Fightin' Will Not Be Tolerated

The following blog post was written by Joe K***, and reflects his thoughts and opinions during the time it was written. Looking back, he doesn’t stand by what he wrote anymore, for various reasons. Please read an explanation HERE. This blog post will remain published as more of a time capsule of how immature or wrongheaded I was. I do not agree with certain things that are written below. People change. I’ve changed. I am sorry.

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Yes, this is Joe K***, reporting from the field, and yes, I did attend the "Skool Ova" Party.

I, one of the whitest kids you'll ever meet, went to a dance that involved perhaps 150 African Americans, and three white guys (I went with fellow PoYB bloggers Mike and Dave). Why did we do it? Well, for short, those two kids on the top left corner of the advertisement up there, John and Javar, are Laf employees, and you know how Lafheads stick together. We also kind of went as a joke, as I'm sure I would never find myself in that kind of situation by accident.

We knew we'd be in for one hell of an experience when we turned every head in the parking. Sigh... Dave, you would blast Valencia out of the car speakers around this crowd. We stuck out like a sore thumb. When we got the entrance, the bouncer (so to speak) looked at us quite quizzically: "Uh... are you guys here for the SB party?" to which I replied, "Yes, good sir, and here are my seven dollar bills." And we ascended the stairs of the ghetto-est of ghetto buildings—the Glenside VFW Post. Skool Ova indeed.

Now, notice on the pic at the top that the advertisement reads, "There will be grubb." So you would think that meant at the very least soda, right? Thinking along those same lines (and retrospectively, thinking like typical white boys I suppose), we brought in some rum, planning on mixing it with coke inside. Hmm, not so much. Apparently "grubb" means chips and water. Joe K*** was condemned to being sober for the remaining of the nights, as there's no way I can do straight liquor, not a chance in hell. Oh well.

So, what's a white kid to do when he's sober, surrounded by 150 people who look at him and think it's some kind of joke? Well, first of all, I accepted the fact that we were a joke and thoroughly embraced it. Some of the girls liked it to: "White boy! Haha, white boy! Let's get a picture with white boy!" I tried to show off some of my dance moves, but apparently being the 1996 Macarena Champion doesn't matter when skool ova.

See, I did attempt to dance, and see, not everyone ran away!

When I was all worn out from simultaneously amusing and frightening the African American girls, it was nice to step back and enjoy my complimentary water. Also, it was funny as hell watching the chaos on the dance floor. First of all, I was under the impression that it was some sort of high school dance... and yet, there were chairs spread out in the middle of the dance floor for lap dances. Ahem, excuse me, did I just say "lap dances"? I meant everyone was getting a "lappy." I've been to a strip club and have blown my pay check on lap dances by seductive women, but I kid you not, I've never seen anyone give a "lappy" like these women at the Glenside VFW. I think the most tasteful one must have been when a girl did a reverse handstand while giving her pappy a lappy. I think you had to be there to ever picture that one.

And so, after about two hours of alternating between standing out on the dance floor and standing in the corner, we called it a night. As a perfect and telling ending to our stay at the party, we heard a girl exclaim: "Damn! What the... ya'll white!" And apparently, we were.

I don't want to come off as racist in this post. Though the color of my skin and my blatant "white-boy-ness" determined how I was treated at the party, I nevertheless had a great time. Likewise, I count the African American kids I work with at the Laf and came to support at Skool Ova among the nicest and funniest kids I know.

It was an interesting experience, to say the least. Stepping out of your comfort zone is never easy, and I can definitely say that the scene at the pimped out VFW was not my comfort zone. But I enjoyed it, if only for the amusement of the atmosphere and the company of good friends (despite the fact that the company of good friends were delegated to the corner of the room).

It was a great night, though I must admit, getting back in the car and blasting some Taking Back Sunday was somewhat refreshing as well. Summer has treated me well. Thank goodness skool ova.

