5 Cocktails You Can’t Order at the Local Pub

Somewhere, probably between the fridge and the wall in a house on Congress St., I lost a notebook. In this notebook, among other things (such as the secret laws of physics), was a list of college rules, written from experience, to help the average freshman avoid the pitfalls of the University experience (e.g. Rule #3: “Don’t always go back to your room, sometimes go back to a lady’s room.”). They were good rules. Wonderful rules. Rules (which have no relation to lessons) to live by. (Seriously, if you find this notebook, there is a $17 reward)

One of those rules was “Rule #20: Drink creatively.” In the spirit of that rule, I have always tried to bring a little creative twist to the torture that I’ve put my liver through these past few years. So, in honor of America’s impending birthday, I present to you a short list of official MPI cocktails:

The Hawaiian Rebellion
1.5 cl – Coconut Milk
1.5 cl – Rebel Yell Bourbon

The Hawaiian Rebellion was the result of an impulse buy at the supermarket and a love for the Billy Idol song “Rebel Yell” (which was based off of Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stone’s love of the whiskey, Rebel Yell).

Served in a cognac glass, warm

The Diddy Kong

17 oz. – Malt Liquor
5 oz. – Orange Juice

While not technically an original invention of mine, I do take responsibility for its ubiquitous marketing in the Rochester area. The Diddy Kong is the baby brother of the Brass Monkey (a 40 oz. bottle of malt liquor combined with orange juice). The instructions for mixing are as follows: Drink a 22 down to the label, fill the rest with orange juice.

Whiskey Anderson

10 oz. – Canadian whiskey
20 oz. – Coke Zero
2 oz. – Coffee

Going out for the night? Have a nalgene bottle? Still have the dregs of the coffee you made yesterday morning? Fill ‘er up. This is the perfect cocktail to start you off on an evening of mayhem. Liquor, caffeine, and diet soda! Now, a few caveats: It is medically irresponsible to mix caffeine and alcohol; don’t lose your nalgene bottle; suitable chasers for this cocktail do not include shots of tequila. Ever.

The Dog Show

1 Pint – A mix of Every Beer you can find containing the name “Dog.” Examples: Red Dog, Sled Dog, Dogfishhead, etc.

Delicious! Need I say more?

Served layered by specific gravity.

The Rum Slap

1.5 cl – Rum (light, dark, who gives a fuck)

Not technically a cocktail, but still a staple drink of any good college party. Instructions are simple: After you take a shot of rum, as a chaser, you get slapped in the face. The slapping party should also take a Rum Slap as a gesture of humility and good-will. Rum Slaps should immediately be followed with a hug.

So while you are out barbecuing this weekend, keep in mind a few games that will liven up even the most mundane family picnics: The disc (note, a regulation ultimate frisbee can hold up to 5 12 oz. beers when on a flat surface), Slap the bag, Stick Cup (note, this game must be played drink-in-hand, i.e. you have only one hand free), and of course Monkey Hump (Personally, I think my rules are better)

And remember: The July 4 weekend has the highest motor vehicle accident rate of the year — so drink responsibly and don’t die.

Fire in the hole

I wrote this last summer on the way home from work late one night. Behind Christmas, the 4th of July is my favorite holiday. Not because I love America any more than I love any other country but because of the fireworks. Because of the people watching those fireworks. Awestruck men and women and children staring up at the blast and crackle. I watch the faces as much as the sky.

A star burst in the distance, some pyrotechnic charge for a long forgotten holiday exploded in the sky. I rolled down my window, hoping to hear the pop and crackle of the distant firework display. The radio was turned up as high as it would go and sounds of summer flowed through the speakers and over me. I was awash with something I hadn’t felt in years. Excitement. Exstacy. Envelopment.

My voice grew hoarse with lyrics of a summer long gone, with baseless feelings. For five minutes, as fireworks broke over that lonely stretch of highway, I was in love again. I was back there, that night, those stars, her voice. My hand beat against the steering wheel, my foot stomped on the floor of the car. Passion rolled through me.

