Turning 21: Part II

Part II: The Law

above: hot and sober

Well, it's finally arrived. In exactly 24 hours, I will turn 21 years old. I will finally be able to have my first beer.

Okay, you caught me. It won't be my first beer. I've had a few in my day, in clear and blatant disregard for the law.

The national drinking age, set at 21 years old for over two decades now, is a law that I'd like to call into question. This is the purpose of today's post, to inspect why the drinking age came about, how it is enforced, and why it doesn't fucking work. Yes, it's time to get serious here on PoYB.

Now, before we start this potentially lengthy diatribe, I want to first say that I'm not going to burden my argument with facts and figures, and I'm not going to quote any sources. This is not a bullshit essay for an Alcohol Awareness class. If that weakens my argument, so be it. I don't have the energy to care THAT much. Take my anecdotal arguments or leave them.

Furthermore, I'm pretty biased in that I am an avid drinker, a drinker who really hasn't encountered any harsh realities of the very real dangers of drinking. I've gotten in trouble, occasionally been slapped on the wrist for my actions, but I have never lost a loved one to a drunk driver or taken any trips to the hospital or been negatively affected by an alcoholic, thank the good lord. So all you straightedge kids of the world, I implore you to just skip this blog post. I don't feel like getting in a fight over this shit. I'm going to be of legal age tomorrow and none of this will matter to me personally anymore.

SO ANYWAY, let's begin with how the drinking age was established, as I see it. In the late '70s, the United States faced a problem in rising counts of deaths on the road caused by driving while intoxicated. Lead by the Mothers Against Drunk Driving, or MADD, supporters of the 21-year-old age limit lobbied Congress to pass the National Minimum Drinking Age Act in 1984. It didn't set the drinking age at 21, but it threatened states with cutting their highway funding if they didn't. So, in effect, all 50 states were blackmailed into submission anyway.

MADD generally sees this law as a success. It's true, the number of highway deaths caused by alcohol has dropped significantly since prior to their lobbying.

The true success of MADD was their effect on the general outlook on the idea of "drunk driving." Drunk driving is considered by most to be, like, really bad. Even the worst of the teenage drunks will say that he isn't stupid enough to get behind the wheel. When someone does, he is generally berated by his friends for his social crime. They shake their heads and say, "dude, that's really fucked up." When I watch Dazed and Confused, it fucking blows my mind that their culture didn't really care if people drank and drove, because my culture here in 2009 frowns upon it so heavily.

This was the success, in my mind, and it is due to this success that the drinking age now no longer makes sense.

Drinking and driving is still a problem, I'll admit, but we're no longer acting like Randall "Pink" Floyd and Wooderson, "catch ya later at the water tower, we'll get hammered and drive home" bullshit. Goddamn, teenagers are responsible behind the wheel!

The drinking age now really has nothing to do with drunk driving. People who are going to drive will drive, people who won't simply won't, and it doesn't matter if you are 21 or eighteen or 82. To prevent drunk driving, make stricter drunk driving laws, NOT general drinking laws.

You know what the drinking age has done? It's made alcohol abuse among teenagers worse.

I'm not saying that lowering the age to eighteen would eliminate people getting obliterated beyond control. People would still do that. But it would cut out a lot of the shit that teens do behind locked doors.

Consider the sorority sister who wants to drink a little bit for the big football game on a Friday night. It is against the law for her to drink at the game, so that is out of the question. So she takes the pregame into her dorm room, where she and a few friends pound six or seven shots right before they leave.

What if she had been allowed to legally drink at the game? She would be drinking in a supervised environment then. She wouldn't be drinking six shots because it's in plain view of school authorities who, while not being able to punish the person drinking directly, would definitely frown upon the excessive drinking, and in the mean time keep a watchful eye over the situation. So she has a few beers at the game. She is safer.

Consider the freshman who is at his first frat party. After about an hour, and three beers, the cops surround the house, issue 200 underage drinking tickets, and steal all the kegs. What is the intended outcome? Is the freshman supposed to think, "Gee, those cops were right, I'll never drink again"? What are the actual consequences? The cops breed a contempt for authority, the freshman just finds a different way to drink, and nothing changes, except that maybe the frat throws its parties at a different house.