My Journey in the 4th Circle of Hell

Back in my day, we only had 86 channels on the television. Just recently I was over a friend's house, and his little brother was amazed at this fact. "How did you survive?" they implored, "967 channels is the only way to go." I suppose it's not such a bad thing, this overstuffed digital cable. For one, there's always something on. For another, it's the only way I can watch old school Nicktoons. And finally, there are many, many movies to pick from at any time during the day. Unfortunately, with all good comes bad as well...

Enter SOAPnet. Not that I was ever a fan of soap operas even before digital cable's existence, but a 24/7 channel is absurd. What baffles me even more is the kind of programs they run. You'd think it'd be all General Hospital and All My Children, right? Nope. Every time I walk through a room with one of my two sisters watching TV, they are always tuned into SoapNet and it is always showing... The O.C. So, um, since when was The O.C. a soap opera?

Fuck it, that argument is beside the point. The point I was leading up to (very slowly, it seems), is that girls my sisters' age, namely ages fifteen to eighteen, are batshit crazy about shows like The O.C. and One Tree Hill and Two Bush Valley and all that other nonsense. I hate it all, and though it may be a little harsh to say, I wouldn't think twice to question the sexuality of any guy my age who watched this fluff (Jim C****, I'm looking at you).

However, it occurred to me that I really have no right to say how much The O.C. sucks, as I've never seen one single, solitary episode. C'mon, we all know it's terrible, but how can I know for sure? There's only one way.

I, Joe K***, am about to venture where no nineteen-year-old male has gone before. I have a copy of the first season of The O.C. sitting next to me, and I am about to watch the first few episodes. Like a modern-day Professor Lidenbrock, I'm not sure if I will return; if I do, perhaps I will be armed with knowledge that will make me a better man. More likely though, I'll be scarred for life, so let this blog post be a lasting tribute to a boy named Joe K*** who was willing to take the ultimate risk.

Episode 1: "Pilot"

The DVD slides into my laptop like butter. Like some evil, filth-ridden butter. I'm expecting a big group of people to burst into my room at any minute to start pointing and laughing at me. Sigh... I guess this is it.

Our favorite show starts out with a swell one-liner: "I'm your big brother, if I don't teach you this, who will?" And the punk kid proceeds to smash a car window and steal the car (No keys? How did he start it?). Cops pursue, and he, along with his little brother / star of the show, gets arrested. And damn it, I realized that I still don't know the main character's name. Not that it's important.

We then meet what seems to me the main adult character of the show, a dude named Sandy. He seems the reject-surfer-turned-lawyer type, and he's helping the main character with his court case. After realizing Main Character has an alcoholic mother, Sandy gives Main Character his home phone number. Hmm, I wonder if he'll use it?!

Sure enough, Main Character arrives home, promptly gets beat up by his step-dad, and kicked out by his mother. So, to recap, five minutes into the series and we already have a car chase, an arrest, tears, and physical child abuse. This should be interesting.

The main character has a first encounter with who will no doubt be "the one" for him, eventually. And my goodness! What witty dialogue opens their relationship! "Who are you?" "Whoever you want me to be." Swoon! Then the typical generic jock picks her up with mainstream rap pumping in his SVU speakers. "Who is that guy?" he mouths to Marissa (Larissa? I'm not sure I know her name either). Foiled!

We next meet a quick-talking son of Sandy named Seth, who, according to the locals of Orange County, is a "fucking queer." I thought he seemed pretty cool, I guess? Maybe that's just me fighting for the underdog. Or maybe I'm gay too and I was aroused to hear of his fucking-queer-ness. Maybe.

The next half hour unfolds in a melodramatic mess that involves a fashion show, a visit from the Securities and Exchange Commission, a confession of Seth's creepy stalking tendencies, an Avril Lavigne reference (this show is already dated), and more tears. And more fights. And more drama. Another car chase was conspicuously absent.

I can immediately see why young people are so attracted to this show. In it we have a down-on-his-luck youngster who, through sheer chance, falls into the hands of a generous man who gives him anything he'd like. He goes from living in a shit house in shit Seattle to living the dream in a mansion in Orange County. This is what little fifteen-year-old girls dream of, I suppose. However, on a deeper level, the little ones can relate to this show. Marissa/Larissa's mother says, "Oh god, honey, you look dreadful in that hair clip," making her feel like an idiot. "Hey!" collectively say the fifteen-year-old girl population, "My mommy said a mean thing to me too! I'm just like Marissa/Larissa!"