Let’s blow something up.

Nights in suburbia

It was then that I decided to tear this town apart. There were people living boring lives and boys and girls who couldn’t see over the edge of the interstate highway that divided the town in two. It needed to be done and I was the fool to do it. I was Don Quixote, there to save the girl from dying before she lived.

And what life was still in this town that God himself had forgotten! Bright eyed dreamers resigned to machine parts and weld their caskets shut. Cute girls with long black hair and their smiling band-shirted boyfriends clung close in the backyards of their parents’ houses, unaware of the bustling world that awaited. They had never learned to dance and drink and yell at the moon.

So for the first time since I stood in front of 12-year-olds and preached about the stars, I put down my book and grabbed someone by the shirt collar and pointed at the sky.

“Look up, scream at the darkness, and pretend just for a second that you want to be remembered,” I said to a girl with a broad smile and eyes that went for decades. “Come with me and do wonderful things. We’re far too young and beautiful to live like this.”

Alive. alive. alive?

The house was a grave yard of forgotten weekend projects. The winding stone staircase that lead to the deck was an obstacle course of displaced bricks. A lattice archway lay toppled over on a gravel terrace that was over-flowing its retaining wall.

I wasn’t sure what had happened here and I didn’t dare ask. I finished pissing and went to go play drinking games with a girl that didn’t follow the rules and a bunch of faces I hadn’t seen in 4 years.

Trial by water

The rain had been falling on and off all night. I was at my childhood house again, living in the same room where just 10 years earlier, I had stared at a picture of a naked woman for the first time. Electricity hung in the humid air. I put on my shoes and a jacket and set out into the night.

I walked the mile long residential circle, droplets of water tapping on my head and shoulders. Lightning struck somewhere in the distance. I began to count out loud.

“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11″

Thunder rolled over me.

“Five and a half miles,” I shouted. “You can do better than that.”

I kept walking. I reached into my pocket and found a crumpled Camel cigarette and a Bic lighter. Cupping my hands around my face, I rolled my finger over the striker. I breathed in and kept walking.

The half way point of the circuit was 20 yards ahead when the second flash of lightning came. I counted.

“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6″

The low roar of God’s fury shuttered the suburban land.

“You’re getting closer, keep it up,” I said, both hoping that someone would hear and that everyone was in bed. The rain kept falling. My old green jacket was getting darker and darker with rain water. Even the golden thread embroidery that spelled out my name had turned to a sullen amber. I tossed the wet cigarette butt on the ground.

Still the rain fell — harder and harder as the anvil shaped behemoth clouds stormed closer. I looked to the left and right. The dark houses of my middle school principal and my third grade art teacher watched me, uninterested in what I had become.

I imagined that God’s own wrath was upon me, though I wasn’t sure if I believed in him. Another flash.

“1, 2, 3, 4,” I yelled, now just trying to hear my own voice above the crashing rain. Thunder.

“Two miles, north east. You’ve almost got me.”

The last quarter mile. I started to run. I was Orpheus and Lot, I thought, soaked to the bone, escaping hell on earth.

The road was flooded. My waterproof hiking boots sunk one after the other into the puddles on the street. They did little to protect the old cotton socks on my feet.

I reached the driveway of my parents house. Another flash of light came. There was no time to count. The bolt didn’t fly down from the heavens, it just touched the world. My neighbor’s chimney was there, and then it wasn’t. Bricks lay smoldering on the lawn.

Wrapped up in the surreality of it all, I shouted: “I’m still here, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Lights turned on in the house and I whispered: “I’m going to be here for a long goddamn time.”

Whiskey on the rocks

“God damn, god damn,” I yelled as we careened down the suburban street. “Alistair, the night is young and we’ve got too many god damn great things to say to it.”

