Six Degrees

above: me

I always wished I could be like Ferris Bueller. The thing I liked about that character so much was how diverse his circle of friends were. In other words, he was the type of kid that was friends with everyone. He had ties to the jocks, the nerds, the cokeheads, the cheerleaders, everyone. The same can apply to the character of Randall "Pink" Floyd in the movie Dazed and Confused. Yeah, he was part of the "cool crowd," but he also made time to hang out with the stoners and the book nerds. These are people who are well-connected in society.

An interesting concept that ties to this idea of "connectedness" is the game "Six Degrees to Kevin Bacon." Its theory claims that every actor in the world can be connected to Kevin Bacon in less than six steps based on what productions he or she was a part of. For instance, Brendan Fraiser was in The Mummy Returns, which featured a cameo by Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, who was in Gridiron Gang with Kevin Dunn, who starred in All the King's Men with Sean Penn, who was featured in Mystic River with... Kevin Bacon. Yeah, I found that one myself.

Since I myself want to be connected like Ferris Bueller, the question is: can you connect Joe K*** to Kevin Bacon in six steps or less? The answer, surprisingly, is yes, depending on how you look at it. Observe:

1) Kevin Bacon had a small role in the movie JFK, in which he was a witness in court. In that same movie, Tommy Lee Jones starred as Clay Shaw, the main prosecution in said trial (though he was found not guilty).

2) Tommy Lee Jones, as everyone my age probably knows, co-starred in the movie Men in Black and its sequel, with none other than Philly's own Will Smith.

3) Will Smith, though none of his roles will ever compare to the Fresh Prince, starred in I, Robot, a tale about how robots rebel and try to overtake the human population. In a much smaller role, the brave boy who took on a robot army with just a baseball bat was played by Shia LeBeouf.

4) Shia LeBeouf starred in the summer popcorn flick Transformers. Comic geeks rejoiced, so much so that a sequel is now in post-production. Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen stars LeBeouf, Megan Fox, and daytime soap star Josh Duhamel. Oh, and an up-and-coming star is featured as an extra on the set—our good friend Dwyer.

5) Dwyer, besides his illustrious movie career, has starred in many stage productions both in high school and college. Among his credits are Godspell and Babes and Arms, both directed by Colleen Lapowski at La Salle College High School, and Into the Woods, a Masque production at La Salle University. Also featured in all three of these aforementioned productions, more or less, was yours truly, Joe K***.

So, I propose to you, my humble audience, that we start a new game. Gone are the days of "Six Degrees to Kevin Bacon." From now on, it will be known as "Eleven Degrees to Joe K***." Because, if the former is true, I have just proved the latter to be as well. Cheers!

But nothing compares to these blue and yellow purple pills...

Above: a productive Mandy after numerous nights of Adderall use

I’ve always considered myself a very even-keeled person. I’m very good at moderating myself in most situations, and have very often considered myself born without an addiction gene. I’ve been through a variety of bad habits without so much as an inch of addiction.

Cigarettes, for example. For a good amount of time, I’d fill my walks in between classes with a good ol' Marlboro Light. I’d join the smoking crowd on porches and benches for a cig in drinking situations. My best friend and I would spend our evenings in the Burholme parking lot, blasting Tom Petty’s "Breakdown" and hot boxing her car with pack after pack of cigarettes.

Never anywhere in this cigarette induced fury, though, did I feel addicted. Sure, I LIKED cigarettes, but I never felt as though they had me in their addictive grasp. My love affair with them went off and on for years, and still continues occasionally, but I know that I’m in full control.

Same thing goes with booze. Those who know me best (and probably many who don’t know me at all), are well aware that I enjoy a good stiff drink every so often... or numerous times a week. Despite this, though, alcohol has never been an addictive entity to me. Every time I drink, I can make the conscious "I’m not going to have another drink" decision without any remorse or concern. I'm proud of this, and know that many college students do not have the same ability.

As I sit in the wake of yet another semester, though, I’m beginning to understand why a certain substance can cause an immediate addiction.

Adderall and I began our relationship during my first semester of freshmen year. I can’t quite remember how and why it came into my possession, or how the idea to use it entered my consciousness. All I know was that it was my first Tech Week, and I couldn’t swing it. I was tired, and I was afraid of an expensive light falling on my head and killing me in my exhaustion. I took one Concerta, which is a bargain basement version of the amphetamine. I felt like I was on top of the world. I could concentrate, and I could excel. I didn’t need to eat or sleep and I felt like an alpha human.

I promised myself I wouldn’t do it again, because it all honesty, it make me feel like a druggie. The term “kiddie coke” flashed in my brain like a neon light, and I saw visions of crack houses
and hell fire.

But then I was introduced to a true evil called Finals Week.

I was drowning in a sea of ten-plus-page papers and cumulative Psychology tests, and that Red Bull began to seem like water to me. I couldn’t stay awake, I couldn’t concentrate, and I was losing my mind. I popped a true blue Adderall this time, 20mg extended release, and I felt like all the lights in my head had turned on. All the cobwebs in my mental attic disintegrated, and I was able to perform on an academic level that I never knew I had in me.

Adderall made Finals Week a kind of sick joy for me. There was something strangely pleasurable to me in staying up for 50+ hours, holed into one subject or paper with the deepest concentration imaginable. I loved learning in those hours, and I loved the machine-like way my brain was able to operate.

Adderall has stayed strictly a Finals Week companion for me (with the rare exception of intense pre-Christmas Bakery mayhem), and that’s for one very specific (and kind of scary) reason: I can see myself liking it too much.

