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.
Enjoy. And use responsibly.
(photos courtesy of Angela Gail of Stereogum, because my camera's broke) 
LA's 6th annual Fuck Yeah Fest took place yesterday in Chinatown's Los Angeles State Historic Park. As expected, the hipsters were out in full force and the watered down cocktails were way overpriced, but on the plus side, the music roared and the park provided an open and accessible venue. Additionally, the decision to name California State Parks the beneficiaries of the event rang true with concert-goers, and most seemed fine with having paid $20-24 for tickets. 
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)." 
As we approach St. Patrick's Day, my thoughts can't help but wander to all things Irish, including one of Ireland's most famous musical exports (second only to the Riverdancers).... U2. I have recently concluded something very significant about U2, though: they are the least cool rock band in the history of rock bands. There are so many contributing factors to their squareness; let me count them here:
Let the hating begin: We think Lily Allen's new album is good. Not Stranger than Fiction or Southernunderground good, but hooky pop music good. A relative good. These days, when the artist is a passably attractive 23-year-old progeny of celebrity parents who's signed to a major label, you expect an Ashlee Simpson, a Rihanna...a rhinestone bikini filled with an olive-hued body of some class and topped with a workable face; smother the voice in vocoder, and you're good to go. Allen's image, while quite possibly a calculated label construct, is refreshingly flawed -- she looks like she's done some damage on the cookie dough ice cream recently, and admits to not giving a shit about it.
T.I.: You're not getting paid for this, either. "Esteban the Photog from the Vuitton Ad Department" is actually "Phil the Insurance Salesman from Syracuse." Just go home already.
