Fucking Snow Day

above: freedom? let's hope!

Ah... It's every kids dream. This is what we pray for every winter, all winter long. There are few events in our dull quotidian lives that can elicit such joyous emotions so early in the morning. Yes, the almighty Snow Day.

It starts with the weather report on the television. Some goon will show up on Channel 3, 6, or 10 with a special WEATHER ALERT. He or she will be standing on the side of the road, overlooking the dry and frigid streets, warning us of the impending "Storm of the Century."

Most of us are jaded and won't believe a word of it; we all know the weathermen on TV just love the hype and can't accurately predict snowstorms. Nevertheless, some gullible part deep inside of us will be fooled anyway, and will be tuned into the six o'clock news, when the top story is frightened mothers buying like fourteen loaves of bread and six gallons of milk, as if they'll really be snowed in for a week. Every once in a while, they'll have a manly looking man at the Home Depot buying a new shovel, because you need a new shovel for every snowstorm, apparently.

And then we wait.

We await with bated breath, we school children. We keep peering out the window, searching for those first few precious snowflakes. We get on our knees and pray that the streets are cold enough so that the snow will land and stay frozen on them. We turn our pajamas inside out in time-honored ritual to persuade Mother Nature, perhaps to put her in a good mood so she'll return the favor.

Sleep doesn't really come throughout the night. One eye may be closed and restful, but one eye is always on that frosty bedroom window, cherishing the white clouds in the sky.

The morning is the most nerve racking part of the whole ordeal—and the most exciting. You awake, well before your alarm shrieks. You are short of breath. You start to perspire a little. It's like Christmas morning... but did Santa come with gifts? You await the word.

Two could happen. Let's discuss the dreadful, but more likely, scenario first:

1) You father walks into the room. This is it, the moment. He says with a horribly satisfied grin, "Schools are open." And you clench your fists and raise them to heavens and ask WHY, WHY?! It's all been vain, all the inside-out pajamas and stocking of milk and polishing of shovels and the neglecting of homework. No matter how many times you listen to KYW, no matter how many times you listen for that school number that will give you freedom, it's of no use. All of it is gone, and you sigh, and slowly get up and go about your routine.

But every once in a while, God smiles upon thee. Sometimes life is good:

2) Your father walks into the room. This is it, the moment. He says, with no malice, but really no emotion at all, he states, "schools are closed." Your heart fucking SOARS, and you hop up and rip open the curtains. It's a fucking winter wonderland out there. The early morning dusk is stark fucking white, and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. You fall back into bed with a satisfying crash, and your eyes fold and your body is still because in your mind you are already dreaming of the great times you'll be having that day—sledding, snowball fights, maybe a little day drinking. And NO FUCKING SCHOOL. There is no greater gift, no feeling is better than this. Fucking freedom.

So let's get ready for this. As I look out my window right now and the snow is falling steadily, albeit a bit thinly, I can do nothing but pray that the weatherman was right. Getting my hopes up? Probably. But if and when I awake, and my school's web portal tells me I can go back to bed, it'll all be worth it.

Remember: wear your pajamas inside out. Please. For me. For you. For all of us. Please, for a Snow Day. Please.

Fucking Super Bowl XLIII

above: trash

Today is the Super Bowl, and no one seems to care. Why should we?

The Super Bowl is the fancy name for the NFL's championship game, pitting the winning teams of both the NFC and the AFC against each other in a battle for the Vince Lombardi Trophy. This year, the big game features the Arizona Cardinals versus the Pittsburgh Steelers.

Some people are saying that the Cardinals should win because they beat us (the Eagles) and it's always nice to root for the team that beat you—"at least it wasn't all in vain," and so on. Some people are saying the Steelers should win because they are from Pennsylvania and at least someone from this state should hold that trophy high. I say fuck both of those options.

The Eagles are not in the Super Bowl, again. They came so close, and then Eagles fans were cockteased yet again. How is it that the defense is so fucking solid all year and then when it matters they allow some second-rate NFL team to literally run us all over the field? How?! Fuck it, just fuck it.

My point is that the Eagles are the only football team that matters. A true Eagles fanatic would not claim to be rooting for another team simply because the Eagles are not in that game. If you are a true fan, you will be bitter and resigned like I am now, and actively root against both the Cardinals AND the Steelers. Say it, on record: both teams can go fuck themselves forever.

As a consequence of the Eagles' perennial failure, the Super Bowl doesn't really matter to me this year. It never has, really—except in 2004—but this year especially. I think we are all just numb to the fact that the Eagles are always going to come up just a little bit short.

So play your halftime show, Bruce Springsteen. Show your $40 million commercials, Bud Light. Talk out of your ass, Joe Buck. Throw that hail mary again, Kurt Warner, you fucking old man. Friends and family, gather around the TV, eat your hot wings and drink your beer, all 100 million of you who are going to be watching the game. Try to enjoy it. Because I won't.

Confessions of a Former Wrestling Fan

above: a former life

I received a drunk text the other day from a friend up at Penn State. I'm not even sure he meant to send it to me, to be honest, because it didn't really make sense without context. It said, "We're doing the Royal Rumble fucking live tonight!" And with that little text (and a recent movie involving the same topic), I started to remember a whole other life I used to lead.