Amphetamines made me realize that I do in fact have an addiction gene in my stone-solid brain. And this isn’t me talking shit on Adderall—it’s quite the opposite. I think Adderall is a wonder drug. I think that it’s a beautiful, practical pill that should be acceptable to use in certain academic situations. The only problem is that it’s TOO good—too flawless, and too functional.

My main point here is this: don’t knock it until you try it. Adderall, if you can think yourself through it, can help you. In fact, it can make you a better person. As my GPA remains in its solid state, I tell you this—I probably wouldn’t have been able to do it without my little 20mg friend.

They love me yeah, yeah, yeah (and I love them too).

Above: The Beatles accept their influence in Mandy's life and ask her to join the band, wearing her famous bug suit.

Behind everything meaningful in my life, there is a Beatles song.

Now go ahead and get the eye rolling and the screams of “cliché!” out of the way. I love the Beatles. I was brought up on a steady diet of four things: Springsteen, Seinfeld, shots of whiskey to cure stomach cramps, and the Beatles.

Standing in the center of this life rubric were the four Brits who, through their chameleon-like song writing abilities, became not only my first taste of rock and roll, but companions on my journey through life.

Scene One: I’m about five years old, and my Dad is working nights. During the day, he takes care of me, making me peanut butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off and taking routine naps during The Price Is Right. He also sings to me (a sentiment that now, fifteen years later, seems as absurd as snow in July): “Listen, do you want to know a secret? Do you promise not to tell?,” he’d croon, and I’d giggle as adorably as you’d imagine a five-year-old Mandy would, and join him in on the finale: “Closer, let me whisper in your ear... hear the words you long to hear... I‘m in love with you...”

Scene Two: I’m a senior in high school. I’m ridden with mono, defeated in every aspect of life, and about two hours from graduating from my hellish senior year of high school. My mother wasn’t speaking to me, having found out that I had spent the past year in the highest stupor of my life. It was pouring rain, perfectly emulating the depression that shouldn’t have been the theme of my graduation day.

Standing in my kitchen, my mother and I gloomily looked out opposite windows at the torrential downpour, speaking for the first time in weeks about how much it sucked that we’d be doing our graduation march in rain. I, in a weak attempt to make her like me again, began singing “Here Comes the Sun.” After her best efforts to resist me, she joined in. We hugged, she forgave.

Two hours later, I graduated bathed in rays of sunshine. It was a Beatles miracle.

Scene Three: Kairos XX. As I gave the “Live the Fourth” talk, I chose “Blackbird” to thematically represent everything that Kairos had given to me, and what I hoped it had given my retreatants. I’ll never forget the biggest, toughest black kid sobbing audibly as “All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be arise” crescendoed through the walls of Mary Immaculate Center.

These are three extreme examples, but the Beatles have played a part in many exemplary (and even beautifully simple) moments of my life. From my first real boyfriend (“I’ve Just Seen a Face”) to my first joint ("And Your Bird Can Sing") they’ve been there. Moving to college (“She’s Leaving Home” creepily and appropriately crept through my RAV-4 as we turned onto Broad Street that day two falls ago) and my brother’s wedding (where he danced to “In My Life” with his mother), they sat by, musically injecting their genius. I remember how proud I was when my nine-year-old niece cranked out the bars of “When I’m Sixty-Four” on her piano. Always somewhere and everywhere, the Beatles have stood by my side, complimenting some of my life’s key notes.

As I venture forth into my 20th year, the Beatles will continue to accompany me on my quest. I can only hope that finally, their grandest song, “Let It Be” will allow me to take their lyrics to a literal heart and let the world, and everything, be okay.

My Bucket List, Updated Regularly(?)

above: Santa wants to get #5 out of the way

This is old news to my closest friends, but nevertheless, I want to share this list with the world. Yes, this is Joe K***'s infamous list of things to do before he dies. It's been probably almost a year since I made up this list, and I only have three things finished, but that's okay! As winter break approaches, and I have a lot of time to spare, my thoughts turn to this list and how I can make my dull life more fulfilling with the completion of these tasks. So enjoy, faithful reader, this, err, thoughtful list, and cheer me on as I try to tick some boxes this winter break.

THE LIST

1. Climb the tallest mountain on any given continent.
2. Brew my own beer, and actually enjoy it
3. Stay up for 48 hours straight
4. Be an extra in a big-time movie
5. Have anal sex (pitcher, not catcher)
6. Finish Edward Forty Hands in a respectable time, and don’t throw up
7. Sleep on the beach
8. Visit every major league baseball stadium in the MLB
9. Go back to Philmont
10. Get to the top of the Statue of Liberty (the rim of the torch)
11. Patent something
12. Learn to play the banjo
13. Have a keg in Presentation B.V.M.
14. Throw a big party where I invite everyone I’ve ever met
15. Go back and read all the books I should’ve read in school but didn’t
16. Write a poem and get it published
17. Get Katie M***** to hook up with a girl
18. Live down the shore for a summer
19. Go skydiving
20. Buy an animal at the zoo (but keep it at the zoo)
21. Drink with Jim W****
22. Go on another Kairos
23. Get a permit to drive school buses
24. Build a treehouse
25. Skinny dip in all four oceans
26. Go to the Super Bowl
27. Attend a taping of Jerry Springer, or a similar show if cancelled
28. Go to Times Square for New Years
29. Get into a legitimate fight that I provoke
30. Ride every ride in Disney World on the same trip (less than one week)
31. Finish a game of Monopoly in one sitting, and win
32. Moon Mrs. P******* (if dead, another teacher I don’t like)
33. Build a go kart and race it in a derby
34. Smoke a cigar with my dad
35. Walk the train tracks for a day or two and see where it leads me
36. Break a bone
37. Get to the top of the Water Tower at Burholme and tag my name on it
38. Go to Las Vegas for a weekend with $20 and come back with more than that
39. Get a tattoo
40. Visit the Playboy Mansion
41. Make the trip to White Castle when you NEED to go
42. Throw the opening pitch in a major league baseball game
43. Slap the ass of a girl from the cast of Full House
44. Live in a nudist colony for a weekend
45. Go 20 games of beer pong in a row
46. Earn a Guinness World Record
47. Discover the meaning of the end of Broken Flowers
48. Visit all seven continents
49. Spit on someone from America’s Next Top Model
50. Live to see my thirtieth birthday

