In our last ad for Old Hickory, they’ve moved from Lincoln, to Leary, to just leering. Blunt like the beard on a creepy old man, there’s no patter and no palaver. Old Hickory just wants to get you drunk and put on old Bad Company records. Or, just wants to wear the Harbor Master jacket, lean up against his dingy, and mutter nasties under his breath as 18-year-olds walk past with horrified looks. Because (and this is no joke) the Harbor Master ad was right under this particular Old Hickory ad. A fitting end to the demise and decline of Old Hickory (which can’t be found any more, though I think pal Juan Shoreleave is going state-to-state trying. Watch for him).

And if you’ve wondered what to wear:

This is the second in our series of Old Hickory ads (for the first, look below, or click this Old Hickey link), where Old Hickory decided one month after being more in the lineage of Lincoln (thanks Nicole for showing me that, um, obvious connection) that they wanted to become a bit more in the lineage of Leary. But use exactly the same graphics. So c’mon, join the trip, man (and woman).

Okay, this is the first of a three-part series of Old Hickory ads, charting the brand’s movement from somewhat reserved and reticent tipple probably most utilized by small town citizens who like to spend time on the front porch in a rocking chair talking about the goodness in populations under 1500, from that to a wilder and crazier far out swiller most consumed by brightly-colored college denizens out for a night of mind-bending free spirited alcohol and drug use, from that to a pretty twisted gulper utilized by boozed-up party boys on the make to entice those young ladies who don’t know any better to do things they shouldn’t probably do, with a smile. So, basically, charting the exact same trajectory as most men I knew growing up as they moved from seniors in high school to seniors in college. The strange thing, though, is that Old Hickory ran these ads in three consecutive months in a particular magazine. That’s re-branding at light speed people.

I (as demonstrated before) love me some Miller High Life. One summer, my pal Joel and I used to have a 12-pack chilled for us to drink on the porch every night at 2 am once home from the bars. One other summer (this was before High Life had a little hipster resurgence, too), my pal Erik and I drove up from Chicago to the Miller Brewing Company in Milwaukee and forced some sadsack salesperson to go into a back room and bring out a dusty box of High Life merch for us to wade through (we did buy a lot, admittedly). So, me and High Life have had a long and fruitful drunken relationship. And I’ve always referred to it, bottle, can, or keg, as the Champagne of beers. Now, the below ad is telling me that only bottles fit that description, and only uptight Wall Street types can drink said bottles, while working class chums are stuck with stinky ol’ cans and looking sadly at the privileged others. Damn, is even High Life stuck within some class-conscious vortex of suck? Or am I over-reacting? Should I just get a beer and go outside far away from corporate living and drink it and fill my talk hole with its golden goodness?

I’ll drink up some brandy, winter, spring, summer, fall, you name it. I like it most often in cocktails, but have been known to go sniftering with the straight stuff on occasion (mostly often with dolled-up brandies Cognac and Armagnac, and fruit brandies, sure). However, I didn’t until I saw the below ad realize that I was in danger of being beheaded, and then having my head turned into a snifter, when drinking brandy. And being happy about said beheading. Want to keep your own head? Stay away from even serving Coronet VSQ (cause even the smiling serving butler man’s head has been leveled off in a way that has to hurt, even if it was done with a brandy laser). Though, thinking about it from another angle, both heads/faces looks awfully happy. And it is the before and after dinner drink. Though how you’d enjoy dinner without a body is sorta beyond me. But what the heck, it is Friday. I need some laughs. Bring me the brandy.