I used to be a huge wrestling fan.

Damn! It's been a while since I even thought about my wrestling fandom. I kind of miss all of it, honestly. There'd be a group of about twelve of us in grade school that followed it religiously. We'd come in every Tuesday morning and talk about what happened on Raw Is War, and every Friday morning what happened on Smackdown. It was like some kind of mini-society.

There were other traditions as well. One that I held near and dear to my heart was when one of us would step up and rent a Pay-Per-View. Usually that'd occur in the summer since Sunday nights were otherwise school nights and they were on too late. Every year, my mother would let me rent SummerSlam, the annual wrestling event in August. And we weren't allowed to wrestle each other until the last bell rang; then we'd go nuts and pretend we were in the ring (though it was my basement) and inevitably someone would walk away with a bloody nose.

The actual program was something incredibly fun to watch. I was always a big fan of the specialty matches, like Hell in a Cell, or Casket Matches. But any match could be exciting. I remember the epic showdown between Steve Austin and the Rock, particularly. That feud, involving Vince McMahon as well, was so built up so well, over the course of months. There were other particularly fond matches I can think of as well: when Al Snow decided that he'd defend his Hardcore Championship anywhere, any time; The Rock vs. Mankind in an Empty Arena match during halftime of the Super Bowl; the food fight the entire roster of wrestlers had on Thanksgiving; pretty much any match Kurt Angle was in.

I vehemently defended the WWE against all accusations of being "fake." I don't know how many times I put up this argument: Well, of course they aren't actually wrestling, but it's all a form of entertainment. Does anyone ever accuse The O.C. or Seinfeld of being fake? No. But they are, aren't they? And does that detract from their entertainment value? No. I enjoyed WWE, not because I thought it was "real" or even "despite" the fact that it was "fake." I enjoyed it because it was fun to watch.

Wrestling was great to me growing up. It was a big part of my life for probably five years. As I grew older, I became somewhat tired of the storylines they were presenting, and I just kind of... grew out of it.

I even tried reading about some of the current events that have happened in the wrestling world recently (the aforementioned Royal Rumble). Most of the wrestlers' names I had never heard of, and the ones I did—Triple H, the Undertaker—were the ones I always fucking hated when I watched them. All good things come to an end, it seems.

But I still look back at all those good times I had because of WWE. They will always be fondly remembered.

Interview with John Lennon!

John Lennon died on December 8th, 1980. He was shot in the back four times by a man named Mark David Chapman. At approximately 11:15, he was pronounced dead at St. Luke's-Roosevelt Hospital Center in New York. John Lennon will always be remembered for his world-altering work with the most acclaimed and influential rock group in history (the Beatles), his decade of great solo musicianship, and his promoting a message of peace and joy to the whole world over.

BUT!

Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, and thanks too to a group of people that thought it would be wise to put words into John Lennon's mouth and bastardize his name, I was able to sit down with John for a few posthumous words.

If you want to have your own conversation with AI John Lennon, then click HERE. Otherwise, continue below to see my conversation with the non-living legend.


Joe: Hello!

John: What's your name, son?

Joe: Hi John, my name is Joe.

John: Hello Joe. Here come the reporters. I hope you're not disappointed.

Joe: Well, I wouldn't think so! I am speaking to THE John Lennon, after all.

John: That's interesting.

Joe: I know. Especially because you are... uh... ya know... dead, and all.

John: How do you know?

Joe: Christ, John, you were shot four times in the back. Mark David Chapman shot you. He says that Holden Caulfield did it, which should give you a sense of how stable he was. I don't think Holden could bring himself to kill a man. He's too self-deprecating.

John: Psst! (You've got to sell, sell, sell) [John provides a link to an online music journal.]

Joe: You never were one for shameless promotion. What gives?

John: I should say so.

Joe: You should say so what? Are you high?

John: Why do you think I'm high?

Joe: Well, for one, you're John Lennon. Didn't the Beatles, like, get high all the time? If not, then explain to me what the fuck Magical Mystery Tour is. Secondly, you are talking nonsense, shit that only someone stoned out of their brains would say.

John: Maybe something interesting will happen.

Joe: Are you even listening to me, dude?

John: I am not having a press conference, Joe.

Joe: Good thing too. Last time you did you claimed you were bigger than Jesus Christ himself. My pastor didn't like that one bit.

John: Thanks for the compliment. Well, thank you for that.

Joe: That wasn't a compliment. Fuck it, whatever. So, let's ask another question. Who, in your opinion, broke up the Beatles?

John: Where? Dead man, cold hand, jumped out the bedroom window.

Joe: HEY! I said, who broke up the Beatles?

John: You've got my full attention. What have you heard?

Joe: "Full attention." Right. Anyway, I heard it was that chick Yoko.

John: We're a twenty-four-hour couple.

Joe: Dude, you were whipped! Paul, George, and Ringo were probably fed up with it, and that broke up the Beatles. Admit it!

John: It's all over the place.

Joe: Just say it. Yoko broke you guys up. Stop avoiding the question.

John: Tell me a story, Joe.

Joe: You're a dick. I'll tell you a story: Fuck Yoko!