GOALS FOR WINTER BREAK, 2008: #3, #17, #31, #41, maybe work on #47

God bless having nothing to do for five weeks!

Sometimes I'm Pathetic in Rockledge

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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I love my town... but does my town love me? Read on to find out.

above: Gordon is watching!!

So, as it turns out, I drink a lot. And while I consider myself a fun-loving person while intoxicated, and I treat my friends with respect (most of the time) wherever my BAC level is at, still, sometimes I... act out. Perhaps no one has felt the brunt of these inebriated actions than the local business around the Rockledge/Fox Chase area.

Since I'm quite bored on this last day of break, I want to spin the tale of five businesses that operate in and around my town, and what I did to fuck up my once sterling reputation in these fine establishments.

A) 7 Eleven, Huntingdon Pike

This is probably the least of all evils when compared to the others, but still worth discussing. A few friends and I are driving back from a keg one night last spring break (I am not the D.D.), and for some reason we stop at this particular 7 Eleven. I'm being a drunken load, so my good friend Clig decides to take advantage of my condition, and tells me to "go steal a Twix bar" for him. So I walk in, stuff eight Twix bars, two Tastykake pies, and a Slim Jim into my pocket, then try paying for a banana.

The guy asks me, "Is that it?" And I say yea, yea it is. We both look over to the door, and a cop walks in, looking to buy a late-night pretzel. The cashier looks at me, looks down at my bulging pockets, and says, "What about all that stuff?" I say, oh yeah, uh... forgot about that stuff. I empty my left pocket. He says, "Well, what about that stuff?" And I say, oh yeah, uh... this stuff too. And I empty out my right pocket. And I have no choice but to pay for it all.

I gotta say, it could've been a lot worse, with the cop there. The cashier could've had me arrested. I got off easy, it seems, even though I paid $18 for what was originally just supposed to be one Twix bar. Oh, and I got banned. I blame Mike C.

B) Joseph's Restaurant

You may ask yourself, how did Joe manage to get himself banned from a restaurant that usually closes hours before Joe even starts drinking? You'd be surprised.

The Flyers are in the playoffs, and I decide to have a few people over to watch the game over a few brews. A "few" quickly turns into "many" and the ten guys packed in my basement are mangled and restless. This calls for a quick jaunt to Wawa.

On the way to Wawa, everyone is being rowdy and belligerent. We're knocking over trash cans, punching street signs, yelling and basically being obnoxious. To cap it all off, in front of the closed Joseph's restaurant there's a huge flowerpot, so of course I topple it over and we all run away.

Now, mind you, this place has been closed for at least four hours now, so granting that no cops saw my deeds, I should be safe, right? Not quite. We're walking back from Wawa, and someone taps me on the shoulder and says, "dude, look in there!"

Inside the restaurant, there's a big hairy Italian dude, just standing in the dark, staring at us. Just staring, with big menacing eyes. We all walk a little quicker.

We're walking past the 7 Eleven parking lot now, and a car comes out of nowhere and cuts us off. It's the dude from Joseph's! He grabs my cousin Harry by the shirt out of his car window and screams at him, "Why did you do it, punk? Huh?! You're gonna pay!" We all yell, "Oh shit! Harry, RUN!!!" And we all book it. The dude then proceeds to try to RUN US OVER by driving his car across the sidewalk, chasing after us! If it wasn't for the big sign in front the flower shop, one of my little group would have spent the night in the emergency room.

Instead, we all get away, we laughed for hours, and no one has been back to Joseph's since.

C) Wawa on Oxford

The thing about a lot of these places is that the same freaking people work the night shift every night of the week, so after a while, they start to recognize the belligerent tall Irish kid that's causing trouble. The man that I make angry at Wawa is known as Gordon.

Gordon wears yellow-tinted shades, is bald, and perpetually works the night shift at Wawa. He's become sort of a local legend in this town, and it was until this past year that we loved him and he loved us. Now I'm not even allowed near the place past nine o'clock.

It was the same night that I got busted at 7 Eleven, and we're outside Wawa, being idiots. When we're about to leave, I get a burst of energy, and knock over the big cigarette container; cigarette buds go all over the parking lot, leaving Gordon with a hell of a lot more work to do before the sun comes up.

I walk in two weeks later during Easter break, and he flips out on me. "It was you and your goddamn friends that did that, wasn't it?!" He yells. I say, very calmly, no man, I've been at school for ages now, it couldn't have been me. He just let's it go.

And, of course, I wasn't in the right state of my mind, so I just go around the store and pick-pocket about ten random items. Not a word. The next night, I'm in there again, and again my persuading friend Clig tells me to "steal some cashews" for him. So I grab a bag and go in the bathroom. When I'm done, I come out to find Gordon just chilling there, yelling at me "You took something from that rack, didn't you!?" And I deny it and walk out.