Alistair sat in the passenger seat of the car, Melodie in the back. It was an odd night for the three of us. The rest of the gang was holed up at home working on projects or trying to get some sleep in. Not us. I was hopped up on whiskey and caffeine pills and secure in the knowledge that there was nothing left to care about in this town. We’d just left a sad little get together at Colin Packard’s house — Packard was on his way toward being a state trooper, and he was smashed out of his mind.

“Dan, man, you wanna go grab a pitcher at Patches? Last call’s in 15 minutes,” Alistair said, digging around his pockets. “We’ve got plenty of time and I’ve got some cash.” The cash that he pulled out of his pockets was dirty money. A few months ago, he’d embezzled some 600 dollars in twenties from the rugby team he played for. They would have bought beer with it anyways.

“Sure thing Al,” I said. “Mind if we make a pitstop before we drop you off, Melodie?”

“I don’t care,” she said. Her friends had abandoned her at the party, we were giving her a ride home.

“Patches it is!” I said and gunned the engine.

Patches O’Rourke was full of the usual crowd: A bunch of 25-something guys wearing polo shirts who were busy hitting on 22-something girls wearing bleached smiles. We ordered a pitcher of the fanciest thing they had on tap with the rugby team’s money. It tasted like oranges.

“Last call,” said the bar tender — an Italian chick who wearing a shirt designed to earn tips.

“Fuckin’ eh, man,” quipped Al. “We just made it.”

“So what’s next?” I asked, filling up my plastic cup with beer. “I’m far too awake and close to graduation for this night to be over.”

We looked at each other. This night had been a no-go from the beginning. Al and Melodie pulled out their cell phones and began scrolling through their contact lists, hoping for some name to light up a memory in their minds. Nothing.

Then, I remembered a conversation I’d had two weeks ago with a guy named Jim. He was a friend from my hometown who also went to LOPI, and he was having a graduation party that night. There was hope. Without so much as a word, I finished the pitcher, and motioned to Al and Melodie that it was time to leave.

Jim’s apartment was on campus and within walking distance of the bar. We stumbled down the road, singing a loud, but surprisingly on-key rendition of “Closing Time” into the night air.

“Hell’s bells, Al. Mel. What the hell am I going to do with my life after this?” I asked rhetorically. I had become an existentialist in my old age.

“I don’t know Swarles,” said Melodie. She called me Swarles because of a TV show. “You’ll probably just end up back here, drinking with us until we graduate.”

“Good point.” I said. It wasn’t, I was getting the hell out of dodge the second I got my diploma.

“Yeah, or you could head back to New England and pay stupid taxes and chop down trees,” suggested Alistair.

“Good point.” I said again.

We were at the door of the apartment. With a determined hand, I flung open the door. It was customary in those days to leave the door open if you were having a party. Only cops knock.

Jim was standing by his fiancé, who was a medical student down south. She could do much better than Jim, but they were happy. I kept my mouth shut on that one.

“Danny!” Jim yelled above the din of software engineering students.

“Jim!” I yelled back. It was 2 in the morning. We hugged and I asked him when the wedding was. They still hadn’t set a date.

The party was still in full swing. One of my writers from the magazine was there, as well as a few kids I’d had class with over the years. I felt secure in the knowledge that wherever I went at LOPI, I would know at least three faces in the crowd. What I didn’t realize was that it didn’t really matter.

Alistair and Melodie melted into the party, as we munched on free snacks and drank down free beer. Software engineers were lightweights and also very generous with their alcohol. We took advantage of that.

Before I knew it, Al and I had both found two girls to hit on. Al’s was a very drunk girl with blue eyes and brown hair. They didn’t do a lot of talking before her tongue was down his throat.

I, on the other hand, found a cute brunette girl sitting in the corner of the living room, staring sullenly at a bottle of hard cider.

“What’s the news?” I asked, sitting down next to her with an excited look on my face. I never understood why anyone would be sad at a party. She looked up, confused by the question.

“Oh, you know, just hanging out with a friend from high school,” she said, nodding toward Al’s new friend.

“Ah, I see. Stranger in a strange land.” I was drunk and making Heinlein references.