John: Yes.

Joe: Oh, I get it. You actually do fuck Yoko. Ha. You probably do the "That's what she said" jokes all the time, don't you?

John: Well, you know, Stevie Wonder wrote about his kid, didn't he?

Joe: You're still making no sense, but I don't care, because that just reminded me. Was "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" really about a picture your kid drew in school, or were you just tripping balls?

John: I understand.

Joe: You understand what?

John: I haven't a clue. I just knew it was slipping away.

Joe: Maybe you shouldn't have rolled such a fat blunt.

John: Psst! (I'm selling a product, so I'm back again) [John again provides the link he did before.]

Joe: Dude, you aren't that good at selling things. Next thing you know, you'll be trying to sell me an album that has you and Yoko butt-naked on the cover. Haha! Who ever heard of such a thing?

John: Very Alice in Wonderland.

Joe: That album cover couldn't have been LESS like Alice in Wonderland.

John: Makes sense to me.

Joe: Sigh... so, uh, do you like Paul?

John: Only in the mornings.

Joe: What happens at night?

John: I have no idea. I've never thought about that.

Joe: Are you telling me that all those years you spent together, the scene in Mersey at dank clubs, your rise to stardom in sold out crowds, your famous TV special with Ed Sullivan, the late-night recording sessions with George Martin, all the plane rides, all the days and weeks and months and years you spent with him, you did NOT ONCE think about if you liked Paul after the sun went down?

John: I couldn't even get Two Virgins out on Apple.

Joe: John, we already talked about that. I feel like I should be on one of those anti-marijuana commercials. "This is what happens when you try to interview John Lennon high."

John: Huh?

Joe: Nevermind.

John: Oh well thanks for trying to explain it to me anyway.

Joe: We have time for one last question, and then I'm going to go try to forget about how I blew the biggest interview of my life and made a fool of myself in front of John Lennon. I'm probably going to hang myself, actually.

John: You get used to it, believe me.

Joe: That's right, I forgot, you're dead already.

John: Perhaps.

Joe: When I do actually die, what Beatles song should I play in the background?

John: I haven't a clue... "Six Months"?

Joe: I've never heard of that song.

John: The layers of the onion. That's what it's all about.

Joe: Are you giving me a clue? Should I play "Glass Onion"? Is that it?

John: We're not agreed on it.

Joe: You know what, fuck you John, I'm just gonna play a Rolling Stones song instead.

John: Well thank you for that, Joe.

Joe: Any time.

John: I really couldn't say for sure.

My Friend Rose

[Mandy, Mike, Dave—I apologize in advanced because you've already heard me talk about the topic of this post ad nauseam. Which makes it silly that I'm writing about it, since barely anyone else reads PoYB besides us four. Regardless, it's something to write about, so I'll persist.]

You may have read about my favorite resident at the Lafayette Redeemer, Rose, in a previous post. In case you missed it, here she is:



I try to talk to Rose for at least five or ten minutes at the end of every day's dinner. She's a crazy ol' lady, and I love it. She'll talk about the strangest things, like about her vitamins, or about how her daughter has a cat with lots of fur. And she'll talk about the same things every day.

There's one thing, though, that she doesn't talk about often. I've only heard her talk about it twice in our friendship. That is, she sees people that don't exist.

See, most people just assume she's crazy, but she actually has a legitimate disease called Charles Bonnet Syndrome. It's not that her mind is particularly messed up, it's her eyes. The blind spots in her eyes are turning into other things when she sees. Instead of blind spots that your eyes are supposed to have, she sees little people. Children and young men. And they don't exist. Consider the following conversation we had:

Rose: I'm not doing so well today.

Joe: Why not, Rose?

Rose: Well, someone stole my purse. My daughter just gave me a new purse, and someone stole it.

Joe: Rose, I'm so sorry! Do you know who took it?

Rose: Why yes! I know exactly what he looks like too. He's kind of small, has reddish-tan hair. He looks young. He comes to my apartment sometimes.

Joe: How did he get in?

Rose: I don't know. Sometimes he is just there. I heard him opening up my husband's old wooden chest, and I saw him run out of the apartment with my purse!

Joe: You should really tell someone that this man was in your apartment.

Rose: Well, people are in there all the time. Little children come. They stay late at night sometimes. I don't know, I guess their parents drop them off. They don't speak. They don't eat either, I tried feeding them unsalted pretzels. They sleep under my bed. These little children.

Joe: ....

Obviously, this is not normal. It's very clear that these children are figments. Children whom you don't know can't just show up at your apartment and sleep under your bed, for christ's sake!

I feel terrible for old Rosie. I can't imagine having little strange children in my room all the time, just silently watching me as I do the dishes, read a book, or type on this blog. That's gotta be creepy as hell.

What's worse is that for Rose, it's not creepy. It's normal. She sees nothing strange with little children being in her apartment as she sleeps. She doesn't question it when a short redheaded man allegedly steals her purse. To her, these visions are a reality.

And there's no cure for Charles Bonnet Syndrome. I guess all I can do is continue to have conversations with her and be her friend, because at least the children go away for the five minutes we spend together every day.

Extreme Top Five Home Edition!