One more incident to end it all: I order a sandwich, and instead of paying for it, I walk out, take my buddy's pen, scribble on the receipt, and hand it in as if I paid for it. I enjoyed my sandwich in peace, thinking I got away with it. Alas, I walked in a week later and Gordon yelled, "There's the sandwich kid! Get him!" And I've been banned ever since.

D) Dunkin' Donuts

Five events culminated in my banning from this place. And unlike the other establishments in the area, this is a blanket ban: both day and night, it's off-limits.

—One afternoon on a snow day, we decide to pregame sledding. And as we found out that day, you are NOT allowed to bring a case of Milwaukee's Best into DD.

—Also, you are not allowed to smoke cigars in the Dunkin. I'm surprised we didn't set the fire alarms off.

—I stole a 100 Grand bar from Wawa once, and instead of eating it like a normal human being, I used it to scribble on the window of Dunkin' Donuts.

—One time I bought a cranberry juice and a sandwich. I accidentally spilled the juice all over the floor, and bolted out the door. A few of my friends stayed behind, and a worker came up to them and said, "Joe K*** did this, didn't he?! Never again!!" I'm still not really sure how they knew my name...

—I was coming back from a rainy keg one night. My sister had attended as well and subsequently gotten in trouble by my parents for tracking mud in the house. I decided to take precautionary measures. I stopped in DD. The boys bathroom was closed for repairs, so the guy let me in the girls bathroom. I put my sneakers in the sink to clean them off. Apparently, that got mud all over the sink, the floor, and the walls. I left the bathroom, and the guy who let me in says to me, "C'mon man, what the hell!" My response? "Why would I be in there? That's the girls' bathroom."

So, because of all this, whenever I walk past Dunkin' Donuts, everyone will stop what they are doing and just stare at me. I kid you not. I get scared, sometimes.

E) Oxford Beer Distributor

The irony runs deep. What should be the only establishment that legitimately has a reason to keep me out is the only one in this town to welcome me with open arms.

When I walk into Oxford Beer, I don't have the glaring eyes of every employee, I don't have Gordon yelling at me, I don't have a cop watching my back, and I don't have a big scary Italian man staring me down from the dark depths of a pizzeria. What I do have is a kindly old couple that sells me anything I'd like to buy. They have smiles on their faces when I walk in. They give me free merchandise. They love me, and I love Oxford Beer.

In a town that has turned against me—perhaps rightly so—I'm glad I'm still allowed in the place I frequent the most.

Sometimes Rockledge Is Pathetic

photo courtesy of The Globe

Okay, Rockledge is less than a square mile in area, and can be considered a very small suburb, so you'd expect petty problems to make a big impact at those pivotal town hall meetings, like how Mrs. Jones has a dog that won't stop shitting on the corner of Blake and Montgomery, or how Old Man Thompson plays his music too loud, or how the town is useless now that they took away the mailbox south of Jarrett Ave. But really... this is ridiculous.

My town wants to take pride in itself and look nice, so they built these new crosswalks on every corner. I think they look pretty nice. Of course, for every idea there are always the obligatory naysayers, and this is no different. Really, though, you're making a big stink about crosswalks?

See what one batshit crazy resident of my borough had to say in The Globe this week: "They made me dizzy trying to cross the pike and I almost felt as if I would fall into a hole or lose my balance. It's a true optical illusion in motion," she says. She better be thankful they didn't pave the streets with the new Animal Collective album cover.

Another colorblind chick got "dizzy" while she was driving: "This is very distracting to me when I drive at night." Not sure how a black-and-white crosswalk could be much trouble to a colorblind person?!

We can all sit back and laugh at these kooks. I mean, there's an economic crisis almost as bad as the Great Depression, crime rates are still pretty high in Philly, and global warming will one day drown this great neighborhood by melting the ice caps... and you are bitching and moaning about the patterns on the street corner?! Get a life.

But then this nutso got serious and now it's no laughing matter. According to The Globe, her plan of action is as follows: "If the borough forgoes certain expenses, like the Fourth of July Parade, she is confident funds can be raised to redo the crosswalks." Are you fucking serious? Get rid of the parade, an annual tradition beloved by the whole neighborhood, a tradition that brings us all together in peace and harmony on a warm summer day, just so you can stop getting your little migraines when you can't handle a simple pattern in the street? Not a chance.

The Globe should be ashamed for even giving this garbage any acknowledgment at all. If we don't have any Fourth of July festivities this summer, there'll be a fresh two dozen eggs in my backpack, and one house in particular will be served sunny-side up.

Food and sleep: My kinda holiday.

As it bleeds into Turkey Day morning, we here at PoYB want to extend warm wishes to you and yours this holiday season. We encourage you to eat up, drink down, watch some pigskin, and continue to enjoy the loads of mindless entertainment that PoYB continues to supply.

As a holiday treat, I will now compile for you an assorted list that I, Amanda Lynn B**, feel truly thankful for. (In absolutely no particular order):

A Big Ol’ Cuddly Hug-O-Thanks to the following:

• Bagels.
• Scattergories.
• St. Basil 248 (and the ultra sassy women who inhabit it).
• the torturous band of miscreants that live across the hallway (sometimes).
• over-the-counter sleep aids.
• remembering to take out my contacts before bed (which I never do, so I’m happy when this rare event occurs).
• cheesy eggs from Treetops.
• Michael’s diner.
• Attack & Release.
• Wild Turkey.
• Jesus.
• trampolines.
• To Catch a Predator.
• The Mountain Goats.
• chocolate soy milk.
• the beloved Asian couple of Cold Beer.
• Shadowboxer.
• the song “Shadowboxer”.
• music journalism.
• parties at La Salle (oh wait, never mind... we don’t have any of those. Scratch that.)
• my rain boots (have you SEEN them?)
• ”A Day in the Life”.
• David Sedaris.
• my continued sanity to this point of my nearly 20 years.