But you're not.

This show is incredible in the way it is so over-the-top. Incredible in a very bad way. Watch the scene when Seth and main character walk into a party at "the beach house my mom let me use." I've been to many parties in my day, but I've never seen that many drunk bikini-clad model-like women dancing around in one room. Okay, I've never been to the O.C., but I find all this very hard to believe.

Let's try to think of the positives, shall we? Hmm... Okay wait, give me a minute... damn... uh... okay, here's one perhaps: Seth is kind of a likable character in my eyes. I think? Yeah, he is. He is likable, I now realize, because he hates the type of people that are showcased in this series. He scoffs at the rich petty snobs that surround him. Kudos Seth. But alas! He ruins it with his obsession with exactly the type of girl that his character allegedly despises; Summer, his stalker victim, is at first glance a naive hoity-toity elitist that would never associate with someone like Seth. Get over it, man, really.

My original plan was to watch a few more episodes of this train wreck, but I'm sorry, dear reader, I just can't bring myself to do it. Even with the suicide hotline on speed dial, I just can't.

I'll end with my favorite quote of the episode. Towards the end of the episode, Seth and main character get in a fight with aforementioned typical jock-type character and jock's goons. Outnumbered, main character is pushed to the ground, where the jock villain winds up and kicks him right in the groin. "Welcome to the O.C., bitch!" he exclaims. And as I stare at the face of the main character on the DVD box, I can imagine him laughing at me and exclaiming the same thing.

Nothing's sacred anymore.

Your rack, indeed.

 

Before I jump into what I can promise will be quite a rant, I need to establish something: I am a nerd. One of the nerdiest of the nerds, in fact. I read a lot of books. I give a FUCK about an Oxford comma. I used to play Dungeons & Dragons every Friday night for a year. Hell, I spend an (extremely) large amount of time blogging about albums and Chad Kroeger. But above all of these things that put being in the running for captain of Team Nerdy, one stands out: I have devoted much of my life to online Scrabble.

Scrabulous, for all of those who don't know, is the one of the best tricks the interweb has ever pulled out of its sleeve. It allows you to challenge others to games of virtual Scrabble. On Scrabulous' official site, most people join tables with random others to participate in the ultimate game of brains and wordy brawn. It has slowly but surely become one of America's favorite time-wasting device.

Facebook, never to be left out of the loop, has adapted this as an application. Here, people can challenge their F-book comrades to games. Here, nerds band together and sit online for hours while they plow through game after game of Scrabble with their buddies. Or, they start up March Madness-like tournaments focused around it. But I digress. Scrabulous has become part of me, and I part of it.

Recently, I awoke at noon to utter boredom; none of my friends had used their turn in any of our games, leaving me alone and unable to revel in Scrabulous glory. After some farting around, I found that the application allows you to put out a game request to Scrabulous users world-wide. Elated, I immediately put out a request for a game, rubbing my hands together in anticipation of kicking yet another user's bee-hind.

Quickly, a user named Larry F. accepted my plea for a game. As I clicked onto the fresh game board, though, my stomach turned. There in the accompanying dialogue box was a gruesome phrase: "Hey baby, you wanna cyber?"

After some primo expletives and suggestions to stick certain fruits in certain places, I deleted the game and closed my laptop. Was this guy shitting me? Was he really trying to be sexual in SCRABBLE?! Feeling like I had just watch a porn in Church, I took a break from Scrabulous. It saddened me in unspeakable ways that some weirdo had just tried to come onto me via Scrabble.

Nowadays, I still play a helluva lot of online Scrabble. On occasion, I still put out game requests to the global Scrabble network. I'm sad to say that many of these times, Creepy McCreepers from Creeperville have tried to seduce me through the application. While I of course don't give into any of this infinite weirdness, it still bothers to no end that people can turn anything into something not-so-nice.

