PoYB Recaps Summer 2008

Above: an epic summer

I'm not a night-shower person. I really can't stand the feeling of wet hair as I lay down to go to bed. Usually I'll shower as soon as I wake up, or sometimes after dinner and before I head out on the town, but never before I go to bed. With one exception. The last night of summer.

Jerry Spinelli, the popular children's writer, wrote a book called Who Put That Hair in My Toothbrush? that started: "The saddest shower of all is the one you take the night before school starts... It's like you're not just washing the day's dirt away, you're washing the whole summer down the drain." As a rule, tonight is the one night of the year I take a shower before I go to bed, because the sentiment is so true. It's this shower in which I reflect upon the summer as a whole. Let me take you into my shower with me...

The first thing that show be said is that this summer was definitely a lot different then any other summer of my life. It was different because it's no longer defined as "freedom." For instance, while in high school, we went to school for six hours a day, we came home, we did some homework, we laid around the house alone for a bit, and that was it. Sure we had the weekend to unwind, but that was but two sparse days, and then it was back to the grind. Summer was an escape from that. Summer meant we could do whatever the hell we wanted. It was relaxing.

In a strange turn of events, summer's and the school year's roles have been reversed. Now it is school that is the freedom; there's freedom in living on our own, there's freedom in doing whatever we want, whenever we want on campus. In contrast, summer is now the daily grind. I've worked for the past fucking fifteen days. Who wants to do something like that? Not I. I did it for the money, the money I need for college, so I can have that freedom.

Summer used to be freedom from school, now summer is a necessary evil to make sure school can occur.

Alright, shit man, I'm definitely exaggerating when I call summer "evil." That's not true, sorry summer. While it was a hell of a lot less exciting than college was, it still treated me very well indeed. As is the case with any summer, there occurred a multitude of events that we will forever look back upon and react with a smile and a chuckle.

There was: the time we got chased by the dude from Joseph's Pizza; the night we played Edward 40 Hands; my sister's drunken graduation party; those many nights with my gal from Maryland; the night at my first bar, Copa Banana; late night escapades to diners; early morning escapades to diners; my and Kev's week of total inebriation on Senior Week; house parties at Kyle's, Clig's, Dave's, Bri's, Mary's, Andrew's, and Max's, to name a few; enjoying the fine musical selections at Popped! Music Festival; the Laf Kegs, part III and IV; "poker nights" at Andrew's; and last but not least, Basil 249's infamous Susqy kegs to raise money for our dorm room (final count: we raised $140 bucks).

I guess the final part of that paragraph is telling of what this summer was about. While I enjoyed summer, and I love hanging with the kids I hung out with all sixteen weeks of summer, a lot of the time I was just wishing I was back at school. The good thing about going to school so close to home is that I can have my cake and eat it too; while I see my best friends every week during the summer, I see them pretty much every week during school too, along with a truckload of other friends that I don't get to see during the summer.

So, in a sense, you can say that as of eleven hours from now, the chains of summer will be broken. I'll know longer live under my parents' rule. I'll no longer have to work every goddamn day. I'll no longer have to wake up alone, and drive five minutes to an hour to hang out with someone.

Summer, you were awesome, but god bless school.

I want to end this post with some of my favorite pictures of the summer. I don't want to sound so negative about summer, and this will remind me of all the great times.

It's been great, folks. I'll see ya on Second Floor Basil's, hopefully sooner than later.

History in the Making

There we sat, huddled in the basement, waiting for history to be made.

The torch is lit but once every four years, and every four years, athletes from all over the world gather in one city for a historic two weeks of friendly but fierce competition. Only the best of the best can stand up, show their gold, and claim that they are, without a doubt, the best in the world.

Every time the Olympics occur, certain men and women tend to stand out for their brave athleticism, their spirit, and their willingness to be the best. Among them, one man stands leaps and bounds above the rest. His name is Michael Phelps.

Much ballyhoo has been made by this one man, this champion of champions. The weight of America's collective expectations was placed firmly upon his shoulders. His task? To win eight gold medals, more than any other man has every done in recorded history. Win eight golds, and he would be marked as one of the greatest athletes to have every lived.

There we were, crouched in that tiny basement, waiting for Phelps to begin what would become the most important swim race of his young life. The elite group of four Americans waited with bated breath on the lip of the pool, tense with anticipation for the behemoth known as the 400-Meter Medley Relay. Michael Phelps was but one cog in the wheel of the team, but the world's eyes rested solely on him. It's all up to this.

The race was about to begin. Michael's teammate, Aaron Piersol, placed both feet on the diving board, and at the gunshot, he was off. The world fell silent except for the sound of the water splashing against the side of the pool in Beijing's Water Cube. Aaron backstroked with all his might, and through sheer will, he kept the American team in close contention.

