Monthly Archives: May 2014

A Primer on Concealable Flasks and 2 Alternatives

height-profile-alternatives-to-classic-concealable-flask-liquor-alcohol-shots

Disclaimer: I’m not really one to let moralism get in the way of partying, but I do have to say that if you can’t afford to buy a couple drinks at your local bars (and tip!) then, please, stay home on facebook and “like” pictures of all the people you wish would have sex with you.

On the other hand, I am not going to wager $20 cover on an event of dubious potential, expensive drinks, and no-reentry.  If the music sucks, at least let me spike your weak fucking $9 cocktails with the whiskey I hid in my socks. Bonus for you, my sweet venue: if I look like I’m having fun, maybe other people will be tricked into thinking they are also having fun.

Anyway.

classic-flask

First, we have our classic bootleggers flask. This one has been vandalized with a sticker. If you are wearing actual boots, and I mean big, badass boots with buckles and shit, you may be able to get away with this one. Most likely, however, you will be caught and this will be confiscated, and you will be sad because it is made of actual metal and you probably paid some dollars for it.

disposa-flask-disposable-plastic-flask

The next logical step is the plastic flask. This one is black, so it can hide in a very dark corner of your purse. It is a little bit smaller, perhaps because the makers know you want to hide it. The advertising on the front claims it can hold 5 shots.

disposable-flask-disposaflask-claims-to-hold-5-shots

However, the makers of DisposaFlask are lying liars or else they are in cahoots with the people who pour weak fucking cocktails, because I’m counting a shot as a plastic liquor mini bottle, and it don’t add up. Technically, a shot in this country is measured at 44ml, but it’s much easier to divide by 50. The DisposaFlask is not labeled in ml or even oz so I did a quick science for you:

disposaflask-holds-150ml

I’m rounding down to 150ml as a penalty for lying liar behavior. Also, and I’m just throwing this out there: look at that meniscus. (I just wanted to say meniscus in my head. Meniscus.)

disposable-flask-disposaflask-actually-holds-3-shots

That gives us 3 shots. This explains why I always finish off this flask feeling vaguely not drunk enough.

1-flask-equals-almost-5-shots

An 8oz flask does in fact hold nearly 5 shots.

pocket-shot-whiskey

Now, neither of the hardbody flasks are easy to hide on us squishy-body people, which is why the makers of Pocket Shot invented this delightful little packet.

pocket-shot-equals-1-liquor-mini-bottle-shot

The Pocket Shot is exactly the size of a regulation liquor mini, and it is definitely squishy. It will snuggle up to your skin and/or skivvies in all sorts of places. Squirrel away a few of these, and if security finds the one in your shoe at least they won’t find your nut-stash. P.S. they are fun for hookup partners to discover in your bra (true story).

The downside is that these guys are a little expensive, and of limited variety. I mean, I’m not against putting a plastic-encased mystery “W H I S K E Y” in my body, but you might want a flavor you can trust.

And so that brings us to… the DIY disposable concealable flask

infantino-squeeze-pouch-for-babies-freshly-squeezed-feeding-line

What is that? Why, it’s a squeeze pouch. For babies.

Infantino makes a squeeze pouch “feeding line” (are they children or are they livestock??) so that yuppie parents can package up custom applesauces, vegetable purrée, and other goo for their toddlers to quaff. It will set you back about $15 for a box of 50 pouches. I will demonstrate in pictures how to alter this fine product to smuggle liquor in your underwear.

photo-grid-concealable-flask-diy

Wow. This photo grid is exciting. Isn’t it just ready to go up on a Pinterest board? This is How I Spend My Summer. But the branch clipper photo kind of says it all:

turn-infantino-squeeze-pouch-into-concealable-disposable-flask

The elegant minimalism. The textures: pristine factory plastic, rusty blade, raw clipped edges. So much narrative implied in one photograph, and yet, the mystery. Congratulations, parents; I’m using my art degree to teach my friends and internet strangers how to repurpose baby products to get drunk cheaply at concerts.

infantino-squeeze-pouch-for-babies-holds-2-shots

Your DIY concealable disposable flask holds two minis. My confidential expert consultant says she can hide 4 of them in the crotch of her jean shorts. Impressive.

alternatives-to-classic-concealable-flask-liquor-alcohol-shotsA final photo for your comparison. Enjoy.

 

The Night of the 10 Plagues in San Diego (Wildfires 2014)

I’m nowhere near the fires. I hope everyone is safe and doing okay. 

Many years ago, I was sleeping or trying to sleep in my bed next to my large, sliding glass door that opens to a balcony overlooking the street.  I heard a terrible crashing noise, like metal garbage cans falling off the back of a truck. My neighbors across the way had metal plates covering their driveway, and so I assumed someone had just come home very, very late. I fell back asleep.

Maybe an hour later my mom woke me up and told me the fish tank had broke. We had at least 8 fishtanks in the house at the time, so what did she mean “the” fish tank? I zombie-walked towards the hallway and by the time I stepped outside my door, my bare feet landed on wet carpet.

My parents had deconstructed their bed and my dad stood inside its black metal frame with a wet-dry vac.  My brother was using the suction functions of the carpet cleaner. The 100 gallon fish tank in my parents’ bedroom now only contained 10 gallons at most, and its front plate of glass was missing down to the last 4 inches. It had separated from the wooden frame at the top of the tank, bowed forward, and shattered, emptying most of its contents. I could hear fish bodies slapping the remaining water.