Because really, where does it end? Has the Internet simply turned into a breeding ground for all sexual deviants and psychos? I don't know, but the more I see, the more I worry.

My nine-year-old niece has recently began spending time on the Internet, and I can't help but look over her shoulder as she journeys the web through my Dell. For the first time in my life I finally understand why The Berenstain Bears, Sesame Street, and—okay, okay, MY PARENTS—always told me not to talk to strangers.

And in short, I am afraid.

Have It Your Way

Looks tasty, doesn't it?

I've been eating fast food all my life. There are fond memories of pulling up to those golden arches after preschool for a delectable Happy Meal lunch, memories of collecting those little Pokémon trinkets at each Burger King visit, memories of warming up after a long winter's day of sledding with hot Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers and fries. Fast food has infiltrated our way of life; I never think twice about the impact it has, because, shit, what's better than a Checkerburger and spicy fries after a night of drinking?

It's somewhat amusing, when you think about it. There are so many reasons why we should NOT be eating this crap Ronald McDonald feeds us, and yet, I continue to go back, time and time again. What's wrong with it, you ask?

• First and foremost, the food itself is grossly unhealthy. I'm way too lazy to look up facts and figures, but eating a Big Mac will probably take a few weeks off your life.
• Not only is it low in nutritional value, but the way the food is handled is often unhealthy. No cook would think twice about picking a burger off the ground and feeding you with it.
• Going deeper, the meatpacking industry is in shambles, and has been for years. Big Corporations take advantage of the lowly immigrants who work in the plants. They regularly get underpaid and under compensated for injuries.
• Big Corporate doesn't give a shit about you. If they can roll a profit, they'd gladly and knowingly feed you E coli—and have many times in the past.
• Kids are manipulated. Cute characters like Ronald and fun toys bring in the children from all over. And if the kid likes it, they become lifelong customers, not to mention they bring in their parents as extra customers.
• Salads? Sir, when someone gets a salad at McDonald's, and they use the dressing, it contains more fat than a burger.

Fuck it, that's enough rant. Nevertheless, it's important to examine why exactly we continually visit fast food joints when it's painfully obvious how bad it is for us. Personally, I feel sick every time I eat a burger from McDonald's, and yet, I find myself ordering two double cheeseburgers every time I go (which is often). Why? Why?

I've reached the conclusion, as I'm sure countless others have in the past, that it is an addiction. Much like alcohol or drugs, fast food takes hold of you. You get cravings that have to be nourished or else you'll be uncomfortable. And just like the threat of a hangover never deters the average drinker, so too does the threat of queasiness, obesity, or E coli do nothing to deter me from supersizing.

It's a terrible problem, a problem that no one will ever be able to do anything about. Not that anyone wants to, either. Hell, I could write a million more blog posts about the horrors of fast food, but still I'll go out on a Friday night, short on cash, and pick up some Wendy's. Usually, I am an optimistic person, but I've come to accept that this is a lost cause.

Now if you'll excuse me, a hot and juicy Quarter Pounder awaits.

Rot in Pieces.

LOL, you're a d-bag.

 

There is no band that I loathe more than Nickelback.

I realize that this is a gigantic statement, considering there are some really terrible bands out there. I mean, Fred Durst has a band for chrissake. But I would rather drown in hours of the song "Nookie" than ever be in close musical proximity to Nickelback.

My opinion is not a popular one, I know. Nickelback has a shitton of fans, sells out shows, and even got to make the theme song to the first (and best) Spiderman movie. These things, however, only help to fuel the fire of hatred that burns in my soul for Chad Kroeger and his band of horrendous goons. They are the forefathers of a genre that I despise: contemporary rock.

This grinds my gears for many reasons. The biggest one is that people who don't know diddly-squat about rock music consider Nickelback to be a fine example of what the genre is all about. And they're not. Nickelback disgraces the genre of rock as a whole by being boring, narcissistic fugly pieces of crap who write the same songs over and over again. My left foot could sound more sincere singing the worthless garbage that has given Nickelback platinum records.