Brendan Hansen shot off next, and his breaststroke was never more supple, never more firm, never more powerful. Like a dolphin, he swam from one end of the pool to the other and back, and handed the baton to America's hero, Michael Phelps.

Phelps was, well, Phelps. His torso cut through the water as if he were flying across the clear blue sky. What else can be said about his performance, other than its other-worldliness, its glory, its tear-inducing beauty?

The anchor of our Dream Team was Jason Lezak, and he did not let the world down. Finishing the race with a finesse that would make Jesus himself jealous, his freestyle swimming caused entire civilizations to fall to their knees. He neared the end. He was inches away. He could taste the victory...

And there we were, hunched in a circle around the TV, cold beers in hand, teeth clenched, jaws quivering, about to witness history. And yet, despite all the hoopla, despite the dreams of Michael Phelps and America's yearning for a hero, despite the fact that history was truly about to be made...

I couldn't help but care more about how the Phillies were doing that night.

Contrary to Popular Belief, I Do Have Friends

(Above: two inevitables, Team Green and the beer-amid)

Sometimes I take things for granted. I have food on the table and clothes in the drawer and a roof over my head. I have parents who support me. I am able to receive a great education. However, one thing I rarely take for granted is the group of friends I associate myself with. Everyone knows our little group; it's gotten to the point that my parents ask me who I am hanging out with, and I say, "Ya know..." And they do know.

Just like it is assumed who I'll be hanging out with on a typical summer night, it is likewise assumed what always happens when we get together to drink. I guess it's typical for anyone who drinks to assume that certain things will happen, like maybe a certain friend will always puke without fail, or a certain two people will always hook up, no matter what. There's no doubt, however, that in my group of friends specifically, certain events always occur when we get inebriated. In a celebration of these good times, I shall attempt to list them. Let me know if I missed anything.

THINGS THAT ALWAYS HAPPEN WITHOUT FAIL

—We perpetually try to figure out how many beers we'll need, if it will be enough, and if someone will need to go out and get forties. As I'm usually in charge of buying the beer, you can probably expect a text of "how many beers are you going to have?" pop up in your message inbox. And the same happens during the party: someone will come into the room and say something absurd like "Okay guys, we have 73 beers left... do we need to go on a forty run?" But it's with good intentions (the intention being our getting shitfaced).

—The first beer or two is the last of the serious conversation all night. Some of it might involve the good times that happened at the previous party. Some of it might involve asking how so-and-so is doing, or how this and that went. Really, though, it's just the layover period in the party, since we are still sober and no one has yet to really start drinking yet.

—When everyone feels good, we play a drinking game. The first priority is beer pong, and in this game, there's always that one team that holds a dynasty for like eight games in a row. Usually this is Team Green, which consists of Kev-o and me. We like to pretend that we are better than everyone else, and sometimes it's even true. Also, we make fun of Mike for calling the game "Beirut." Last time I checked, I could find that on a map, not a party.

—If beer pong is not an option, the focus shifts to Kings. None of this "two for you, three for me" shit, either. We play Rockledge Rules. Some memorable rules included having every curse that rolls off your tongue being written in permanent marker on your body; whenever anyone needs a beer, Mandy has to get it, and bark like a dog when finished; when the keg is kicked, Joe has to hold it above his head... naked. In any case, one is usually fucked up after this.

—When everyone gets loaded, we usually blast some Taking Back Sunday song and scream it at the top of our lungs and dance around and shit. Okay, I'll concede that Taking Back Sunday isn't that good of a band in general, but come on, they really are a good drunken singalong band.

—At one point in the night, we'll try to convince Katie to hook up with a girl. She never obliges.

—Someone shows his or her penis or bare ass or some supposedly "private" part of their body. Let's not kid ourselves though, it's usually my penis.

—Someone will leave the room and start talking to their special someone on the phone. Do it at your own risk, however, because you'll be labeled as "whipped" for the rest of the night.

—There reaches a point when everyone ceases to be drunk and starts to become hammered. I'd estimate this occurs at the point when the participants crack open their extra forty. Once everyone is nice and bombed, two things always happen, with no exceptions. The first is that their is an intense search for food. When someone finds three-week-old chicken patties in the back of the freezer, the focus of the party shifts from the keg to the oven, where in approximately 15 minutes (preheated to 425 degrees) those little golden-brown beauties will make our lives that much better.

—The second thing that happens when we pass into the realm of heavy intoxication is the various heart-to-hearts. The range of topics are far spread, but they could involve anything from the trouble you are having with a guy or girl, the insecurities of being a teenager, or just simply how great life is. Inevitably, though, these so-called heart-to-hearts always end in the reaffirmation that "you are, like, my BEST friend, man." God bless alcohol.