That night we lost two fish. One had gotten stuck in a nook of the bedframe and was left unnoticed for too long, the other, my poor Ma stepped on.  Later we would lose one or two more to the stress, but the remaining 40 or so survived. We spent some more time moving furniture and soaking up water with towels and suction devices, and my dad transferred the fish to new homes.

I wasn’t much help or maybe they wanted me to get enough sleep for school the next day, so they sent me to the guest bedroom downstairs so they could continue vacuuming without disturbing me. I woke up the next morning totally disoriented from being in the wrong bed. Then I looked out the window. The sky was orange. I wouldn’t be going to school.

When I stepped out of the bedroom, my parents already had the TV running with news of the Cedar fire. The timeline is fuzzy for me, but at first we had a very confident sense that we wouldn’t be evacuated, then the reverse-911 calls started happening, and then a vehicle drove through our cul-de-sac announcing the evacuation call on a megaphone.

As we drove away from our drenched house (the spread of the water was so bad that we eventually had to replace the floor/ceiling for that room as well as all the carpet for my parents room, the living room below it, and the stairs) our sense of hysteria crackled in the air between us. “Well, fuck. Let it burn,” we joked. We tried to cope with humor as we always do. “Floods, fires… What’s next?” I said, “Locusts?”

Our house didn’t burn, and not because it was dripping with fish water, but because hard-working firefighters prevented the flames from leaping the road and igniting the nearby Mission Trails Regional Park. We were able to return to our home in a few days. The fish, which (unlike the birds and dogs) couldn’t evacuate with us, were happy to be fed.

OK Hippies, You Win

I know, I know, I forgot to post last week. I was halfway to Mexicali when I remembered and I contemplated posting from below the border, but roaming data is something ridiculous like $15/MB.

Mexico

Anyway, the fog of fever has cleared, and I’ve thought about my life choices. Namely, that binging on Del Taco after several days of dried figs, almond butter on whole-grain bread, and kombucha is not what my body needs.

That was after my trip to SF, where I spent a week with a vegan. My body promptly responded to the Del Taco feast with the “horizontal cold” in which I spent 36 complete hours horizontal. I used several of my coping mechanisms, in part because I had less than 2 weeks to heal up for Mexico.

I did it; I healed it like a champ, blew out the last of my snot the morning of, and hopped in a truck packed with people and camping supplies. I am not intending, by the way, to write much about my trip. Normally I’m happy to exploit the fuck out of my friends’ fun-times for my blog but this is an instance where I’m a little too romantic about the whole thing and will keep most of those memories to me, myself and my diary. I will say (again) I encountered two scorpions and killed one of them. Over and over again with a rock. Then I shook with primal bloodlust, murderous joy, and sadness for its death.

My friend Alexis found a live scorpion when she unpacked her luggage in America.

My friend Alexis found a live scorpion when she unpacked her luggage in America. She took a picture before killing it because she’s thoughtful like that.

The first thing I did when I got home from my treacherous camping trip was not, as I usually do, chuck my belongings in a discreet corner and procrastinate hygiene for a nap-crash. I shook out my sleeping bag and put it in the wash, I went into the pool to (remember what cold felt like and) buff out some of the dirt, I brushed all of my sister-wives length hair, I showered, I actually moisturized, I cleaned my room… Civilization was so much easier than everything I’d been through in Mexico that I might as well do chores.

And I ate. I did not stop by Jack n’ the Box on the way home. I made myself a plate of oranges, eggs cooked in minced garlic and onions, and baby bok choy. I ate carrots and prunes and drank water. I ate a spoonful of coconut oil. I ate hippie bullshit food, and I loved it.

For Mexico, I had packed garden burgers, Dave’s Killer Bread, and avocados. I didn’t do these things because I wanted to eat like a rabbit. 1. Garden Burgers are good cold and don’t spoil like regular burgers, 2. Dave’s bread tastes great even if it’s been sitting in the sun or if you massage it with your knee somehow whilst crawling into your tent, unlike other breads, 3. Avocados are the best food. Full Disclaimer: Katelyn helpfully packed me tuna salad + cracker snack packs, which I discovered contain FOOD STARCH-MODIFIED, which I discovered is actually sawdust, and which I enjoyed anyway. Other than that, I ate wholesome things, and people fed me wholesome things, like vegetables.

I don't know why I took a picture of my cooler before my trip, but I'm glad I did because this thing is the most badass motherfucking cooler and you need to know about it. I had the last cold beer in Mexico.

I don’t know why I took a poorly-lit picture of my cooler before my trip, but I’m glad I did because this thing is the most badass motherfucking cooler and you need to know about it. I had the last icy cold beer in Mexico, and it came from this cooler.

I’m beginning to understand that eating good food isn’t just helpful for [insert sappy body and health-related reasons that I don’t care about because I’m in my 20s], but also makes for better partying. If I’m always eating healthy then I’m basically in a perpetual state of detox and can tox’ it up that much more. In Mexico on the first night I drank probably 1 flask of Jim Beam (I filled it twice but I spilled much of it on the rocky trails and in my friends’ mouths) and a few Tecates and I woke up not hungover. Now, that’s just anecdotal evidence but, I’m convinced.

My granola crunchy friends aren’t just getting into healthy diets because the universe and everything and love. They have landed on a formula. They are giving their bodies nutrients instead of Taco Bell and are rewarded with endurance and energy. I was trapped in a vicious whiskey / crunchwrap / gatorade cycle just trying to survive ’til next Friday. Now I’m enabling my liver to handle more abuse, and I’m so excited for that.

Next thing you know I’ll be aligning my chakras and reikiking my (uh…?) and whatever to party harder. You win hippies. You win for now.