To play devil’s advocate, here is an alternative list of things that deserve absolutely no thanks:

NO thanks to:

• vegan cheese.
• Statistics.
• my music teacher.
• the bastards that took my and Kait’s instruments at Arcadia.
• global warming (don’t know anything about it, but it seems terrible. So... ahem... BOO! HISS!)
• the actual predators on To Catch a Predator.
• wet socks.
• insomnia.
• the divorce of Reese and Ryan.
• sweet potatoes (We just don’t hang well, SP and I.)
• the guy who stole my prom camera.

….you suck!

That’s it folks. Have a safe and sexy T-Day.

My Secret Degrassi Shame, Part II

above: my dignity, restored

Last month, I pathetically admitted that I enjoy Degrassi: The Next Generation more than an average boy my age should. I'll sit there in my dorm room watching the show and get absolutely berated by my roommates at the audacity of my watching this trash. Fuck, I know, it's true, it's a disgrace. When I tell people I watch Degrassi, they show nothing but utter dismay at my decisions. But there I was, ready to defend it until the day I die.

Not anymore.

Okay, it was great for a while. Hell, it was so great, I wasted literally days watching this nonsense. I got into it probably the middle of September. It is now the middle of November and I have finished over seven seasons of the show. Let's say the average season is twenty episodes, and the average episode is twenty-two minutes. That means that in the past two months, I have watched over 3080 minutes of Degrassi in my sophomore year of college. Remember that time I got the shit kicked out of me at that frat house? Maybe I deserved it.

The funny thing is, for seven fucking seasons I defended the show. I defended it despite the nonsensical plotline developments, the unstable yet gargantuan main cast, and the terrible acting. But season eight was just too much for me. I can no longer defend this series.

Canada gets a lot of shit from its sister to the south, and maybe there is no way to get back any dignity it has already lost. Still, though, Canada, you have to do the whole Western Hemisphere a favor and end Degrassi after this season. Please, for my sanity. Please.

In my drunken stupor, let me try to explain why this is just too much.

First of all, as is the case with all quasi-realistic school-life TV shows, the writers find themselves fucked in the ass, since all the main characters are aging just as they would in real life. However, once they graduate, what the fuck are you supposed to do? It's a major issue, and it's one that the writers of Degrassi handled poorly.

Firstly. they cheated when they held at least half of the Season 5 graduating class back from graduating at all. Jimmy "didn't have enough credits" because of his wheelchair, Spinner was a dumbass and repeated a grade, Ashley was in England and thus got held back, and Alex was "a graduated student, but returned to get better grades." All of this is utter bullshit and is obviously just an excuse to return a few main characters and still have the majority of the action happen in the school that the show is named after.

Meanwhile, Paige, Ellie, and Marco all go off to college, and the show inexplicably follows them there, though all ties from the actual Degrassi school have been cut.

So at the beginning of Season 6, the writers of the show are shitting their pants because the producers want probably a few more seasons out of them, and all their main stars are set to graduate at the end of the year—and there is no way that they are going to hold all these students back from graduating, because they already pulled that card last year.

The bitches bitch out and extend the school year. Every season previous contains one full school year. Season 6, however, only covers the first semester of Emma and gang's senior year, and Season 7 will have the second semester.

To make matters so, so, so much worse, Season 7 introduces new characters. Too many new characters. A neighboring school "burns down" and Degrassi houses all these new students. Thus, many new characters are given a legitimate—though flimsy—reason to all of a sudden show up on the roster of main stars. It's painfully obvious that the writers are preparing to keep these new characters on board for seasons to come once all the old ones graduate.

And so we have the shitshow that is Season 8. The characters that we previously followed to college—Ellie, Paige, Marco—all hook up with each other (not an exaggeration), and then disappear from the Degrassi universe. Meanwhile, Emma, Manny, and Liberty are the new college kids, and they are involved in the dumb-as-shit plotlines that happen hours away from Degrassi Community School. And, in the worst move in Canadian television history, one of my favorite shows adds about two dozen new, unknown, random fucking characters to the show.

First of all, I grew to like the characters of Craig, Jimmy, Paige, Toby, etc. Degrassi was enjoyable because of the people that were involved. Just because they all graduated doesn't mean you can forget about them.

Secondly—fuck man, this second decision adds salt to the wounds of loss and grief. Marco is gone, so you add a homosexual character whom I don't care about. J.T. is dead, so you add a class clown whom I don't care about. Liberty is a disgusting sorority chick now, so you add a smart stuck-up nerd whom I don't care about.

What the writers did was take all the characters we knew and loved, erased them, and added unknowns to the cast who 1) we don't give a shit about, and 2) have the SAME fucking stereotypes that the original cast had.

Paige = Holly J. Hazel = Anya. Jimmy = Sav. J.T. = Derek. Liberty = Clare. Toby = Connor. Alli = Manny. Blue = Craig. Riley = Marco. Johnny = Sean. Spinner = Spinner. (Yes, Spinner is THAT GUY who still works at the local café and still chills with the high school kids. From a storytelling perspective, I'm glad we have an oldhead around, but from an emotional perspective, it's like, dude, just let go.)

