The Art of Selling Out: A Top Five List

above: sell out? not quite

In 1965, Bob Dylan was well on his way to reaching the (or an) apex of his career. His acoustic protest songs had struck a chord in the hearts of the American youth, and his anthems moved many to tears. He was the folk singing hero of his time.

Yet Bob Dylan wanted to push the limits. He wanted more. He was to go electric.

As goes the legend, Bobby showed up at the Newport Folk Festival armed with an amp and a guitar cord. He plugged in, lit up a fiery version of "Maggie's Farm," and left the stage to a chorus of boos.

Now, I'm not so sure about that booing part, but it stands indefinitely true that a lot of people were pissed at my boy for doing what he did. As I mentioned before, he was a "folk singer," and by going electric, he supposedly "sold out."

If these pricks would've just shut their traps and listened, they would have realized that his material that came out of the debacle—songs like "Subterranean Homesick Blues," "Like a Rolling Stone," and "Positively 4th Street"—were some of his best material yet. In the early days of my Dylan fandom, I'd comfortably say that this is the time period I'd pick as my favorite in his catalog.

Urban Dictionary defines a "sell out" as "one who betrays a cause for personal advancement." In this regard, Bob Dylan did no selling out. Fans and critics were the ones that pinned him as the folk singer in the first place; it's not like he purposely wrote songs to be a hero or to change the world. He did it because he enjoyed writing music. And when he went electric, he was still just doing what he wanted to do. He betrayed no one—his fans betrayed him.

Okay, so Bob Dylan is not a sell-out. Then who is? Ah, here we come to another one of my favorite blog posts... Top Five!

Top Five Sell Outs

5. Kevin Barnes of Of Montreal

Ha! I kinda just put Barnes on the list to piss him off a little bit. In the summer of 2005, I broke up with my first girlfriend of my life. As I had realized over time, the only thing we really had in common was music. Thus, I'll always remember the last thing I ever had a conversation with her about. I said, about a month after our break-up, "Are you fucking serious? Of Montreal is on a commercial for Outback Steakhouse!" to which she responded, "I refuse to believe it." Likewise! Of Montreal seemed like the hippest of our favorite indie rock bands. How could frontman Kevin Barnes sell out like this? As it turns out, Barnes is pretty bitter about the subject: "The pseudo-nihilistic punk rockers of the '70s created an impossible code which no one can actually live by," says he about "selling out." No excuse, man, no excuse.

4. The Fonz

Arthur Fonzarelli was the definition of cool. Laid back, leather jacket, macking girls left and right (on multiple occasions, twins!), and the ability to kick the jukebox just right. So what the hell was he doing in a dance contest? Come on, dude.

3. The Who

If I took irony into account on this list, the Who would probably be number one. Weren't these the same guys that did a whole album making fun of people who sold out? Remember, the one aptly titled The Who Sell Out? And here are, forced to sit through car commercial after fucking 21st century car commercial, listening to the already overplayed "I Can See For Miles" and "Happy Jack." And let me tell you something else, Roger and Pete. You are not the Who without John and Keith. In calling yourselves "The Who" you make a lot more money while insulting your departed brethren's names.

2. Judas Iscariot

You really can't get much worse than Judas when it comes to selling out. He betrayed our Lord and Savior for pieces of fucking silver. He killed Christ for money! If that's not a sell-out, I really don't know what is. Well, okay, at least he felt bad for it, unlike Roger and Pete up there. Not saying they should hang themselves from a tree, but Pete Townsend is a child pornographer, so...

1. The Cookie Monster

He was once every kid's hero—he ate cookies for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snack! Who wouldn't want to do that? He gave us kids hope that one day, ONE DAY, our mommies would just let us throw out that asparagus and chomp on some warm chocolate chip. Cookie Monster just didn't give a fuck. I loved it. But alas... times change. Cookie Monster now claims cookies are a "sometimes food." Now the Cookie Monster wants to eat his fruits and vegetables too. What the hell, Cookie Monster? You were my hero, and now you are talking like my parents. That's bullshit. You're a sell-out.

above: Judas Iscariot

Bleeding Red

My team

Three things will tell you right off the bat that I'm a Philadelphian, born and raised. The first is my so-called "Philly accent." Those less fortunate are quick to point it out, and I'm proud of the distinction. Secondly, I know how to order a cheesesteak. For christ's sake, you don't say the word "cheese" and you don't say the word "steak" at all, got it? Third, and probably most importantly, I root for the Eagles, 76ers, Flyers, and Phillies—and no one else.