“Something like that. You a software engineer?”

“Not on your life, I’m a writer. A journalist.” I said with bravado.

Her eyes lit up. “You’re kidding me. I’m a journalism major at SUNY Stonybrook.”

“Would I lie to you?” I would.

We spent the next half hour swapping war stories. Melodie saw us and gave me a thumbs up from across the room. But, Alistair’s floor show was getting a little out of hand and so my journalist brunette excused herself to bring Al’s new soulmate home.

The party was wrapping up. Al, Melodie and I all pocketed a bottle of beer and walked out into the now cool night air. This would be our last great adventure. Across the street, in front of an aging apartment complex, we spotted a table and a couch sitting on the lawn.

“Shall we have a sit?” I proposed.

So we sat. The table was piled high with styrofoam clamshells and half-smoked packs of Camel Lights. We lit up the free cigarettes and sat underneath the stars drinking free beer.

“What the fuck,” said Alistair.

“What the fuck.” Melodie and I repeated.

Ladies and Gentlemen

Here’s another speech I gave toward the end of the year. I’m planning on teaching the Journalism merit badge this summer, and I’m really excited to deliver some impassioned words to impressionable young minds about something that I really care about.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the inaugural Reporter Magazine Press Banquet. My name is Andy Rees, I was the editor in chief for this magazine from 2009 to 2010. Today we are gathered to celebrate the work of some 60 staff writers, editors, photographers, illustrators and designers, who worked countless hours to produce Rochester’s premiere student publication.

This year, we celebrated 100 years of student press at this university. A century ago, a small band of kids, no older than us, had it in their minds to elevate their thoughts and words from the din of mediocre conversation and to put them down on paper. They did what we do. Journalism.

In a time when the media is ridiculed for being too liberal, too conciliatory, too un-American, it is important to remember that Journalism is the most American of institutions. It is the foundation of a strong democracy, it is the way we check authority. But most importantly it is the purest expression of the human experience; the desire to tell our story, to declare that we were here.

When you pick up a Reporter, realize that you are holding in your hands the record of our lives. This magazine is us. We are the words and pictures contained within. Every week, when this publication hits the stands, we are standing behind it, yelling into the darkness: “We were here.”

So as you all sit here tonight, watching these story tellers getting handed pieces of paper for a job well done, remember that their job is never done. Remember that they have accepted the responsibility of making sure that we are not forgotten. So clap vigorously. They deserve it.

Thank you.”

– Delivered May 15, 2010 at the inaugural Reporter Magazine Award Ceremony

Line?

“It’s your last night in town,” she said and took a long sip from her gin and tonic. “What do you want to do?”

“I’ve got no idea,” I replied, neglecting to give any careful consideration to the question. And just like that, the opportunity was gone. In my mind, I saw how the night would have ended had I just said what I meant: “I’m doing it right now.”

The Last Night

The room was empty except for my bed and a dresser, which had yet to be put in the U-Haul. The lights were low and the bed was bare except for a pillow. I lay there in the same way I had for longer than I cared to admit: alone. It was the last night.

The previous week had been filled with heartfelt speeches and long goodbyes, as the layabouts and their friends prepared to graduate from LOPI. A thick haze hung around the old college town on graduation day; boys and girls in black caps and gowns sat through hours of meaningless talk, only punctuated by a quick walk across the stage. There were tears and cries of joy. That night, however, there was nothing.

My roommate, Theo Fredrickson, and I headed out on the town to celebrate the last Saturday of my college career. The haze from earlier in the day had become a thin fog, giving everything an ethereal look.

Our first stop was to a friend’s backyard, where we found Fairbanks and Lewis, quietly talking with an assorted gang of art kids. It was subdued, almost as if someone had died. We stood around at this awkward funeral, sipping on beer and making small talk. In the pit of my stomach, I started to understand what the problem was, what had changed.