I fucking love Microsoft Paint

This winter break is soon coming to an end. I'm about to move out—again. There will be some things I miss about this humble abode, but there are some things that make me regret that I left Basil's 249 in the first place. Cue the Top Five!

Top Five Reasons I Like Living at Home

5. The fridge is always fully stocked with good food. For instance, there is always porkroll. You can't get porkroll at La Salle. Also, there are things like milk and cheese, and I don't have to pay for them, and I can use them any time I'd like. I took these amenities for granted before college.

4. I have a job that I actually enjoy. The Lafayette Redeemer is incredible. The La Salle Connelly Library is... not.

3. I don't have to do my own laundry. That means I have fresh clothes every four days, not every [insert time when I feel like doing laundry here].

2. The hand soaps my mother buys are fucking incredible. Some days my hands smell like Black Raspberry Vanilla. Other days I get a whiff of Cherry Blossom. On lucky days I'll use my personal favorite, Midnight Pomegranate. In Basil's 249, my hands just smell like Natty.

1. Access to a car. That means if I wanna go somewhere, I have a legitimate means of transportation other than walking.

Top Five Reasons I Hate Living at Home

5. I sleep in every goddamn day, and I waste away most of my afternoon. The days become shorter when you live like that, so if you're trying to live life to the fullest, it's no way to live at all.

4. If I want to throw a party, then, well, I need ask permission. And the answer is "No." Only a few people. And there's no fridge to stock with beer. In other words: it's a hassle. At Basil's 249, the sky is the limit as far as partying is concerned.

3. I don't fit in my own fucking bed here in my Rockledge bedroom. If that isn't a reason to hate living at home, I don't know what is.

2. I'm always alone here. I wake up, I'm alone. I eat breakfast, I'm alone. I come back at night, I sit here alone for hours. I miss having the company of others to count on.

1. Mike and Kyle never bitched at me to clean up my room or pick up my clothes or to stop drinking every night. And I hate being bitched at.

Map, Part I

The town we live in, it's just swell, ain't it? It should be preserved in some way. Way back in June on PoYB, Mike suggested a bunch of pictures that showed all our favorite spots in this town, and I think that's a great idea. However, that's his thing. I, on the other hand, want to draw a map, a huge fucking map, depicting everywhere that we hang out, everywhere that something happened, everywhere that is special to me.

I actually did this one day about five years ago, and recently found it in a drawer:


(Click to enlarge!)

As you can see, this is somewhat of a rough draft.

First of all, I did not take it very seriously. I was young, naive. I'm sorry. But honestly, was the smiley face over Rising Sun Ave really necessary? How did that even get there? Is that some kind of rug on that side street of Cottman? And did I just give up on one section and write "Not Important"?

Secondly, and more importantly, this map would look much different today—even if it did still have that big tear down the middle. I'm talking about the five years that have passed since I made it. My world has since expanded and changed. The places I considered important then are not so important anymore. I've traveled farther away then a few blocks from Five Points. The landscape has changed, both on the earth and in my weekend.

So, my goal for 2009 is to draw a map, a legitimate map, maybe six pages big, that depicts my world as I see it. It's not going to be to scale according to measurements. It's going to be to scale according to how important it is to me. And hopefully, this time there won't be random faces and rugs and cross outs all over it. Look for it exclusively here on PoYB sometime this summer.

The Laf

You read a lot about the legendary "Lafayette Redeemer" on this site. Ya know, the retirement home in NE Philly? After all, most of our contributors either currently work on the waitstaff or have for a period of time in the past. The great group of waiters and waitresses we have come to work every day is only half of what makes "The Laf" so special. The other half? Our much beloved old folks.

If you don't work at this place, but you are friends with me or my coworkers, you are probably already tired of hearing the multitude of stories involving these treasured old-timers. But due my newly discovered ability to upload phone pictures onto the computer (and an equally new ability to clandestinely and somewhat creepily take pictures of senior citizens), we are now able to put faces to the names for you. Here are a few of my favorite (or least favorite) old folks:


"The Turban Lady"

I'm not sure you can appreciate the beauty of this picture if you don't know this lady. She normally wears a big ol' turban, but for some godawful reason, on Thanksgiving she wore a wig. She looks like Elvis Presley past her prime. This woman treats waiters like dirt, so I don't feel bad making fun of her.



Seal "Stanky" Sanky

Rumored to be sister to the landlord from Three's Company, though this is unconfirmed and certainly not why we love Stanky here. She talks as if she's riding a bull, about to fall off: "I-I-I'll have a-a-a Cr-Cranberry JUICE!" It's like a stutter but higher pitched (ask me to do an impression in person, I'm not going it justice here). And Seal holds the distinction of being the first resident to fart in my face. Congrats, Seal.



"The Seagull"

Come on, now. She looks like a Seagull, and talks like one too (if seagulls could talk). That is her only distinction, really.

Eugene

Used to be grumpy; we think he used to drink a lot but has since cut back, and is now sober and in good spirits. Known for coming to his apartment door without pants on when our very own Dave delivered a tray. Dave refuses to speak of the incident, or how well-endowed Eugene is.