This is A.J. Rathbun, reporting. A giant bottle of Haig scotch has been seen attacking buildings in the downtown of a major metropolitan area. It seems the bottle is about 50 feet tall, and full of scotch. No one has yet been hurt, but many are drunk, and productivity in this area in down. The bottle of Haig hasn’t been too specific about why it is attacking, what its aims are, and if any potential partners in destruction (a giant bottle of sweet vermouth, or a giant bottle of club soda, or gasp!, a giant collection of giant ice cubes, haven’t been sighted, but rumors are flying) are on the horizon, though it is mumbling about being “the most mixable, hoistable, and enjoyable taste in Scotch whisky, damnit.” Who will save this major metropolitan area? I’d say Iron Man, but dang, he’s already been fighting a bottle of Canadian whiskey, and from this picture, losing. Who can possibly defeat the giant bottle of Haig? Who?

After my below post about the Champagne of malt liquors, Champale, pal Philip (who writes a blog about the cutest girl in the world) was kind enough to send me a few choice Champale items he found, items which are now bound to be sitting atop yr holiday gift wish list. Because I know you love Champale. Admit it. You love it in the best way possible, which is by wearing this lovely Champale badge (I know I’ll be wearing one):

I especially like the smell lines coming off. And where better to wear your Champale-badged attire, then in your home bar, under your Champale light (I almost feel like I’m announcing a showcase showdown here):

Though really, that light is too modern for me. Give me the class of the oldies, the aged Champale, or at least this aged Champale light:

Now that’s classy. You know what’s best of all? You can buy both lights, and then have a whole Champale room, and, for that matter, buy a whole bunch of Champale badges and make a complete Champale outfit, and then send a picture of you in it, standing under your lights, to me, and I will post it here. Promise.

Produced since 1939 (originally in New Jersey), Champale is a malt liquor. I’ve got not a stitch of a problem with that (and heck, the way today’s going, I’d take two bottles right now and drain them at a gulp and like it. Then burp a lot). But the whole “poor person’s Champagne” seems like a poor advertising scheme (really, can you talk down to your audience more?), especially when you have a talking bottle and a talking coupe-style Champagne glass (which was, as an aside, supposedly the style of glass created by taking impressions of Marie Antoinette’s breasts. Though, sadly, this may not be really true, it’s true to me). That pathetic fallacy-ing just freaks me out a touch, cause I see where this is going: the Champale is either going to tip the glass of Champagne over, or the Champagne is going to get all snotty and start speaking French. Nobody wins in this set-up.

Okay, I don’t usually like to post two old booze ads in a row, but I could not skip this Colt 45 add, because it is one of the strangest I’ve ever seen. I did not cut it weirdly in photoshop, or leave anything out. It actually says “Introductory offer: try this completely unique experience and we will send you.” That’s just freaky to me. Send me where? Another dimension? Mars? To a ditch? To a place where miniature women’s heads float around Colt 45 cans? To the pokey (this is my real guess)? To Colt 45 land? On a trip inside my own consciousness? That latter idea is obviously what’s happened, but I’m interested in hearing if any other folks have thoughts? As a side note: I’ve consumed some Colt 45 in my time. Usually when I wanted to prove my gangster cred (of which I have none, really, but I thought Colt 45 was tough) or when it was the only option. So, I’m not coming down on it (completely). I am feeling mind-blown by their ad, though, so much so that I might need to drink some Colt 45 soon. Which means, I guess, that the ad works.

It’s not often (read that as: never) that I’ll try to shy someone away from trying a new type of booze or liqueur. Especially one that’s as good as Metaxa (which is a blend of brandy and wine and mythology). And I sure don’t want the ghost of Spyros Metaxas (he who created Metaxa) haunting me. But if Metaxa starts causing people to die or instantly pass out at the table, and then carom off of the sip of it into their dining companions, thereby ruining the date, then hey, maybe those sad people should stay away. Or, at least, don’t show up so drunk that you can’t enjoy the Metaxa, but just pass out into someone’s forehead as in the below. At least it’s a happy death/passing out (but why wouldn’t it be–by my count, they’ve emptied at least six different drinks). Looking at the smiles, I’m taking back my earlier warning. We’ve all got to go, so why not go with a grin and a good buzz brought on by intriguing Greek beverages?