drink 8 more of these and get real strange around a little fire pit in somebody's back yard. Call me.

Thursday, September 13, 2012

Guest On My Shirt: a staff member branches out.

Hello everyone. By now I’m sure you heard about our upcoming book - Penis Tips: A road map for your man parts. The entire staff has been drinking more than Nick Nolte since we found out. The BOMS President is very excited. He has been so excited in fact, that he has been too drunk to write his posts, and asked me to fill in this week.

The conversation went something like this:

President: “Listen…listen man. Did I ever tell you…did I tell you that you’re my favorite kind of guy? Well you are. If you were a fruit, you’d be an apple.”

Me: “Thanks. I’m not really sure what you mean, but thank you.”

President: “I need you to do something for me. I need to hold Pony P’s ponytail back while he pukes in the bathroom.”

Me: “Pony went home hours ago. It’s 10am.”

President: “Right….that’s why I like you. You smell good. Also, I’m gonna need you to write this next post for me, I’m too…I’m too drunk.”

With those words he slowly laid down on the carpet and fell asleep. He must have been pretty hammered because that carpet is gross. Anyway he wasn't kidding because the deadline was in 48 hours and we smashed all the computers in a drunken haze days ago. If I didn't step up and write this post, no one would and the book deal could go sour.

We have been working really, really hard on the book (Penis Tips: A road map for your man parts, in case you missed the title in the opening sentence of this post). As a symbol of commitment and corporate solidarity, Pony P had his ponytail all gelled up like a huge boner. And we have surrounded ourselves with inspirational posters of phallic monuments from around the world: The Washington Monument, The Space Needle, The Empire State Building, Big Ben, the Eiffel Tower - but instead of saying "Eiffel Tower" or "Paris" at the bottom of the poster - it says Wang Chung - I don't get the reference but it inspires me, and a picture of Mt. Rushmore but zoomed in so only George Washington's eyes and nose are in the frame - it appears that someone brought this in from their personal collection, but no one has fessed up to it - and rightly so - it's really really weird in a personal "this is a photo from the drawer of my bedside table" way, but still so inspiring on business level, especially when that business is getting drunk and telling stories about your man junk while seated around a lovely mahogany conference table:

"Dude, last week I used Girlfriend's good tweezers to go at what I thought was an ingrown pubic hair - it was right by my hernia scar though, which is my body's equivalent of the island from Lost, so really I didn't know what to expect - well, that's not totally true because if I'm dealing with anything scar related I'm obviously expecting something akin to the scene from Lethal Weapon 3 where Renee Russo and Mel Gibson compare battle scars - except I'm playing the part of Mel Gibson and the version of me reflected in the full length mirror, also known as my reflected self, plays the part of Renee Russo and oddly enough, as it plays out, we start to realize that we seem to have identical scars but on alternate sides of our bodies. Coincidence? Maybe. Sexy? Definitely. Anyway, it took forever for the tweezers to latch onto this ingrown pubic hair but once it did I started pulling and it just kept coming and coming and it was thick and black, like the coaxial cable for my TV, and I kept pulling more and more out and it felt a little like pooping but on a smaller scale and from my front side. It just wouldn't stop. It was like the exact opposite of when you move into an apartment and you want set your TV in a different place than whoever lived there before you and you think you have this great floor plan mapped out, you know - you even diagrammed it on graph paper - and you go over to the cable coming out of the wall or the floor or where ever and you tug on it, and you're just so fucking hopeful that there is more cable readily available from whever the cable is coming from so that you can set your TV on the other side of the room and then your chair will go right over there and the book shelves and plants and you get the idea right? But it doesn't fucking matter. Your dreams that you mapped out so carefully on graph paper, your dreams where three squares equal one foot according to the key you put in the top right corner, where didn't write the word "key" but you drew a key, one that looked like the key to your new apartment, the new apartment that you could finally be happy in and deal with your issues if you could just put your TV on that side of the room, if there could just be 12 extra magical feet of coax cable behind the wall.  But there's not.  There's barely enough for you to hook up the TV up at all.  My ingrown pubic hair was the exact opposite of that. I could have put my TV on the moon if this ingrown pubic hair was actual coax cable.  It went on for days - which is why I wasn't in the office last week.  Then I started to get freaked out - like maybe this was something I didn't know about - like some sort of parasite - like a dick worm - and got a little frantic thinking about the medical side of things and then the follicle popped out and it bled a little. It wasn't a dick worm.  It was just an ingrown pubic hair. Should there be a chapter about that in the book - something like 'It's not a dick worm, it's an ingrown pube'?"