Now, if you read the Inquirer like me, you'll have already been beaten over the head with the Philly mythos that we're a "championship-starved team." I won't deny it. It's been 25 years since we've had a parade down Broad Street. Never has it occurred in my young lifetime. We've come close, and yet, not close enough. Yadda yadda yadda. We get it! We always come up short.

Frankly, I'm tired of being reminded. So, this blog post will not be a complaint about our starving city. Instead, I want to talk about my own personal experience.

As I stated before, when I am watching the four main professional sports, I always side with the Philly team. That's just how I was raised. However, if you know me, you know I'm not the most... um, athletically inclined. So, truth be told, I don't often watch Flyers regular season games, nor do I give the 76ers the time of day, and hell, sometimes I'll skip the Eagles' big Monday Night Football game if there is something better to do. Fine! I admit it.

Now, each of those three respective teams—the Flyers, 76ers, and Eagles—have all gone to their respective championships in the past decade or so. And yes, when they get there, and even the playoff games before that, I was there with them, watching every game. And I rooted for them with all my heart.

But in retrospect, this was all bandwagoning. Did I watch Flyers opening night? No. Did I see a single 76ers regular season game? No. Was I watching intently when the Eagles turned around their season in that pivotal Game 8? Probably not. I was always a fan, but I was not a die-hard fan until "it mattered."

If you've noticed, I left out a Philadelphia team. The Phillies. MY Phillies. For some reason, this team has become the team I have invested the most time in throughout my life. I'm always in the stadium either opening day or opening night. I actively watch at least two-thirds of the games (there's so fucking many of them, after all), and the ones I miss I always read about thoroughly the next day in the Inquirer. I've come to know and love everyone on the roster (except maybe So Taguchi, he fucking sucks). My heart pounds with every pitch Cole throws, every base Jimmy steals, every flyball Shane dives to catch, every homer Ryan smacks, every game Lidge saves.

When I bleed, I bleed Phillies Red.

For this reason, I find it fitting that my team, our team, has made it to the World Series for the first time in fifteen years. For one, I am not a bandwagoner when I put on my Phillies tee and cheer for the team. I've been watching them and rooting for them since day one. Their participation in the World Series increases my love for this team, it doesn't create a love for them.

A parade down Broad Street has never been a reality for me and my peers. It has become more of a myth. My father loves telling me the story about how he went to the Flyers Parade when they won the cup. It's lore, a legend. I can't think of any better time for that myth to come true than my last month as a teenager.

I have full confidence in my Fightin' Phils. I love this city, and I have a feeling—I KNOW—that my love of this city will never be stronger than it will be when I'm standing there on Broad and Market, piss-ass drunk at seven in the morning, rally towel waving.

Good luck, team.

My Not-So-Bleak Monday

Above: 13,000 sq ft. of hell surrounding a Taco Bell

This must have something to do with global warming. How else can you explain how it could be so inexplicitly warm at the median of October, and then all of a sudden the icy blasts of Mother Nature's breath are slicing across my face? Being a typically unprepared college student, I had no jacket to protect me from the suddenly chilly temperatures. Braced with only thin T-shirts (thinner than the average shirt since I have like three of them), my health is slowly dilapidating.

Okay, the weather gods should be well aware that I am immersed in rehearsing for a musical to premiere at the beginning of next month. Though my part is, deservedly, incredibly smaller than most other roles, it doesn't excuse me from actually having to use my voice. And when you wake up with a throat more sore than a chronic masturbater's left wrist, you tend to hate life.

Thus is the scenario I woke up to Monday morning. Not pleasant, I'll tell you. My lungs were laden with phlegm, my cough sounded like a wounded horse, and my head felt lighter than Phileas Fogg's hot air balloon. Damn you, immune system, damn you to hell. You've betrayed me at my worst moment.

Despite all this, I was scheduled to do some shopping for school that morning, so I desperately clawed my way out of bed and slinked to the mall.