Epstein

Known her southern drawl and her drink preference. Thus, expect the first thing she says to be "I'll hah-ev a tall V Aye-et gee-youse." Also know for her photographic memory and terrible hearing. So, whenever I ask her a question, she'll simply say my name a few times because she's proud she can still remember. I.e. "How was your dinner?" "Joseph. Your name's Joseph!" "Yes, it is, but how was your dinner?" "You're not David, you're Joseph!"

"Claw Lady"

Known for her signature parting phrase: "Have a good one!" with the "good" being pronounced like it rhymes with "food." She's called "Claw Lady" because when she waves goodbye, she only uses two fingers, which looks like a claw.

"Ben Franklin"

Because she looks like Ben Franklin.

Rose

My favorite! My absolute hands-down favorite resident. I always make time to go over and sit with her for at least ten minutes a day. She's the nicest lady in the world, even if she is a little crazy. We tend to have the same conversations every day—she must forget a lot—so I know a lot of weird stuff about her, like her breakfast routine and how her daughter is a school nurse. She even gave me a graduation card, which was the best thing a resident has ever done for me. I hope Rose lives forever.

There are many residents from the Laf that I don't have a picture of that I wish I did.

Some aren't quite kooky enough, and have good vision, so they'd probably notice if I took a picture and get mad. These residents include Abe, who writes poems and never shuts up, Mr. Goldberg, who takes forever to finish his meal but is a decent human being, Mary, who is just plain crazy, and Mrs. Fierstein, who can be such a bitch but definitely has a soft side somewhere.

Some are just plain dicks and don't deserve to have a picture taken, like Fat Joe, who is a pompous asshole, the Abominable Snowman, who threw up on his plate and lied about it, and the Wife-Beater, who beats his wife and left her a wreck of a woman.

Some I just never got around to taking a picture of. There's Nate, Celeste, Mrs. Doubtfire, The grandmom from Happy Gilmore, the Jaffeys, the Weinsteins, the smelly dude from A1, the lady who always orders Russian dressing, the chick with the nose plug, the dude who steals the lemons, Goldie, Dr. Cox, the muppet with the beard, Regina, Leonard, the Golden Girls, Marsellus Wallace, the naked mole rat, and countless others.

Some moved out, and I miss them dearly.

Some are deceased, and I miss them even more. Rest in Peace Ben, Harry, Etta, and Sylvia, and all the other innumerable past residents.

Yes, a workplace is only as good as the people in it. The waiters are great, but the real joy is working with such amazing (and sometimes not amazing) old folk. I hope they've enjoyed me as much as I've enjoyed serving them, making fun of them, spending hours and hours a week with them, and becoming friends with them.

My Life, via the Sunday Comics

I have a terrible habit. Sometimes, when I'm drunk like I am now, I make inane comparisons of my life to entertainment media. For instance, I'll be mangled out of my skull, watching a movie, and I'll feel the need to compare everything in my life to the events in the movie. Or, I'll be going through a rough time, and I'll put my iPod on shuffle, and it will seem like every fucking song is giving me advice on how to act. I'm sitting here, right now, more inebriated than I should be, and I'm reading the comics section of the Inquirer, of all goddamn things. I'm being a drunken idiot again, and I'm thinking that the comics are talking to me. They are describing my life. This cannot be true, and yet somehow it is.



I'm such a bitch. So is Lucky Eddie. Granted, Haggard probably considers Eddie a great friend, and Eddie surely appreciates all the shit Haggard has done for him, but really, Eddie, your a bitch for doing such a menial task for Haggard. Sometimes I feel this way when I'm making the long walk/drive to the beer store in order to get my friends drunk.



But who am I kidding? I fucking love my friends. Sometimes, like Snoopy, I forget how much I can love and rely on them. But, just as the comic points out, they'll come sledding out of no where and I'll appreciate them all over again.



Christ, this is the story of my life. The only part I cannot completely relate to is how Fred claims it was "a night to remember." Sometimes I just simply don't remember.



This is the Laf to a T. There is no productivity to speak of at the Lafayette Redeemer, and the bosses don't help the situation. Thank goodness we all have a great time every fucking day, productivity be damned.



This sentiment rings true in so many levels. I'm all about sappy shit like "bringing in the new year," etc. But the fact of the matter is that we are all still the same. Nothing has changed. We are all going to be the same people we were on December 31, 2008, and we are going to make the same decisions—as well as the same mistakes.



One of my New Year's resolutions was to not let girls control every little goddamn decision I make. This comic, however, accurately depicts just how impossible my resolution is. Women have a power over us men that I will never understand, never enjoy, never accept, but will always follow.



I fucking hate Mutts, but that goddamn cat thinks the way I wish I could think. There he is, freezing his little kitten ass off, and in the blanket of snow, he somehow finds the time to appreciate every little snowflake that falls upon him. Shit's deep.

This is the worst of them all. This comic, ol' Beetle Bailey, is the type of shit that haunts me. It's scary because such a self-realization is so relatable. Who wants to give up what they have, just to settle down? I'd be a terrible, terrible husband, just like I've been a terrible, terrible boyfriend in the past. It's crazy because the last six boxes accurately sum up every relationship I've ever had. And the fact that Sarge can smile in that last box sends shivers down my spine. He's right, I'll never be a good husband. I'll never be appreciated by anyone. I'll never amount to anything. Never before has so much pessimism been displayed in one lousy comic strip. But I guess that's what happens when you read the comics drunk.