Not only that, but they've run out of issues to cover. We have already seen every fucking teen drama issue that you can possibly imagine over the course of this series. Pot, drinking, coke, anorexia, stealing, engagement, dyslexia, cancer, school shootings, school rivalry, murder, ADHD, cheating, pregnancy with abortion, pregnancy with adoption, pregnancy false scare, OD, drug dealing, attempted suicide, finding Jesus, losing your virginity, online gambling, house parties, child services, oatmeal, and male cheerleading.

The only thing that can possibly be done now is simply repeat the same goddamn issues with different characters. Sadly, this is exactly what they've been doing. Well, okay, fine, they have come up with some new issues, but really... when you have a B-plot that involves finding Spike's vibrator, we're crossed some kind of line. We're just grasping at straws.

I've gone on long enough. I've written so fucking much about Degrassi that I may never be able to show my face again on the mean streets of Northeast Philadelphia. But still... it just makes me mad, and I had to drunkenly rant about it.

They killed a show that, despite it's gaping flaws, I still enjoyed. They took it, and they tore it wider than Marco's sphincter after a three-year relationship with Dylan. They raped this show more than Darcy at the ski trip. They fucked this show harder than Emma's mouth in that van in the Ravine when she contracted gonorrhea. They killed this show worse that when rival school Lakehurst stabbed J.T. in the back for dating Drake's ex-girlfriend. They beat the shit out of this show worse than Derek cowardly did to that chick Jane just because she joined the football team. They punched the shit out of this show worse than Craig did to his step-father Joey because Craig had bipolar.

This show is dead. I will never watch is again, no matter how many times Canadian television renews it. Never.

Bigmouth strikes again. (I'm baaaccckk.)

Above: Mandy B** embraces single-ness and a new look.

I’m giving up on men.

I won’t lie to you, fair readers, but I’ve been lonely.

And not lonely in that “Oh boo-hoo I’m depressed” way, but lonely in that everyone around me is holdin’ hands and makin’ plans, and I’m curled up in a little undateable ball. It seems like how much I try, how cute I try to look, the boys are just not coming a knockin’.

I think this may have something to do with my maturity level. Maybe I, despite my infinite awesomeness, cannot handle a relationship.

I once watched this movie (not sure what it’s called, but I have a vague recollection of Steve Martin and a black mustache...) that gave advice to dateless little twits like me. In it, the main character is advised to take precautionary steps to see if he is in fact, relationship ready.

First, he is told to buy a plant. He is told to care for it, and love it, and be committed to it like it is an other of significance. If he succeeds, he is told to get a dog and follow the same patterns. If he can care for both of these things and not maim and/or kill them, then he is in fact ready for a relationship.

Desperate and tired of looking to Cosmo, I decided to adopt this theory. I went to IKEA. I bought two plants. I watered them lovingly. I named them (Scootch and Rapunzel, FYI). I talked to them. Hell, I introduced them to my Mom. Still, though, Scootch’s days wore thin and she ended up in an eternal grave out my Saint Basil window. Rapunzel hangs on, but I think she just feels sorry for me.

A dog? Don’t think so.

And that’s not all!

I’ve given every man a chance. I’ve talked to nerds. I’ve talked to…my fair share…of frat boys. I’ve talked to army men, musicians, gay men and freshmen. Still, nothing. For whatever reason, the big undateable “L” is in neon on my forehead, and it doesn’t plan on coming off anytime soon.

So you know what, men? I’ve decided to accept this. If you don’t want to date me, then I don’t want to date you. From now on, I plan to content myself on my tunes and my constant eating of cheese slices. I don’t need you, and your plans, and your excessive body hair.

I’m taking a page outta Sasha Fierce’s book, and proudly dancing to “Single Ladies.” So suck on that, conventions.

For your viewing pleasure:

 

 

My true girlfriend. You go, B.

Five Top Fives Friday!

I don't know what it is about us as Americans, but we just love to make lists. Whether it's a ranking of our favorites, a to-do list so you won't forget, or a Christmas list for Santa, we are obsessed with this notion of organizing things in a linear pattern. I'll admit, I love making lists as much as the next guy. In honor of this much adored pastime, I present you with an extra long edition of PoYB Top Five: Five Top Fives Friday!

Top Five Super Mario Enemies

I've been playing Super Mario for as long as I can remember, and I must say, accidentally hitting a Koopa and dying is one of the most frustrating things that can happen (especially because you hit the same fucking Koopa the past fucking ten times!).

5. Goomba

Goombas are the dumb fucks of the Mario Universe. They present absolutely no challenge. All you have to do is jump on their heads. They don't put up a fight; they are, in a word, pussies. The only reason Goombas made this list is because they are a joke, and I enjoy a good joke.

4. Rip Van Fish

These little buggers are annoying, as they chase after you in the water stages of Super Mario World, but any video game baddie whose name references a short story by Washington Irving earns points in my book.

3. Wiggler

It's that time of month with Wiggler when you stomp on its head: it gets all red and throws a hissy fit. I can empathize.

2. Bowser

How can we have a list such as this and not include Bowser? He is pretty much always the mastermind behind every evil plot hatched the Mario series, and he always *almost* gets away with it. And yet, you kind of feel bad for him, because all he wants is a friend, and Mario steals his friends away. He's just down on his luck, that's all.