Another awful aspect of heinous faced Kroeger and the boys is that they're procreative. Their success has helped to spawn even more wretched fake rock bands, like Breaking Benjamin and Seether and that shitty band that wrote the song about the lips of an angel. And people lose their shit over these bands. My former place of employment was filled with girls who obsessed over crappy rock bands of this nature. They went to concerts in parks where all of these artists would band together and play shitty festivals to shitty chicks who threw their bras onstage for shitty songs. It's sickening, and it's marring the reputation of rock music.

One day, real bands will get the commercial recognition they deserve, and the face of modern rock will no longer be a man who looks like Fabio on coke.

Rest in Peace

As I my life stretches into adulthood, I've often taken the time to step back and reflect on the memories and experiences that have brought me to this point. The innocence of childhood is long gone, this is true. Where did it go? When did it dissolve? Many a night I've lain in bed, unable to sleep, just wondering what happened to the life we once knew, a life filled with games of Capture the Flag on a crisp summer night, of bike rides on Sunday mornings, of walking to McKewon's Deli for something to do on a Friday evening.

I have no regrets, that's for sure, but still, sometimes I do pine for the old days. So how did we get here? One can simply answer this with one word: alcohol. Now our crisp summer nights are filled with not only the crisp smell of freshly cut grass and hamburgers on the grill, but also the sweet aromas of malt liquor. We no longer ride bikes on Sunday mornings; instead, my head is next to the toilet bowl. Friday nights, we travel to Wawa, but it's not so much walking as it is stumbling (and fucking with the Dunkin' Donuts guys as we go).

Think deeper though—how did we start this cycle of wasted nights? How did we procure this elixir of cheap pilsner beer? My mind pictures one man, and one man only. That man is Andy.

Good ol' Rat-Faced Andy. Where the fuck would we be today without him? I shudder to think. And no, he didn't give a shit about us kids; when he bought us alcohol from Wine & Spirits, it was purely a financial endeavor for him. This is how he made his living, scraping together the few bucks that kids tipped him each time he traveled to the liquor store.

But I pitied him. His face looked like it had been attacked by a swarm of locusts and would never recover. He smelled like holy hell, which hurt us all when he hopped into shotgun on the ride to the store. He lived in a dump on Fanshawe Street, no doubt where he (and the few friends he had) would circle up and shoot up. He was socially awkward; didn't he realize that the sixteen-year-old girls he served probably would NOT want to go back to his pad for a drink? He always seemed to be down on his luck. One time he explained that his house had just been robbed: "Man... they even took my shoes!"

I pitied him, but at the same time he was exalted by our group of friends. Yes, he was a creep and a skeezeball and a crook, but goddamn, he got us drunk! All those good times at the end of Jim C****'s block, all the times we got hammered and built a fire at the Burholme firepit, all the random parties and get-togethers in all the random backyards on all the random nights, none of it would've happened had it not been for the heroin addict who would come running at the first phone call. He was Andy. He was OUR Andy.

Andy is an enigma wrapped in a mystery, like some kind of perplexing burrito. He could disappear for months at a time, only to reappear suddenly, bottle of Banker's Club in hand.

I've talked about the loss of innocence, and as it happened, the next step after drinking alcohol was actually buying the alcohol ourselves. This happened when we discovered that Krewstown Beverages was serving to underage kids. Our need for Andy ceased. It's sad, but that's Social Darwinism for you—those who are not needed fall by the wayside. And so, Andy went into hibernation.

He's been spotted a few times since then. Nevertheless, all contact has been lost. Now we have fake IDs and can pretty much buy alcohol anywhere; when we want to get drunk, we simply drive to Oxford Beer and buy a case. No one thinks to call Andy anymore.

I guess the whole point of this short essay is to say thanks. Thanks, Andy, for all the good times you provided. If not for you, we might still be bored on those typical Friday nights in Burholme. But we weren't. We were drunk. We were fucking hammered. And we had fun. Thank you. Thank you.