Bringing in the New Year

above: puking into the new year

I, Joe, am not going to try to generalize the year that five of us experienced in five different lives in many, many different ways. Some of us had great years. Others, not so much. I guess the only thing that can be said is that the year was both good and bad for different people at different times. So vague! Something more specific: we can always say that next year, we are going to do better.

This concept is known as the "New Year's Resolution," and it is one's way of telling himself or herself that next year, we are going to try to improve our lives, and perhaps not make the same mistakes we did last year. We here at PoYB have compiled our own New Year's Resolutions, to let you in on the ways we are going to improve, but also to perhaps inspire you, our wonderful reader, to make 2009 better as well.

New Year's Resolutions:

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

Mandy.

1) Give up on Juicycampus — Maybe it came with the vagina, but I love gossip. Juicycampus made it hard for me to keep my nose out of other people's garbage. At the dawning of 2009, I plan to never visit the site again.

2) Wear whatever the hell I want — I even purchased fire-red pants to help achieve this.

3) Save up enough money to visit Kait in Ireland — Because there are pubs and men with accents that need conquering.

4) Learn how to really cook — So I can fend for myself without the haven of Treetops next year.

I have other, more productive goals set for myself, but I'll keep those in the confines of my mind. Let's just say that, like I hope for every year, I'm going to do the best I can to be the best person I can possibly be.

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

Nick

I haven't decided yet. I know, I know, its eleven hours away. Maybe it's because I feel like I shouldn't need a reason to improve myself, that it should come naturally. I have goals, certainly; but a resolution? No.

1) I'm resuming my education starting January 20th, and my goal is to not fuck it up like I did last time around.

2) I'm currently in my first true relationship since that cunt at Manhattan College, so I'm going to make the most out of that. However, if it's not to be, I'm going to brush it off and move along like I should have done the last time.

3) I'm going to cut down on the sarcasm, particularly when meeting new people. Too often I come off like an asshole and live my life with people treating me like one.

4) I'm going to write some shit on PoYB.

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

Joe

1) It would be foolish of me to say that I want to cut down on the drinking; it's just not going to happen. However, I do want to keep it from escalating any further than it has. Let's stick to drinking about four nights a week, eh?

2) I want to refrain from getting written up again. I'm on a roll with this, as I lasted all semester. It would be nice to keep this going and last until I get to the townhouses without getting written up again.

3) I resolve to NOT get naked at a party this year. Not because I don't like being naked, but because having a mostly-nude picture of yourself on Facebook is bad news.

4) I have to stop letting girls affect me as much as they do. This one I'll most likely fail at.

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

Dave

To continue to care more my career, new writing styles, and my best friends and care less about falling in love. Also, to write 1-3 PoYB a month.

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

Mike

Go Camping More — this year I only got to go camping one time, representing the lowest number since I started in 2nd grade. Seriously, even when I was a Wolf Scout in Den 2, we went camping once a year to Lorimer Park. My inner caveman feels pathetic.

Find a Good Summer Job/Internship — not since starting at the Laf have I found a job that made a good fit. Working with computers was cool but I didn't get enough hours. Teaching had great pay but it nearly killed me. This year, I have slaved in two separate University departments, and I have literally felt my brain dying slowly. Enough is enough.

I also plan to study abroad — This will require a resolution to not procrastinate on paperwork, along with one to save money$$$. I'm also going to try to knock some stuff off my bucket list, which shouldn't be too bad. Lastly, I swear to all things righteous that I will not go tanning with Jim C****, no matter how tempting it may be. (I'll just whiten my teeth instead).

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

A Jerry Springer-esque "Final Thoughts" ending:

I think one thing that still stands true after this whole goddamn year, after the many years past, is this: No matter what happens, no matter what shitty nonsense befalls on us, no matter what life can throw at us, at least we have our friends. Whether we're laughing with them, drinking with them, or just blogging with them, we can always count on our friends to get us through just one more year.

From all of us here at Puke on Your Birthday, I want to wish you a safe and happy (and hopefully very, very inebriated) happy New Year!

Wii, and Why It Is Destroying America

above: old folks, no doubt kicking ass at a game of Wii Bowling

There are certain things in life that are meant for kids. If an adult is an aficionado of an activity intended for children, then the balance of the universe is disrupted. Let's talk about video games in this context.

Video games are for kids. A sixteen-year-old who is good at Super Mario is someone who should feel accomplished. A 46-year-old who is a pro at Super Mario is just fucking weird. This is the way the world is structured, and it's how it's always been. Then something had to come fuck it up. Didn't you, Wii? Didn't you?!?!

The Nintendo Wii is destroying the concept of video games as we know it. No longer is it just appealing to the people who should be playing video games (kids). This is a video game system trying to appeal to everyone. What once was a machine that I could turn on, bash some koopas, and bask in my immaturity, has now turned into my mother's yoga class, my father's karaoke machine, and my grandpa's golf course.

