Tips For ACL Music Festival

We braved the elements, the lines, and even the port-a-pottys and survived the first weekend of ACL. As thousands more pour into Austin for weekend number two, bringing their patchouli with them, we’re prepared to help you get the most out of your wristband.

ACL headliners and headliners of every CD I burned in high school.
Beeline to these ACL headline-rs.

Tip 1: Go see Outkast.

Right now, stop reading and just GO SEE THEM. Some of the greatest love stories of the last decade began when a man met a woman on the dance floor while shaking it like a Polaroid picture. Plus,  Big Boi and Mr. 3000 don’t always get along, so check them out this weekend before they decide playing music for people in exchange for a lot of money isn’t something they want to do anymore. Fair warning: there’s about a 97% chance of a contact high, so buy munchies ahead of time.


If you see a herd of these people around a band you don’t know, stop and listen.
If you see a herd of these people around a band you don’t know, stop and listen.

Tip 2: Follow the hipsters.

Fool-proof system for identifying legit up and coming bands: follow the hipsters. Soon, they will stop liking this band because they’re “too mainstream,” and that’s fine, it just means there’s plenty of room for you on the bandwagon.  So, if you see a mass of dudes in sock hats crowding around a stage, stop and give the band a couple of songs to win you over.

Tip 3: Don’t sneak in booze.

You’re an adult. Adults buy their drinks. Yes, these drinks are overpriced, but you know what else is overpriced? Paying 300 bucks for a wristband and getting kicked out before you hear any music because they discovered that—no—you weren’t happy to see them, that was just some whiskey in your pocket. Plus this year you can’t bring in coolers, which means you have no mixers. So instead of paying four bucks for a water to mix with your snuck-in sweet tea vodka, just pay six for a beer.


Final Tip: Definitely bring an inflatable ball, it’s a given.

Those are our tips, but there’s only one rule to enjoying ACL: get after it. See as many bands as you can and go nuts with your friends, but avoid stranger danger and their hallucinogens.

Here’s to back-to-back weekends of bands, drinks, and fun you may not remember. Giddyup.

The Best-Dressed Ryder Cup Fans of All Time

There are a few reasons why we love the Ryder Cup so much. Not only does it mark the beginning of Fall golf season, but it is also a beacon of higher fashion and fan-dom. You’ve seen the best and worst outfits of the golfers, but have you seen what’s on the other side of that string fence? We think not.

These people may not be playing any golf, but they ARE playing the game of life, and winning. Here are some of the best-dressed Ryder Cup attendees.

Ryder-Cup-fan-outfits-4Wendy’s couldn’t afford the official advertising fee, so they improvised.

Morphsuit-001This guy just blends right in with the scenery. Life: 0, this guy: 1.

Ryder-Cup-fan-outfits-6-576x420These guys must be looking for Lacy Underall.

A Team Europe golf spectator watches play on the sixth fairway during a practice round at the 39th Ryder Cup matches at the Medinah Country Club in MedinahIs that part of the green? Wearing a human?

rydercup7Paul Revere’s nightmare, come to life.

rydercup2Those hats are the reason we get out of bed every morning.

rydercup3Sincerely hope this hair is real, but have a good feeling it’s not…

rydercup4Knights of the grounds table. From the knees up.

rydercup5Think this one speaks for itself…

rydercup6The Ryder Cup is so much fun, even leprechauns can’t resist the allure.

rydercup1We don’t know what’s better: the costumes in the front, the wigs in the back, or the awkward American photobombing the crap out of this picture.

blog1What’s Miguel Jimenez doing in the stands at the 2010 Ryder Cup?   Find out here:

blog2Limited edition USA velour track suits or the cardinal sin of wearing sweatpants in public?  You decide.

blog3Note to self.   Avoid sitting behind Captain America.


Noonan at Noon: Know Thy Selfie

To thine own selfie be true.” – said Shakespeare, never.

My friends,

In the off hours from my worthy summertime pursuits of golf, barbeque, and ice-cold gin rickeys, I began to notice a disturbing trend take shape in the Social Medias (y’know, the place we go to stalk the people we haven’t spoken to in five years). “Welcome to 2009, Noonan”, I hear you saying. And yes, granted, the selfie is not necessarily a new phenomenon, I just don’t remember them being so brazenly ever-present.

Shakespeare attempting one of the first-ever documented selfies, along with the first ever-documented hairstyle known as the “Gallagher.”