—Someone will be significantly worse off than the others in terms of how drunk and sloppy they are. An award is given out every night for this person: "The Jim C**** Honorary Load of the Night Award." Usually, Jim earns it.

—When a new person enter the fray, perhaps a friend from school or a cousin or otherwise, they are pretty much guaranteed some sexual activity that night, assuming everyone is drunk. Just trust me, it's a theory tried and true.

—And finally, each individual person has their little idiosyncrasies while inebriated. Dare I name some? Mandy has her infamous "Whaaaaaat?" when faced with some absurd claim. Kev puts on the C***** Slur and does the C***** Shuffle. Kyle looks for some "ace." Katie shows everyone her vagina after chugging a bottle water... I mean, uh, vodka. Andrew is chain-smoking and showing us his card tricks. Ed becomes, if it's possible, even more like a teddy bear (a very large teddy bear). Mike shows us his emo hardcore dancing ability. Dave shows us his emo hardcore singing ability. Mary is flirtatious. Keelan keeps everyone in check. Marielle says she'll hook up with Kev. Brianna is even nicer, even when we thought she couldn't be any more nice, and occasionally passes out in a shower. Jim is, well, acting like Jim often does. And I act like my dad.

This is all just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to hanging out with these kids. The bottom line, though, is that no matter what is bound to happen, or what new surprises are in store, it is ALWAYS a great and memorable time.

This is why I consider these people my closest friends.

"Might drink too much, but we feel fine / We're gonna build something this summer."

Above: even as an infant, one Ms. Amanda L. B** knew what was up.

The Northeast Times once ran an article that birthed one of the greatest opening lines to an article ever: “It may not be their legal right, but there’s little doubt that young people in Northeast Philly still consider drinking in the woods their birthright.”

This, more or less, is a summation of my childhood. When the alcohol bug began biting my friends and me as teens, we sought refuge in various wooded areas and outside hideouts in order to engage in underage drinking. Sure, drinking outside had its downfalls. We sustained many a mosquito bite and strange rash. We could barely see in the darkness of night. We froze our asses off just to down a few cans of Natty Light. Hell, we’ve run from cops, almost been arrested, and had two beautiful, unopened cases of Miller taken from a cherry top. But these experienced have helped define us as a group of friends. Drinking is, and never has been about getting drunk to us... it’s about being together, and forming memories that we cherish deeply.

When I moved to La Salle, drinking outside was no longer a necessity. We had cramped dorm rooms and shady frat parties that were able to house our liver-damaging events. The good times were aplenty, of course, but it was kinda sad. No longer was the thrill and underhandedness a part of me and my friends' drinking experience. We could no longer be young scamps who stayed out until *gasp* 12:30 in the morning with nothing but cases and smiles on our faces.

This summer has brought back some of that glory for me, though. A choice few of my friends have started throwing kegs in the woods in order to build up a beer fund for their ultra-banging party room this year (which is conveniently located directly across the hallway from my St. Basil suite). During these kegs, a bunch of us regulars (and some surprising visitors) have gathered in a choice locale of the Pennypack Woods. It’s a fool-proof spot: it’s so far back that no cop in their right mind would haul their cookies there just to bust a bunch of cute Irish kids’ keg. It’s also soundproof, and the good times cannot be heard until you are nearly face-to-face with the party.

A lot of people make fun of us N’east kids for these events, but I can honestly say that they have provided some of the greatest times of my Summer 2008, as well as helping me develop a thesis statement for my inevitable “What I Did This Summer” essay.

I mean, some classic things have happened at these kegs. I’ve done legendary keg stands (or... pitiful ones...). The most random people have gotten some summer lovin’ against the trees. We’ve stood for three hours in torrential downpour just to get our drink on. Some super white kid has tried to engage people in a rap battle. We’ve had false alarms when, thinking the police were on our heels, we all dropped our cups and bolted into a path of thorny shrubbery. Heart-to-hearts have been had; fights have occurred. Planets were saved, and lives were lost. But in this sea of trivial happenings, we’ve all been able to hang out and enjoy the company of those we love most while using our cellphones to see the tap of the keg.

Another great aspect of the nights is what can be crassly called “the after-party.” This party occurs when, in droves, we drunken idiots have sauntered (or dangerously faced the wheel of a car) to headquarters: Wawa. This has resulted in some nameless friends being banned from said Wawa, but nonetheless; many good times and chicken sandwiches have been had there.

So in short, don’t judge a man before you walk a mile in their shoes, and don’t judge my friends and I until you’ve drank in the woods with us for an hour. In fact, come next week. And your ass will totally be kicked in how amazingly awesome we all really are.

The drink of the gods; the elixer of life.