1. Mouser

Only true Mario fans could understand how badass Mouser is. He was the little-known boss of the little-played Mario game Super Mario Bros. 2 (jk the game was a worldwide smash). He was a fucking mouse who wore sunglasses and threw bombs at that damn plumber that was stealing his vegetables. Incredible.

above: kicker of Mario's ass

Top Five Places I've Purchased Beer

This list is hypothetical, of course, since I'm not 21 and wouldn't dare try to buy beer if I were underage. It would be against the law, and thus, immoral.

5. Citizens Bank Park

Yes, the stadium sells a fucking beer for almost eight dollars, and no, sometimes it's not even ice cold, and yes, usually I'm too drunk to even recall how or why I bought one, but let's also remember the guy who sold it to me was a sucker. I had the shittiest fake ID in the world, and he accepted it. And the Phillies are supposed to be strict about this?

4. Copa Banana

It was my first bar experience, and it probably wouldn't have happened if the waitress hadn't attended one of my backyard parties, and so she felt like she owed me an illegal beer (or ten). Still, good friends, neon atmosphere, and pitchers and pitchers of beer always make a good time.

3. "The 40 Store"

I don't even think this place has a name. It just says "BEER ICE SNACKS" on the sign. It's under a bridge, and the elderly couple behind the counter never card anyone. They give you posters and candy for free. Best of all, Hurricanes are still $2.50 here, while every other forty shop has since raised their malt liquor prices to $2.75 due to the economic crisis.

2. Oxford Beverages

My local establishment, always stocked with the freshest beer at the cheapest prices. I must have given these folk at least $2000 in revenue this summer alone. No legendary summer night is complete without a pregame trip to Oxford. God bless them.

1. Grandma's Six-Pack Stop

First of all, the fact that there is a beer store with such a name (in Reading, of all places) earns it the number one spot right away. But what really earned them the #1 was how the lady behind the counter handled my arrival in her store. I walk up to the counter, she asks for ID, and I give my usual "Uh, I forgot mine, sorry." She goes on this big rant about how kids today think they can just break the law whenever they want. After all this, she sells the beer to me anyway, claiming: "But you better not come back, because I WILL card you next time." Five minutes later, we realize we need more beer, so I go back in. She doesn't look me in the eye, sells me the beer, and sends me on my way. So much for being a hardass.

above: my fake ID

Top Five Animal Characters on TV (cartoon or live action)

No, Brian from Family Guy will not be included.

5. Lassie

I feel like Lassie is too classic of an animal star to leave off the list, despite the fact I never really felt a connection to the mutt. He is so ingrained in our culture that everyone knows exactly what Timmy fell into—it's just common knowledge because of Lassie.

4. Yogi Bear

All he wanted was a fucking picnic basket. He didn't want to cause any harm. I wish that goddamn park ranger would get off his case.

3. The Nesquik Bunny

"Everybody move in, it's Pete's younger brother!"

2. Tiger (The Brady Bunch)

Probably the best actor on the show. It sucks that even cousin Oliver got more screen time than poor ol' Tiger.

1. Ralph the Dog

Goddamn, I love this dog. He's cool as shit, plays the piano, talks like Seth Rogen, and would totally get all the ladies if he weren't a puppet. Also, those floppy ears kick ass.

above: not Brian from Family Guy

Top Five Bob Dylan Songs

This is a pretty tough one, as there are so many songs to choose from. Not only that, but one's "favorite song" changes from day to day, so this list will probably be wrong by tomorrow. I'm not going to write any description either, so if you want to know the reason why I chose these songs, listen to them.

5. "Mr. Tambourine Man"

4. "Times They Are a-Changin'"

3. "Tangled Up in Blue"

2. "I Shall Be Released"

1. "Like a Rolling Stone"

above: opening act for Dylan's concert at the Lincoln Memorial

Top Five Jim C**** Moments

Ah, I love him to death, but back in the day he used to give us many, many stories to tell. Sorry some of them are inside jokes. A true PoYB reader will understand though.

5. "Haha, I get it—he peed on his hand!"

4. Jim steals the last roll on a camping trip, a roll that we need for a sandwich. He gets mad that we yell at him for this, so he throws the uneaten roll in the river.

3. Jim goes out with girlfriend for a year and kisses her once.

2. "I'm Irish, and I'll prove it!" Jim then proceeds to chug a beer. He then further proceeds to throw up the beer.

1. Jim earns the nickname "Trigger."

above: the man, the myth, the legend

Yes, This Is the "Obligatory Emo Post"

above: not school

If there's one thing that I don't really like about my emotions, it's that I'm the kind of guy who always wants what he can't have. Likewise, once I get something, I want something else. It's fucked up, but sometimes I can't help it.

I'm having a great time at school, I really am, but things are kind of slowing down. I'm in a lot of weird situations, shit that I don't want to be involved in, but alas, 'tis life (and romance).

And it sucks because this summer, staying at home, all I wanted was to get back to school. Now, I'm here and all I want to do is get back home. I want to play football at Burholme. I want to wake up early and do kegs and eggs. I want to have my mommy cook me breakfast and do my laundry. I want to be back at the Laf and see all my favorite old people. I want to chill in my garage with the Jedis and get hammered off Natty bottles and laugh about the stupid shit we always laugh about.

I'm sitting here with the prospect of many papers, tests, and assignments coming up in the next few weeks. I find myself staring at Facebook, which inexplicably told me this morning that my "Relationship Status" was "Single." I find myself getting ready to start drinking at four o'clock in the afternoon.

But it's okay! I somehow attempt to maintain a positive attitude. The thought of a Jedi Round Table in my family's garage truly is getting me through the next week and a half. The sun is shining, and all is well. Life could be worse.

Get those bottles of Natty ready, boys.