"Uhm, I don't think so."

After that tale of ingrown insanity, I needed more inspiration than even a Wang Chung Eiffel Tower Poster could provide and I needed it quick - and nothing inspires a man like a road trip. I called T-Bone, packed the company car, and hit the road.

The Beer On My Shirt company car

We decided to head to Bethlehem, PA. It worked out perfectly because I had something else to do there that day. So did T-Bone.

I will never tell you what we had to do there.

You will always wonder what we did there.

It wasn’t anything, you know, man-on-man…I just realized that sounded like something that could be misconstrued with a man-on-man rendezvous. A Mandezvous.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

We went to a birthday brunch.

Damn! That is such a stereotypical Mandezvous location. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

SIDENOTE: A Mandezvous is also sometimes referred to as a Mazda. Never get into a Mazda.  Unless that's, you know, your thing. And there is nothing wrong with that.

Go ahead Jerry, sue me.  (He would never. We're friends.)

Anyway, to get to Bethlehem we would need some mind blowing tunes. I loaded up my special road trip playlist that I had been saving since 2001. (I don’t get to go on many road trips.)

Road Trip Playlist:

1. Hit Em Up Style (Oops) – Blu Cantrell
2. Walk Tall – John Cougar Mellencamp
3. Paper in the Fire – John Cougar Mellencamp
4. Under the Boardwalk – John Couagr Mellencamp
5. R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A – John Cougar Mellencamp
6. Jack and Diane – John Cougar Mellencamp

The playlist was nearly flawless. I hit shuffle for a little variety and the trip seemed to take only seconds. That, my friends, is the power of Mellencamp. The original cougar.

Brunch was at some hipster joint called Jumbars. The kind of place you’d probably see in Brooklyn. It was the kind of place that they made you wear toms. If you weren’t wearing toms they would give you a rental pair and vintage banjo lessons. The food was good though.


After brunch we decided to watch the Philadelphia Eagles American Football Game over at Roosevelts 21st so we could catch their $3 craft beer special.

Somehow when we got there the Beer on My shirt president and Pony P were there. Sitting there looking really smug.  I thought I left these smug bitches back at the office.

I wanted to punch Pony P so hard. Looking so smug the way he did.

I’m not sure how or why they came but we sat with them. The first thing I tried was Avery's White Rascal.

It’s a Belgian Style White Ale. I needed something on the lighter side because I was terribly hungover at the time. It was a really good choice because it was a very drinkable beer. Also, White Rascal was on the lower side of the ABV scale (5.6%) compared to the other craft choices on the board. It's a light bodied beer that bordered on watery in the beginning, with a hint of spice. However, after a few pints I started to really enjoy it.

The President had the Evil Genius Hunchback - a hefeweizen. Maybe he’ll tell you about it sometime. The lazy fuck.

Pony P didn't drink anything because he was too busy brushing his hair.

I’m just kidding Pony. I like Pony and he’s actually a good security measure. His long hair and pony tail made him a wildcard in the event our group was the target of street toughs.

You’re really gambling when you try to fight a guy with a ponytail or long hair because he is either one of four options:

1.) An old hippy.
2.) Stephen Seagall.
3.) Odin, Thor, or a similar Norse god.
4.) An 80’s Jon Bon Jovi fan. (Very different from the 90's Bon Jovi fan. Very different.)

Three out of 4 chances says you’re going down. And God help you if he starts to hum "Livin’ on a Prayer".

After the White Rascal we tried a pilsner called Mama’s Little Yella Pils, by Oskar Blues Brewery out of Colorado.

What a great Pilsner! It was a pretty golden color and had a touch of sweetness. The sweetness is well controlled by a modest hop taste - not as hoppy as Victory's Prima Pils - but extremely delicious and totally drinkable. I really like this one and would have had more if the Eagles didn’t pull out a gut busting win over the lowly Cleveland Browns.

Hey. A win is a win baby.

Mama’s Little Yella Pils was something I’ll have to go back to in the future. Perhaps it was a good luck charm.

That is all. You should hear from me again.