There are other ways that the law is enforced that are fucking senseless. Consider the guy who is twenty, knows how to drink responsibly, and has a few with his buddy in the next neighborhood over. It's time to go home, so he calls another friend, the designated driver, who is stone-cold sober and who comes to give the tipsy kid a ride home. He has done the responsible thing. Except, the designated driver gets pulled over because his taillight is busted. The cop smells booze in the car, breathalyzes the passenger, and gives him an underage citation. The kids was responsible in controlling his liquor intake, and calling a designated driver, and is still punished! This happens!!

Now consider briefly the people some people who are in charge of enforcing this law (I say briefly because I could easily write books instead of this one paragraph). I focus my attention not on our cops and judges, but on those individuals we know as "RAs." These authority figures are kids themselves—who break drinking laws themselves!—and who are writing students up at alarmingly speeds on college campuses, sometimes for the wrong reasons. I know someone (cough) who was busted in his room one day while he played water pong. Water pong. The beer was in the fridge, but the RA went along and opened the fridge, lied and told his boss that he had saw beer in cups on the pong table (it was fucking water!). All this because the poor kid had broken up with his girlfriend who happened to be friends with said RA, and said RA sought revenge for the individual by abusing his powers.

All because a few cans of beer were in the fridge, and the drinking age prohibited it.

Fucking abuse of power by a kid that breaks the same goddamn rules he used to abuse his power.

Okay, let's calm down. Let's get back to being logical, and not emotional. Fuck that RA. Fuck him. It's over, and there are other issues regarding this bullshit law that need to be discussed. Onward...

UPenn does something that's really great. It's called the "amnesty law." If someone, be it a friend or otherwise, has had a bit too much to drink, you can go up to a school official or RA or whoever and claim the amnesty law, which prevents you from getting in trouble for being drunk for the sake of the safety of another student. This makes sense because sometimes when a kid is in trouble of getting really fucking sick, or even dying, from alcohol intake, no one wants to get help because they are afraid of the law.

Guess what happens when I find a person turning blue in the face and report it to someone here at university? Not only do I get a pat on the back for doing the right thing, but I also get slapped with an underage drinking charge for drinking with the other student.

Did I mention my school is ridiculous about how it handles underage drinking? I feel it to be an honor and a privilege that I have been used and abused as an example of what happens to underage drinkers here at school. Ah! But I'm getting to emotional again. Back to the point!

My point in all this is that teens need to be responsible in their drinking. If someone is stupid enough to do eighteen shots on their eighteenth birthday, then they are fucking asking for a free trip to the G-Town Hospital.

But at the same time, teens need to be provided with a little trust. The trust that teens hold behind the wheel, in the voting booth, and on the battlefields needs to be given to them at the bar. Teenagers, when not trusted to handle drinking responsible, WILL NOT handle drinking responsibly.

All those cops and MADD members and goddamn RAs are not doing anything to prevent underage drinking. They are just pushing it more and more underground, to depths that it becomes more and more dangerous. Did we learn nothing from the Prohibition?

The only way to develop good drinking habits is to bring it out in the open. This age limit is fucking nonsense. Why not drop the age limit, and do everything we can to educate youngsters and try to develop great drinking habits within view of responsible elders? One can learn how to drink responsibly with their parents at a family dinner, not in the woods with a handle of Vlad.

When states lowered the drinking age to eighteen way back in the '60s and '70s, there was a huge spike in the number of deaths caused by drinking. But the problem was, the only thing they did was lower the age. No other preventative measures were instilled. It was like the states just said, "hey kids, it's fine now, go get fucked up." And people went crazy and died.

Lower the age, I say. Not only lower it, but try to instill responsible habits at the age when boys and girls become men and women. We can handle it, I know we can.

This drinking age just doesn't work. It just fucking doesn't. I shouldn't have to be this excited for a goddamn birthday.