Now, let me let you in on something. I fucking hate shopping, especially for clothes. I can't fathom a logical reason as to why I would need new clothes. What's wrong with the old ones? Why should my Beatles T-shirt be good one day, and the next I need to replace it? Why would a trusty pair of sneakers that I've used in all kinds of weather and at every occasion in the past two years of my young life, suddenly be thrown in the garbage? And really, Dad, do you NEED to be with me at the store, trying—nay, nagging—me to try on that pair of khakis two sizes too large because, "well, you never know!"? Mom, do you really think I'm going to buy that jacket because it looks "handsome"?! For the last fucking time, I don't shop at Kohl's! And wait a minute, maybe I should try on this pair of jeans again, just to make sure... I wonder if these shoes really fit, or they just seem this way in the store... Fuck, I know this tee is going to shrink and disfigure in the wash, I just know it....

Digression aside, I just really, really fucking hate shopping. What any normal teenager quietly goes about doing, and even enjoys sometimes, for me becomes a hassle, a nuisance, and a general evil that I try to avoid at all costs.

The thing is, this trip was different. I was sick, yes, and the sickness made me groggy, and this of all days was not a day I would have picked to spend doing one of my least favorite things. But when I got to the mall, and I got to the rack of new jeans... it actually went great. Instead of obsessing over which pair was best, instead of trying on pair after pair like a preteen girl, I simply grabbed a pair that looked good enough and went on my way. I didn't really have the energy to care. I didn't want to be there because I was sick, but the situation inverted itself, and I got out of there more quickly because I was sick. In some strange perverted way my sickness came to benefit me.

Armed with a runny nose—but also a few new additions to my wardrobe—I headed back to school. As is usual with Room 249, we got plans together for an evening of intoxication. I needed it after such a long day. Perhaps it wasn't the best idea, seeing as I was so sick and needed to get better for Into the Woods, but nevertheless I let my Irish heritage shine through, and cracked open a crisp beverage at eight o'clock sharp.

Soon I found out that it probably is a terrible idea to load yourself up on cough and cold medicine before a bout of underage drinking. I swear, usually I get past my tipsy stage and into my slightly drunk stage after about eight beers. On this evening, I was obliterated after only six. Six fucking beers. I felt like I exchanged tolerance levels with my thirteen year old sister. All this despite the fact that it said absolutely nowhere on the box about adverse effects by mixing the meds and alcohol.

But I woke up this morning feeling pretty good. Not good in the sense of my overall health—of course, my throat was still scorched—but something was pretty damn swell about me as I lay there on the top bunk. Then it hit me: no hangover. I managed to get drunk without actually drinking a whole lot. As I reflected further, there were added benefits. It took me less time to get drunk, less effort to stay drunk, and less money to buy said drinks. My sickness inadvertently helped me have a better, and more inebriated, night.

So, faithful reader, you may ask, what the fuck is the whole point of this long-winded diatribe? Because as far as the cast of the school musical knows, my throat certainly did nothing to improve my performance at rehearsal, and that sucks.

But as I sit here, thinking about my fall break and its ups and downs, I think a lot about how a sore throat could affect so much. When I woke up on that bleak Monday morning, the soreness in my throat did not bode well for my day. Yet, it helped me to get in and out of the mall with an efficiency I have never before experienced, and it helped me get fucked up in a way unlike I have since the first night this liquid Satan quenched my thirst.

I guess my whole point is I somehow found a silver lining in this cloud in my trachea. Not a bad way to look at life as you're hacking up pints of mucus.

The Valiant Return: PoYB's Top Five Cereals

Sorry, Fruit Brute, you didn't make the cut

No, it's not Tuesday, sorry Bee. I am in the mood for a Top Five though. It's been too long since we've shared our favorite depressing albums and lesbian crushes. Today, since I'm pretty fucking hungry right now, I'm going to do something food related.

Top Five Breakfast Cereal Brands

5. Oreo O's

You'll probably notice that almost all the cereals on my list are incredibly unhealthy for you, so let's start out with the most unhealthy of them all. I used to scoff at my Dad for eating cookies every morning for breakfast, but as I look back, I wasn't much better off. In fact, eating these little chocolate circles was probably ten times worse than eating actual Oreos for an early morning meal. And yet... how I loved them so.