Whereas once the selfie was the occasional and understandable “Hey, here I am in Mongolia in front of the orphanage I just built!“ or “Is it normal for a unicorn horn to be growing from my forehead?”, it has now turned into “Hey! here’s me doing something that 99% of you could give a rat’s patoot about, and I’m forcing you to look at me—AND YOU SHALL LOOK AT ME, DAMMIT!” The frozen smile, the vapid searching eyes, and the expression that says “if this doesn’t get at least 10 likes my life will be meaningless.”

A few weeks ago it was announced, that Kim Kardashian is releasing a book of selfies in the spring of 2015 (mark your calendars not to get it!). It’s not so much a book, per se, as it is a collection of pictures Kim Kardashian took of herself. Which means it’s not so much a collection of pictures she took of her herself, per se, as it the marker for how far we’ve fallen as a civilization. She may hold the distinct honor of being the official signpost for when humanity went over the cliff.

Sorry grandfathers who fought in WWII, this is what we did with the freedom you gave us.

Then there was the recent iCloud caper in which thousands of celebrity photos were leaked online for the leering enjoyment of America’s youth and creepy divorcées. Aside from the gross invasion of privacy, it brought to light another take on the selfie: the nude selfie. Apparently this is a thing with a lot of people. A LOT of people. This just further confirms my suspicion that most of life is like one big Eyes Wide Shut party to which yours truly was not invited.

“Hey, who brought a camera in here?”

What do we do in this new world where everyone clamors for a ‘like’, an LOL, or the comment equivalent of “Hey, I see you seeing yourself!” as a validation of one’s existence? Perhaps my own selfie will yield some sort of clarity…

Noonan in the raw.

Hmm. Nah. I’m heading back out to the course. I’ll see you on the 19th. Until then, as always,

Be the Ball,


A Noonan Family Vacation

Happy 278th year of existence, America.

We’ve had a good run thus far. Some great times, some bad times, some times when we weren’t as nice to everyone as we should be. A few times when we were jerkholes, and a lot more times when we did things right.

Then there was that one time we did more than just fine in that 2014 global intergalactic game of kick the ball past the guy into a net.

If not for your beer, Belgium, this game would be wholly unforgivable.

But now it’s time for your birthday, America, which comes on the heels of Canada Day. I mention this for no other reason than to posit: what the hell exactly is Canada Day?

What’s yer point, hoser?

But I’m not here to talk about traditions as common as buying a 3-gallon jar of mayonnaise from your neighborhood OmniMart. For July is the the time in every man’s life where he embarks on the summer vacation. Or for those of us in the throes of our 30s, the summer family vacation.

Don’t let the word “vacation” deceive you. For this is a time when you decide to take a break from the stresses of home, and stress out about them in a wholly new environment.

A 3-hour road trip to the beach becomes an epic, nightmarish haul of a) kids or b) kids and in-laws or c) kids and your parents or d) kids and your friends and their kids or e) any or all combination of everything I just listed here. God help us all.

“We’re not pulling over for ANY reason…I told you to go back at the gas station!”

My friends, finding the 19th hole in such a stressful clime is damn near impossible. TO say nothing of the unloading, the meals, the early wake-ups, the screwed-up sleep schedules, the close quarters, the kid with explosive bodily functions at 2:37am, the sudden (and constant) disappearance of money from your wallet, and the daily assault upon your nerves and patience from people you thought you knew and loved. And if you’re hoping for fireworks on the 4th, well, simply get into an argument with your wife about who’s held the toddler the most during mealtimes and can-I-please-just-have-3-minutes-to-eat-my-f@#$ing-hamburger. (Sadly, the fireworks on summer family vacation are rarely of the bedroom kind, especially when the travel crib is in your room.)

I am exhausted simply typing it.

I offer no pearls, no tricks o’ the trade, no hidden insight into the travails that await all of us lucky enough to have wonderfully weird groups of people whom we love and who love us and who, for some reason, we annually sequester ourselves with in different, expensive locales.

Who’s ready to have fun at all costs?

Sunshine, cheap beer, and the occasional breath of fresh air are your friends. Cherish them, savor their brief and fleeting presences, much like you would a cool breeze on a hot beach.

Happy trails, comrades, may you live to fight another vacation next year. And be the ball.



Noonan is Back: The Glorious Mystery of Meat

Greetings, my friends. I have returned.

For these past few months, I’ve wandered hither and yon, through fairway and forest and well-tended green. I’ve had some rough patches along the way, yes, but nothing from which a sturdy 7-iron couldn’t save me. Also, rumor has it I got my card, and entered a few tournaments. And that rumor was started by me.