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

The Good Life: A Restaurant Review of Lacroix

Above: Treetops Café

I cleaned up, put on a neatly pressed, crisp white shirt, straightened my finest khaki pants, and tied my tie to perfection. My shoes were shined, my belt buckled, and my hair combed for the first time in years. My lady, she put broke in her finest summer dress. She looked simply dazzling in her deep blue garments, and her hair flowed like the ancient Euphrates. We were quite a pair, and off we went to catch a horse-drawn carriage on a beautiful autumn eve.

Tonight, we were living the good life.

It's Restaurant Week here in Philadelphia, and you know what that means—dining that's normally reserved for the well-to-do is briefly available to us plebeians. We figured it'd be best to go to the most expensive restaurant we could find (after all, the prices are the same everywhere this week). Lacroix was our choice (it's pronounced "La-kwa" for you aforementioned plebeians).

We arrived promptly at our scheduled time of six post-meridian, and a kindly old gentleman in suit, tie, and cap opened the door for us. The atmosphere was simply marvelous—big white tables, candle-lit, soft music playing in the background, huge glass windows overlooking our city's quaint Rittenhouse Square. Imagine eating like this every night!

No water glass was left unfilled, no dirty silverware left idle, no whim left unfulfilled. Needless to say, the service was excellent. The young man who served us would have probably given me a foot massage, had I asked for it.

The manager took a special interest in his young clientele, and served us a spoonful of delicious scrambled egg "straight from the cooks pan." Our palates were tingling. Likewise, every served dish dazzled our taste buds with their distinct and unique combinations of flavors. Pork shoulder has never tasted so good as it did with thin apple slices over it, nor did the salmon ever delight the senses with its blend of corn, water chestnut, and cheese. All the courses were well prepared, not only in taste, but in sight. It was quite an experience.

So all in all, dinner was delightful. I felt like a prince. We left, well-fed and well-nourished, with nothing but smiles on our faces. Lovely.

Then we, uh, got some Hurricanes and got fucked up in my dorm room, but that's another story for another time. For now, it was nice to savor the good life for a night.

Random Selections from the Marble Copybooks of Nicholas Gilbert, Esq.

As I'm sure most of you know (or should), I love to write, and it's taken me way too long to actually take the dive into this new-fangled blogging business. However, I've come today to bare some of my selected pieces from the notebooks I'm constantly scratching bullshit into when I have nothing to do. Now, I know PoYB, as we've come to call it, is much more often a forum for rants on the pleasures of drinking, dancing, rock-and-roll music, pre-marital sex, and just about anything else the Catholic Church and the venerable Reverend Shaw Moore frown upon, but we can all agree that blogging is more a practice in our beloved art of writing.

Having said that, this is not a rant. My words have, and never will be, as candid as those of Joseph or Amanda. I will never be able to write about life in the Bermuda Triangle we call Northeast Philadelphia with the poignancy of David or Mike. I enjoy college and being on the cusp of adulthood, but I just can't put it that eloquently. I write what I know, and, most often, that's lyrics. However, a lyric without fingers dancing across keys or fretboards is really just poetry masquerading as something a little less queer. Keep in mind, almost none of these selections have been read by anyone other than yours truly and are rough drafts at best, so enjoy.

Without further ado, Random Selections From the Marble Copybooks of Nicholas Gilbert, Esq.

"Those Before Us"

Our lives, built along the timelines of those before us.
Crossing fine lines drawn in the sand by those better than us.
Arrest my moral judgment, decisions aren't to be made on my own.

Father, I've been feeling sick,
Though I've not come for advice
Shamed as I am, I'm here to confess

He says that I can't see what's going on here
He says that I can't see we're going under

Most of this deals with my disillusionment with religion, especially the Catholic Church. I've never been a religious person, but I believe I have a certain set of morals. We were made to stand on our own two feet, and I hope to never see the day I use blind faith as a crutch.

"Beneath the Sheets"

Paper-thin walls crash down beside me. Laying, exposed to the world, in bed, the only solace I have left. "He's sleeping," onlookers will say, "these problems can wait til morning." The cool breeze and soft light, coming through what used to be my window, wake me along with the stunning realization that this night is real. All the things I hid from in sleep have been watching me, beckoning my consciousness to come together for a welcoming breath. And so, in this lonely state, I write. I write words that anyone can read or understand. "Perhaps," I think to myself, "hiding is not my only solace." This park, vacant as I had once been, is now only full of stepping stones. Each one is larger, growing from self-conflict to epiphany.

I really don't have too much commentary on this. I feel that the metaphors and similes speak for themselves. We all have rough times, and we all find a certain solace.

 

"Perspective"

If there's one good thing about this fire
It's that it casts the light on your face in a way I've never seen before
As the glare dances across your face I see
The intricate emotions hiding beneath every expression

Maybe it's just the contrast
But I've never seen
In the midst of such chaos and desperation
Such great hope

If I've ever had a constant
I'd call it change
Elegantly straddling the fine line we call decision
Perspective is the only thing that could save us

Here's to starting over
Here's to new beginnings
Here's to the night being darkest
Just before dawn

Sorry for the last verse/stanza being composed entirely of cliches. When in Rome, right? Either way, a constant theme in my life is all the terrible or rushed decisions I've made since college started have brought some of the greatest things in my life. I consider myself lucky in that I can honestly say one of the most hurtful things that ever happened to me turned out to be the greatest.

So, there you have it. Feedback is much appreciated. I'm not fragile, I swear. Also, bonus points to whoever can find a Kevin Bacon reference in this post.

Goodnight.