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"I defy anyone to find a more Fringeworthy venture."

– Cameron Kelsall (Broad Street Review)

When you see an ON THE ROCKS show, you shouldn't wear layers unless you are prepared to shed them (read:  we can't afford venues with air conditioning). You should bring a 6-pack (maybe 2?), or perhaps a bottle of your finest well tequila. 


You'll get off work, take a nice nap, set your alarm for 9pm to pre-game, and call your Lyft at promptly 10:30pm. 


You arrive at a building that is poorly marked, and not a theatre.  It might be a coffee shop or a church basement or an art gallery.  You've definitely never been here before.  Is the show happening here? 

It can't be... but there's a line of people and they're also holding six-packs.


The people waiting in line aren't your typical theatre crowd (read:  they aren't Walnut Street  subscribers).

The people waiting in line are very, very hot.

You look closer. They are also very, very gay


You're still skeptical if this is the show, but you take your chances and wait in line. There's a man in a sequined blazer working the box office (read: folding table).

He takes your cash and makes you sign a waiver (don't worry there's no audience participation, we hate that shit). 

You're offered a shot of tequila.

You take the shot. 

You're in. 


You walk up an endless flight of stairs.

You arrive in a dark room that smells vaguely of PBR, antiques, and sweat.

Shitty pop music from the early 2000s blasts.

You take another shot from a chick wearing Birkenstocks, a tie dyed tank, and a carabiner.

Everyone is yelling. Everyone is alive. 

Who are all these queers?

Curtain speeches are usually terrible, but you have to admit this one is kinda cute.  Everyone in the room knows these two humans (that was the guy working box office, right? [read: definitely was, can't affford front of house staff] and the woman was the one working the bar, yes? [read:  can't afford front of house, definitely can't afford bar staff]). 


Oh shit...they're ON THE ROCKS.  

The lights come down and the show starts:  and it's the wildest thing you've ever seen.  There's blood and sex and cocaine and werewolves and Jennifer Lopez.  These are millenials gone wild;  a night that tastes like shitty tequila and feels like a house party fucking a rock concert.  


Two and a half-hours later, you stumble into the night.  You're high on life (read: wasted) and can't seem to get an Avril Lavigne bop out of your head.  Your voice is gone (read:  you yelled a lot during the show) and you're drenched in sweat (read:  most of it is yours, but some of it isn't).  You can't find your lyft because of the unmarked venue, but that doesn't matter.  You're gonna walk home and text all your friends about what a weird fucking experience you just had in a 'theatre'.

You're definitely calling out of work tomorrow.

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