Still, in my brief sabbatical, I’ve seen some sights. Bubba owning the Masters. Brendan Todd taking the Colonial. Martin Kaymer’s 23-foot putt to clinch the Players (Sir Duf, I lost a bottle of whisky on you – a Johnnie Black, but still.) Our very own Chris Doak – the 323rd best player in the world and proud wearer of Criquet apparel – is slated to play in the Pinehurst after finishing just 12 away from Rory at the BMW Open. Chris, well done, lad.

Yes. Yes. Yes. Dammit. YES.

But I return to you, not with tales of 18 holes but of the 19th. For in my journeys across our fine country, in our human rituals of roasting meats over fire, I came to realize an epidemic of laziness had overtaken the land. 

You see, post Memorial Day, it occurred to me that most Americans have no idea how to make a hamburger. This is a national travesty.

I have seen too many store-bought, pre-made patties. Too many unseasoned, 95% lean abominations. To say nothing of the occasional turkey patty masquerading as cow (perish the thought!). So comrades, I sought, I found, and I now present to you: the best goddamned hamburger you’ll ever have in your life.

This is NOT the greatest burger in the world. This is just a (very generic) tribute.
Now, dilettantes of the Big Green Egg, sultans of the smokers, and craftsman of the cast iron, I would not dream of accusing you of such burgerous blasphemy. By all means, pour yourself an icy Coors yellow belly or a Gin Rickey (I am partial to St. George gin and half a lime myself) and do your thing. We’ll meet again soon.

For the rest of you, read on.

This burger is not for the faint of heart, or the clogged of artery. It is also a bit unorthodox, as it is created inside one’s abode. Of course, charcoal is a different (and beauteous) beast. However, when the summer season hangs hot and sweaty upon your brow, you’ll be glad to be cooking these amidst the blessing of air conditioning.


2 pounds of sirloin steak tips. 

Food processor. 


Do not mince. Pulse until chunky and then spread on a cookie sheet.

Melt 4 tablespoons of butter, pour on the meat, douse liberally with salt and pepper. (And if you’re not using kosher salt, God help you.)

Form patties, roughly ½ pound each.

Cover in plastic wrap and refrigerate for an hour. (Crucial in allowing the butter to set and for you to enjoy a Gin Rickey.)

We let meat rest so that we may rest ourselves.

Now, get a cast iron skillet and place that sucker over a medium-high flame. Once smokingly hot, sear patties on both sides. Then place in an oven at 300˚ until done (about 130˚ in the middle, according to your meat thermometer). What, you’ve never used a meat thermometer for burgers? Holy St. Anthony!* I’m pouring myself another Coors yellow belly.

*Patron saint of butchers

St. Anthony loved animals. Especially with potato salad.
Laying aside the necessity of cheese (to each his own) there comes the conundrum of condiments. Ketchup or mustard? No, my friends, you want pub sauce.PUB SAUCE¾ cup of mayo

2 Tablespoons soy

1 T brown sugar

1 T Worcestershire sauce

1 T minced chives

2 garlic cloves, minced

Generous twists of black pepper


Now. NOW. The crowning moment. Put burger and sauce together. Put inside good buns (challah, brioche, whatever). Put inside mouth parts and into your belly guts.

As to what to drink with your creation, well, that’s a whole other story in and of itself. In a pinch, my experience is that cheap canned beer cracked open at a hair above freezing makes an excellent dining companion. 

Until next time, comrades. God bless ‘Murica. And be the ball.

- Noonan


We celebrate Father’s Day to honor the brave men who have ascended to the world of Fatherhood: a brave place filled with dirty diapers, endless nagging, sleepless nights and the challenge of preserving whatever dignity is left after the fact. All dads are Superdads in some way or another; some are just more famous than others.

Today we celebrate these men for their accomplishments: for their uncanny ability to make mushy mac & cheese, for their knowledge of all things (even the things they know nothing about), for their leadership and for their love as they lead their brood through the ups and downs of growing up.  

Thank you Dads.

Superdad JFK with his twelve kids.
Lloyd Bridges and his little “Dude”. Early abiding at its finest.
Superdads like Clint Eastwood make the saying “like father, like son” seem strangely inadequate.
This Redford Superdad owns his own Ski Resort.  Respect.
Superdad Vader lending a hand.
Superdad Nicholson with his daughter Jennifer. Cannot speak to his parenting skills but must have had it’s moments.
Superdad Nicklaus wins The 89 Masters at age 46 with his son Jackie on his bag.
Superdad Sinatra with daughter Nancy , her Godfather Don Corleone and Luca Brasi.
Superdad Hoffman probably using the pool analogy to explain the meaning of life to his progeny. No, we don’t know what the pool analogy is either.
Superdad Charles spends his 10 minutes per day with his son William.
Superdad Niven sharing laughs and cocktails with his sons, aged 15 and 12.
The Dudes.
Superdad McQueen teaching his son how to look cool in the desert.