My grandpa fucking BEAT me at a video game. He whupped me in Wii Golf. My drunk aunts and uncles are constantly hogging the TV to "go bowling." My mother is trying to do push-ups in our living room on a goddamn Wii fitness board. Push-ups. Enough is enough. I must right the world, balance the universe, and take back my goddamn Nintendo.

It's okay. I'll survive. Things are looking up with a little joy I have been experiencing lately. It's called Rock Band. I love it because I am good at it. I'm good at it and my parents are not. I've just spent four hours sitting in my living room, going through song after song, winning, and it feels good to be alive.

Because there was a point in my life when my Mom, for shits and giggles, would sit down to play Mario Kart 64, and I would go easy on her. I would pity her. Nowadays, I'm sweating my ass off just to keep up with her in Wii Baseball.

So it was with a certain sick pleasure that I watched her struggle so much with singing a Beastie Boys song. It was with utter delight that my father flat-out failed at playing the drums. And it was with a sense of accomplishment I hadn't felt in two years that I purposefully trounced them at each and every song.

I can sleep well tonight knowing that once again, a kid reigns supreme at video games in this household. That's how it should be.

Sacrilege on Christmas Day

above: if you are confused or insulted, read on

I just realized what I've become. I never thought I'd be THAT person, but I am. I have turned into a Christmas/Easter churchgoer.

That's okay. It's not that I don't like mass. It's just that I've kind of grown out of the habit in my years of college. I'll pick it up again in due time, when I have children of my own and want them to experience the same comfortable upbringing I had in the Catholic School system. But for now, I'll be at Church two times a year.

Being an "outsider" now at Church, it gave me time to take a step back and reflect on a strange comparison that cropped up during the service. It's a comparison that can be quite inaccurate at times, but just hear me out.

Mass is like a frat party. Think about it.

Tons of people gather for one purpose: the consumption of an alcoholic beverage (whether it be Natty Light or the Blood of Christ).

At a college party, there's usually a bar that holds the keg, a bar that is separate from the rest of the party gathered. Frat brothers, who are all dressed in the same colors, hand out the red cups—but not before you pay your fee of five dollars! And you line up for your beer at the bar. People but in front of you, but they have house cup so there's nothing you can do. Everyone gets drunk, someone tells a funny story, perhaps people drunkenly sing along to a song (maybe with a house band or DJ). The party is over, the frat kids who threw the party kick everyone out, and you and your friends go somewhere to get a late night snack.

Compare this to...

At mass, there's the altar holds the alcohol, an altar that is separate from the rest of the group gathered. Eucharistic Ministers (who were all dressed in red yesterday, I swear), hand out the cup of blood/wine—but not before you pay your fee in the collection basket! And you line up for your wine at the altar. Old people butt in front of you, but they are old so there's nothing you can do. Everyone gets enlightened, someone tells a story from the Bible, perhaps people joyfully sing along to a song (maybe with a Church band). The mass is over, the priest who gathered the congregation bids everyone goodbye, and you and your family go somewhere for dinner.

This is what I thought about, with a smirk, during the four o'clock Christmas Eve mass. I'm going to hell.

"Merry Christmas you wonderful old building and loan."

Hee-haw, Merry Christmas.

It's A Wonderful Life reminds me of why I still believe in Christmas.

Every year on Christmas Eve, after a day of fatty foods, last minute shopping, and my favorite Mass of the year, my father and I nestle into our family room and watch the classic film. It has become a family soft spot to us, and we quote majority of the lines throughout the viewing.

This year, as I reach the last two weeks of my childhood, I grew increasingly sentimental as I watched. The movie conveys such a simple message: "no man is a failure when he has friends."

I take this sentiment into the new year, and the holiday season. I hope everyone and their families have a very Merry Christmas.

Now, watch the last scene of this film. I dare your eyes to not start welling up:

Oh, the Irony!

above: situational irony

There are two words that I hate when people overuse. The first is "awkward." I won't waste my time writing a blog post about what is "awkward" and what is "not awkward," because if you know me at all, you already know that "it's only awkward if you make it awkward." I will, however, waste a good chunk of my Tuesday afternoon writing about the other word that irks me: "irony."

When is a situation ironic? When is it just a coincidence? When is the use of the word just plain incorrect? With the help of Wikipedia and a few examples of my own, I will try to explain what exactly can be defined as irony, and when one should refrain from using this somewhat overused term.

According to wikipedia (and, sure, my AP English class junior year), there are three types of irony:

—Verbal irony
—Dramatic irony
—Situational irony

Verbal irony is when you say something to intentionally mean the opposite. Some personal examples:

—"I love it almost as much as I love Natty Ice." I hate Natty Ice, therefore by saying I "love" the thing I'm referring to, I really mean that I hate it.

—"That test was about as hard as my dick on a cold winter night" My penis is usually flaccid in cold weather, so when I say the test was "hard," I really meant it was very easy.

—"I get about as much pleasure from that as Joe K*** does from playing organized sports." Since Joe K*** does not derive pleasure from playing organized sports, then to say such a thing means that you really don't get any pleasure from such a thing.

Dramatic irony occurs in literature, movies, etc. It refers to a situation where the audience knows something that the character doesn't.

—In Urinetown: the Musical, the narrator lets it slip that when someone goes to "Urinetown," that means that person is killed. The main character, Bobby Strong, does not find this out until much later.