4. Waffle Crisp

Shit, man, these little squares of goodness didn't even taste like waffles. A misleading name should not a tasty breakfast make, but somehow Waffle Crisp pulls it off. No wonder all those little old ladies wanted a bite so badly in those old commercials.

3. Cinnamon Toast Crunch

Wikipedia informs me that Waffle Crisp was created to rival the leading competitor in the niche of breakfast cereals that take hot breakfast foods, shrink them, and make them crispy in cold cereal form. Sorry, Waffle Crisp, Cinnamon Toast Crunch edges you out. Could it be the delicious blend of cinnamon and milk created? Methinks.

2. Cocoa Krispies

I have something to say to Cuckoo the Cocoa Puff Bird: FUCK your Cocoa Puffs. You ain't got SHIT on Cocoa Krispies. I mean really, does your cereal snap, crackle, and pop? I didn't think so. You are always bragging about how you use real Hershey's chocolate. Honestly, I never even liked Hershey's chocolate. Give me that fake processed chocolate any day.

1. Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch

It brings a tear to my eye thinking about it—God gives over six million adults and children peanut allergies, and I happen to not be one of them. When I was born, God truly smiled upon me. It's amazing to think I've been enjoying the Cap'n for almost twenty years now. Trust me, no special occasion is complete without it. When my dad would wake me up early in the morning for school, I'd be grumpy 'til I sat in front of a fresh bowl of the Crunch. When my mother would go out food shopping for our biannual family vacations, I'd always make sure PBCC was on the shopping list. And on Christmas morning, fuck my presents, I'm getting CRUNCH-A-TIZED. God bless you, Captain Horatio Magellan Crunch. I love you.

My Secret Degrassi Shame

above: my dignity, missing

I feel like everyone comes to a point in their life when they realize they've hit rock bottom. Perhaps you're sitting by yourself in a basement with a bottle of Jack, getting shitfaced, crying for no reason. Perhaps you've just broken up with your girlfriend of five years and you look around and realize you have no shoulder to cry on. Maybe you're addicted to coke and living on the streets.

My rock bottom happened recently. It's perhaps more serious than all my aforementioned examples. Yes, I have hit a low point in my life. Probably the lowest.

I'm addicted to Degrassi: The Next Generation.

Maybe you haven't heard of this show—and God, I pray you are one of the few kids my age who hasn't, maybe that will spare me some of my dignity—then you know what's so bad about this.

Wasn't I the kid who blogged over the summer about how bad shows like The O.C. were? Wasn't I the kid who constantly belittles boys and girls who watch this nonsense? Am I not the same kid who takes great pride in the type of entertainment I expose myself to?

And yet, here I am, not only allowing, but actually wanting to know what happens to Marco after he comes out of the closet, how Craig will react to the realization that he has been unfaithful to Ashley, and if JT and Liberty will ever get together, however unlikely it seems.

See, what's weird about all this is that I could easily sit here and list a hundred reasons why I shouldn't like this fucking program. I could tell you that sometimes Degrassi puts its teen stars in edgy situation just for the sake of being edgy. I could tell you that the show poorly handles its ensemble cast, and sometimes characters just disappear for episodes at a time. I could write how the plot is flooded, I mean really drowning, in melodrama. I could try to explain how truly awful the acting. Really, it's just plain bad. These Canadian actors just can't cut it.

I could go on and on! Degrassi is a show that in theory should be a show I absolutely hate, a show that I constantly berate my little sisters for watching, a show I scoff at when mentioned.

But no. No, I really like Degrassi: The Next Generation. And I'll probably watch an episode after I finish this blog post.

I am a fourteen-year-old girl.

A Promise, an Oath

above: Joe trying to figure out how to post on PoYB

Okay, in the past week, one M. B** and I have made at least three (drunken) pacts to write a PoYB post every day for a week. Really, we've been slacking on this shit.

So, starting today, I'm going to do it. I swear to God. I really will.

I call to action my fellow bloggers to do the same. Mandy, Mike, even Nick, let's get this ol' boy back on its feet, shall we? And hey, maybe Dave will, like, totally post something. Just once?

Enjoy, faithful reader.

Love,
Joe