Celebrities Grillin': Memorial Day Edition

Memorial Day is great for a few reasons. Not only have we dedicated this day to remember those who fought bravely for our country, but charcoal-enthusiasts everywhere have also dedicated this day to mark the start of the grilling season.

In celebration, we give you Celebrities Grillin’. May the smell of hops and charcoal linger throughout your summer.

Recently voted by People Magazine to be the world’s sexiest hamburger.
“Yeah, that’s right, Presidential Aprons biotch.”
Heidi, you had us at the first pork chop.
Skrillex or Bono? Whoever it is, they are probably grilling tofu burgers. We respect the flame, though.
Grills? No, GRILLZ.
Nice frat-tat, Efron. Someone get this man a Criquet shirt.
George Foreman, the man who single-handedly tried to ruin the integrity of the backyard BBQ.
Hulk Hogan, the man who tried to rip off George Foreman.
The Rock: the man who brought it all back. First meal: Hogan’s left hand.


Who’s Wearing Criquet: Pro Golfer Chris Doak

Criquet is proud to sponsor European Tour Pro, Scotsman Chris Doak, as he travels the world crushing balls and dropping 30-footers.

Doaky is the perfect match for Criquet, not only for his old school style and appreciation for the game, but because, like us, he understands the value of knocking back a cold one after the round.

The man himself looking good in a Hibiscus Players Shirt.

When did you pick up your first club?  I was 4 years old but I didn’t start playing until I was nine due to a problem with my hips.

Was the game inherited?  Yes my father’s uncle taught him and then my dad taught me the game.

Home course?  Don’t have one at the moment.

Tell us about the signature hat?  I always loved the style from the old gangster movies (and on Ben Hogan) and I wanted to be different from everyone else wearing a baseball hat. Enter in the fact that my head is literally massive and baseball hats don’t fit correctly.

Doak’s signature hat makes an appearance during every match.

The inspiration?  Well I always wanted to wear the hat as my golfing hero was Ben Hogan, but I thought people would *take the piss. (*Translation: tease me.)

Hogan badass-ing. A righteous style-inspirer.

My wife and I were at an AC/DC concert in Glasgow and obviously the lead singer wears a similar hat and all that went through my head was a montage of the song “Back in Black” with me wearing the cap and shooting 59.

How did you find out about us?  I found you through a internet search for 100% cotton hard-collared polos.

What about Criquet appealed to you?  The Organic cotton really attracted me to Criquet as I only wear 100% cotton shirts, and when I saw you guys’ shirts were hard-collared and organic it was perfect. The look of the shirts is old school but ageless, which is why I contacted you.

Favorite 19th Hole?  Clubhouse Turnhouse golf club, Edinburgh.

…and off course?  The Crown Hotel in Killarny, Ireland. I had my first Guinness there and the local music was playing… Great place!

Doak, Guinness and Criquet go together like PBJ. And bread.

Favorite beer/spirit at said 19th Hole?  Oh got a few but I’d really have to say Guinness, then a Corona with no lime *because fruit shouldn’t be associated with beer EVER. (*Criquet does not necessarily endorse this opinion, but we respect it.)

Favorite Course?  I love the Carnegie Club at Skibo Castle in Dornoch, Scotland.

Why did you let Lefty win the Scottish Open?  Well, he travelled longer than I did and his private jet only had enough fuel to get to Muirfield… So naturally I thought I’d be a good host and gift him some fuel money.

We call this pose “Eagle to Base”.

Favorite Moment from 2013 US Open at Merion?  Hitting a 5 iron to 3 foot on the 18th right next to Ben Hogan’s marker.

Funniest/favorite playing partners?  Michael Lorenzo-Vera because he is a crazy Frenchman.

When are you coming to visit Austin?  Only if you get me on Shady Oaks. The Invitational 2015? I’m sure if it fits in with my schedule!

Best look?  Got to go with Ty Webb.

Ty Webb, ’80, Bushwood Club Championship (Lacy Underall not included).

Cheers to Chris as he makes his run for back-to-back US Open appearances, while quietly conquering 19th Holes everywhere… Go Low, Doaky!