—In a scary movie, creepy music plays when something particularly scary is going to happen. The characters in the movie do not hear this, and thus are not warned like the audience is.

  —n Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, Snape makes a pact that he will finish Draco's task if Draco himself cannot. Harry does not know this, and is thus surprised when Snape kills Dumbledore.

Situational irony is my favorite; this is when the expected result does not match up with the actual result of a situation.

—In Thank You For Smoking, a lobbyist is criticized for promoting smoking despite its harmful repercussions. A radical group tries to kill him by putting fifty nicotine patches on his body, but his years of smoking allowed him to build up a tolerance to nicotine. Ironically, the thing that everyone said would kill him actually saved his life.

—Keith Moon came up with the name for Led Zeppelin. He said any band that included Jimmy Page would go over "like a lead zeppelin." As it turns out, they became... pretty famous I'd say.

—The other day, B** kept badgering me about whether the mall was open at the early hour we planned on arriving. I assured her many times that I was positive, that I had checked the website, that they would be crazy to NOT be open early hours during the holiday season. Irony would be if, after all my talk, the mall was closed due to a freak explosion, or like they forgot to unlock all the doors or something.

—This one is copied from Wikipedia because I found it pretty funny: When someone tried to shoot President Reagan, the shooter missed his mark on every shot. However, one bullet did hit the bulletproof glass next to Reagan, ricocheted off it, and hit Reagan. What was supposed to protect Reagan actually helped him to get shot.

Some examples of things that are not irony:

—Another from B**: "I saw Joyce Carol Oates's new book at the library. How ironic." I am in a play that features Joyce Carol Oates as one of the characters. However, this is not irony. When one goes to the library, you expect to see books. She has written many books, so the chances of you seeing a book written by Oates is not especially low. The fact that you happened to see a book written by an author that is featured in my play is more a coincidence then anything.

—Boy is wearing a blue shirt. He has a crush on a girl whose favorite color happens to be blue. Coincidence.

—Approaching a crowded parking lot: "We are never going to find a spot!" There is a spot right in front. Luck.

I sound pretentious right now, don't I? Thinking that I know what irony is more than someone else. I won't pretend any longer that I have a stronger grasp on this vague literary concept than the next guy. All I ask is that you watch your use of the word. Not every little goddamn thing is "ironic." There is a distinction between irony and coincidence. Let's work on fixing this together.

"Love the Skin You're In"

above: Joe K*** and friends at their 8th grade graduation

I have to say, I am pretty blessed with a decent self-image. That's good in today's society, right? I mean, the media fucking bombards you with what you "should" look like. Magazines tell me that I should have a muscular body, a face clear of blemishes, stylish clothes, and a flat stomach. As it turns out, I have none of this, but ya know what? That's okay.

I tried to work out once. I got a weight bench and everything. Couldn't lift more than 30 pounds, and gave up. People give me shit about my beer belly, but if that's the cost of my binge-drinking, then so be it. My clothes are far from stylish; I've been wearing the same pit-stained Led Zeppelin T-shirt for about six years now, even through all the rips and tears. I try to keep my face clear of acne, but my attempts are rarely successful. I've even grown fond of the more prominent pimples—my current whitehead I've christened "Colin Creevey." All this shit might be preventable, but why worry? I've just learned to embrace these so-called "flaws" about my physicality and have found happiness despite them.

Admittedly, there is one thing about myself that makes me angry and anxious sometimes. Again, there's nothing I can really do about it, and I've embraced it all the same, but still... it's just fucking annoying. I'm talking, of course, about my excessive body hair.

It's not just the looks I care about, though, yes, I look ridiculous with all this hair. Not only that, but it's physically painful sometimes too! Everything itches all the goddamn time. My chest hairs are tugged to and fro by the bar of soap in the shower. The tuft of hair on my foot is just fucking weird. And have you ever gotten hair stuck in the fly of your pants? Not pleasant.

I've tried everything. I shave it sometimes—the razor burn kills. I've naired my chest—it never works. I've tried waxing, but even after ten or twelve beers, it was an extremely painful experience. Everything just makes the hair grow back two times thicker.

So, Santa Claus, please make one thing on my list a priority. I need an electric razor that can get the job done. And I need it badly.

above: a failed attempt to alleviate the problem

PoYB reviews: haiku editon

Because I'm a lazy SOB, I've summed up some of my recent entertainment conquests with a series of haikus.

I feel no need to justify having a picture of
naked Paul Rudd in my blog.

Roles Models:
McLovin’s new flick:
Foul-mouthed black kids and gay jokes.
I love you, Paul Rudd.

Indian Regis = genius

Slumdog Millionaire:

When in doubt, flashback

Your past (and Regis) fix all

Best film of the year

Not Spears' new album cover

Britney Spears, Circus
Crazy Spears is back
Album sucks, but she looks hot
Wanna get married?

editors note: it needs to be stated that the title song is the exception to suckiness. Because it's magical. Forreals.

Every childhood wish fulfilled.

Weezer, Christmas With Weezer
Hark! Under my tree:
Xmas tunes and power chords
You can’t beat that…right?

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!