Not quite ready to bury the dead, I grabbed Theo and made my way over to a bar downtown to find Grace Nichols. The bar was an old house stuck between two skyscrapers, some last bastion against the urban planner’s skyline. Grace sat out back, smoking cigarettes and drinking wine with her aunt, who was pleasantly drunk and telling stories, and her friend, Christi, who’d given me her number two nights before.

Her aunt was a breast cancer survivor and had come to the conclusion that the only fun people to be around were young people. So she went where they went, basking in the glow of youth and not giving a good damn what people thought of her. Life was short.

“Do you want to see my boobs?” she asked me, before I had learned about the cancer. I stammered in an effort to find an appropriate response. My face turned red and it was quickly met with an uproar of laughter from Grace and Christi.

“She can take them out,” said Grace, still laughing.

Theo sat and waited while I drank whiskey and chatted with Grace’s aunt and exchanged glances with Christi. But soon it was time to go. I gave Grace a hug and told her, “Goodbye forever, thanks for putting up with me.”

“This isn’t goodbye forever, we’ll see each other again,” she replied. And we did.

I waved goodbye to Christi, who I would also see again. Two days later, I would invite her out for a drink and end up owing her two cigarettes. To this day, I’m still not sure if it was a date.

As we left the bar, Theo and I didn’t talk much. He and I rarely spoke for more than five minutes at a time and less when we were sober. He owned a dog, had a long term girlfriend, and was entering his fifth year of college. He would miss me.

Our last stop for the evening was Tom Tennent’s apartment, where we found an odd scene. Tom and a few other of our friends were standing around a beer-can littered table, talking nonsense and rapping. Tom’s brother, Riggy, was up for the weekend and the two of them were having a grand time being drunk together. Riggy was a balding 24 year-old who could have fun no matter where he was. And right then, presented with no parties to go to, he was just tearing it up in an empty apartment with his little brother.

We ordered pizza, smoked cigars, and bought more beer. There was a sadness in it all, beneath our smiling faces. Wherever I went, beneath a thin veil of summer fog, I could see it in their eyes. I was at a funeral with all of my friends, and nobody could figure out who had died.

And so I sat in my bed three days later, staring out at the stars, wondering where the hell the time went, and praying that this was just the beginning.

Above Water

It is always sunny.

Drunk and alive, the four of us stumbled into a happily quiet little place in downtown Philadelphia with our guide for the evening, Kim. It was a Sunday, the streets were empty and the few alcoholic bar patrons that were out this late looked at us with a sense of pity. These denizens of neighborhood bars are amiable and wise, able to smell youthful travelers awed by minutia. Corner bars are the last hold-out against Modern America. Here, against the rising tide of corporate monopolies on the mom-and-pop industries, little tiny taverns brace themselves against the levy.

Lewis Bailey was drunker than he’d ever been. So drunk, he had time-traveled to the year 2022, where he was divorced and self-employed at a studio in Providence.

“You know Dan, I’m glad we’re doing this again, this middle-age roadtrip. We haven’t all been together like this since that house in Fells Point,” Lewis said, flagging the bar tender for a Pabst Blue Ribbon. It was 2 dollars. I could see that in his eyes, he truly believed what he was saying, or at least wanted to.

“Lew,” I said, leaning over the bar like an old man and stroking my unshaved chin, “It’s been hard as hell to pull myself away from Sarah and the kids, but you know I’d always make time for you guys.” I was time traveling too.

Kim, one of Fairbanks’ friends from his high school days, watched all of this with a sort of muted amusement. She reminded me of a girl I once slept with, Sarah Baracoa, who despite having her life turned upside down every two days, always seemed to have her shit together. We were a sideshow to her, clowns who arrived on her doorstep, honking horns and spraying eachother with seltzer.

We managed to kick back a few more pints before the last-call bell sounded. As we were leaving the bar, it was decided that every bar tender in Philly was the same person. Each one we met was a tattooed drummer in a punk band who told us this about the city, “Have you ever been to Chicago? It’s like Philly but 4 times bigger. Go to Chicago.”