Beer pong redux

After my last post on beer pong – and, Dear Reader, it has been my solitary post on the topic until now, as beer pong does not exactly rise to what Margaret Mead would call “the highest things they know” that city dwellers should seek and develop – I received an email, a lengthy one, a vituperative one, from a man who identified himself as an associate of

It became evident from this man’s note that not only did the Wall Street Journal reporter who wrote the article I posted on get it all wrong about this growing…sport…but the email writer must have had a wicked hangover when he wrote me.

I say, Long Live Beer Pongers.  May your toss be straight and your liver be free of psorosis, at least until you turn 30.


“Beer pong”

083107elkojote.jpgThe Wall Street Journal, which I normally find very helpful in its digestion of the day’s news, had an article on beer pong that unhelpfully compared it to a “cross between ping pong and beer chugging.”

Have they forgotten the game of quarters, long practiced in both frat houses and bars?

No mention of this is certainly a sign of the WSJ‘s editors having been tee-totalers, Temperance Union charter members, or in receipt of kickbacks from USA Table Tennis.  It is still too early to know whether Rupert Murdoch’s News Corp takeover of the Journal will have any effect on the paper’s accuracy with regard to beer hall frivolity.

photo: elkojote


Did I tell you that I was homeless for an afternoon?

Not really, mind you.

It was during my senior year of college and I had a rented room in a house with 13 other undergrad and graduate students, but for a sociology experiment I dressed as a homeless man and went out on to Hillsborough Street in Raleigh across from the campus of North Carolina State University to spend a few hours peddling and learning how people dealt with being asked for money. (Today, I am a professional fundraiser, and I can tell you that the job is much the same in many ways, but now I smell better and get to have at least one 0.001-ounce bag of pretzels per flight.) Continue reading

Heid’s of Liverpool

I found this helpful advice on a blog called ishbadiddle (

“I’m having trouble getting my ketchup out of the bottle in a timely manner. Do you have any suggestions?”
“First, make sure the cap is on tight. Then, holding the bottle upside-down, vigorously shake it from side-to-side, so that the top of the bottle describes an arc. This will force the ketchup toward the top of the bottle through centrifugal force. Next, remove the cap. Tilting the bottle at a 45-degree angle hit the top side of the bottle several times. Hitting the bottom of the bottle is more frequently done; however it is less efficient. Hitting the top forces the ketchup down, enabling air to break the ketchup seal at the top of the bottom. Then gravity will do the trick. Never put ketchup on a hot dog if you are older than 12; they were meant to be eaten with mustard, relish, onions and/or kraut if you are so inclined.”

I usually don’t post other people’s stuff here – perhaps some of you wish I would – but I thought this was a novel way of solving the age-old problem of getting Heinz 57 out before it becomes Heinz 58. The remark about eating hotdogs with ketchup, of course, is the blogger’s own, not necessarily that of this author. Reminds me of driving from Raleigh, North Carolina in 1983 with my college girlfriend Carla and her family up to Fulton, New York, where she was from. Her grandparents lived there. It was eleven hours in the car. Her aunt, her mother’s sister, used to be her mother’s brother – had a sex change operation. I’d never met a transgender person before, though I lived in New York City. Just outside Syracuse – home to the oldest state fair, I am to understand, and bragging rights to those who are insecure because they don’t live in the greatest city in the world to the south, “downstate,” that is – is Heid’s of Liverpool, where they serve the famous frank and coney. I remember we got there and I was … hungry. I ordered a “hot dog.” They looked at me. Just kind of stared. So, Carla’s father whispered, “ask for a frank,” so I did and everything went along swimmingly. Now, their website openly discusses “hot dogs,” once a topic not for polite Liverpool company. Coneys, on the other hand, are white sausage-like hot dogs. I wanted to find more information on them, so I went to Wikipedia, which lacked for specifics, so I added a plug for Heid’s: MSN Encarta doesn’t include this definition among its five for the word. That’s disappointing. I found this site, which has probably the most complete description of this delicacy: All I know is that is was whitish and looked fairly unappetizing, but it was good. Carla’s grandparents lived in a house that was across the street from a crematorium. Many afternoons, the evidence of their business was in the air. This, from Wikipedia: “During the cremation process, a large part of the body (especially the organs) and other soft tissue is vaporized and oxidized due to the heat, and the gases are discharged through the exhaust system.” So this exhaust is what we’d smell during our time on the front porch sipping tea. My grandparents’ bodies were cremated. I remember being 22 or so and going out on a boat in East Greenwich harbor with my brother, parents, two aunts and two uncles. It was raining. We raised a glass of champagne to toast them – Tootsie and Poppa’s wish that this be done – and then my brother Jim and I poured their ashes over the side, and we all threw flowers on the water’s surface. It was the most peaceful “burial” I had been to. I don’t remember how long we were in Fulton. Carla’s aunt, the transgender person, was nice enough. I don’t recall any outstanding features from that first encounter other than it seemed she was still dealing with some kind of facial skin issue, like razor burn from days gone by.

Coneys, crematoriums and transgenders with razor burn.

Life is not neat and tidy.

photo of hot dog: neadeau

photo of razor blade: brokenarts