As a way to end this post on a positive note: I realize that the law has affected my life greatly. It has caused me great pain, and great pleasure. I wouldn't be where I am today without the law being what it was, so in that regard, I've made my peace. Nevertheless, I feel bad for those who still need to wait a few years to have their day of legality. Because the law fucking sucks.

Turning 21: Part I

Part I: Sobriety

above: sober for 7663 days!!!!

Well, it's finally arrived. In exactly two days, I will turn 21 years old. I will finally be able to have my first beer.

"First beer?!" I hear you exclaim. "Surely this cannot be your first beer! There have been countless references to underage drinking here on the wonderful Puke on Your Birthday! There's no way you haven't frank alcohol before!"

Believe it or not, I have never had an alcoholic drink in my entire life, and every so-called drinking references on this blog was all a misunderstanding. Let me explain:

June 23, 2008 — "Rest in Peace"
While it may seem that the whole story about our old runner Andy is about our underage drinking escapades, it actually never specifically says that I drank. "The sweet smell of malt liquor" refers to my new cologne. "My head is next to the toilet bowl" was because of vertigo. When Andy bought us liquor from Wine and Spirits, the liquor was used to clean the scrape I got on my knee from a riveting games of Capture the Flag. When I say that he "got us drunk," it's the equivalent to the Beatles claiming they "got high." Drunk on a great friendship!

June 28, 2008 — "Fightin' Will Not Be Tolerated"
Yes, there is mention of the group of us bringing rum to a party, but notice how I specifically state that I was completely sober that night. I was "condemned to being sober," because drinking is against the law, obviously!

July 4, 2008 — "And I'm (or Thought I Was) Proud to Be an American"
In referencing Halloween: "what once was an innocent night of walking around the neighborhood collecting candy has turned into a blur of a night that usually involves me dressing up in women's clothing and waking up the next morning only to discover I have pissed myself and all over my bed." A blur because I am just having so much sober fun! I dress up in women's clothing because I am gay! And I pissed myself because I have nocturnal polyuria!

July 13, 2008 — "Bound for Glory"
"I kick ass at beer pong" sure sounds like I was drinking underage. However, we play beer pong with water here in the Northeast. Now, if only my RA would have realized that, he wouldn't have had to write me up!

July 15, 2008 — "Bound for Obloquy"
This is a very misconceiving post. In it, I claim I suck at drinking. One might assume I meant drinking alcohol. Simply not true! I was born with a small esophagus, so it's really hard for me to drink anything. When I say "I'm not stranger to the phenomenon of getting shitfaced," I was referring to the fact that for some reason, my dog shits on my face sometimes when I'm sleeping. When I say that I've "taken beer bongs," I mean I literally steal beer bongs from Spencer's at the mall and give them to my friends for Christmas. "I used to be able to take big swigs of vodka." Hypothetically! I guess making assumptions makes an ass of you and me. And I even say "don't make me chug a beer," because it's against the law!

July 31, 2008 — "Might Drink Too Much" [DELETED]
Ex-PoYB writer Mandy wrote extensively about escapades drinking in the woods with her neighborhood friends. Whoops! I live in one neighborhood, she in another. Different neighborhoods! I'm off the hook!

August 13, 2008 — "Contrary to Popular Belief, I Do Have Friends"
Woah, just because I claim that all my friends drink doesn't mean I do. I don't give into peer pressure. The only specific thing I say about myself is that I "act like my dad." This is true—he didn't drink until he was 21 either.

August 20, 2008 — "PoYB Recaps Summer 2008"
There is a picture of me holding a keg over my head. An obvious feat of sober strength. There's also another picture of me with forties taped to my hands. My hands were swollen from lifting the keg over my head, and I needed the icy cold forties to stop the swelling. I obviously didn't drink them.

September 17, 2008 — "Thirsty Thursday" [DELETED]
Be sure to note that Mike writes these Thirsty Thursday articles, and I only approve of them now that he is 21 himself.

November 12, 2008 — "Yes, This Is the 'Obligatory Emo Post'"
"Get those bottles of Natty ready, boys." I meant get them ready for the Christmas food drive. We were going to donate beer that year, because we obviously couldn't drink it ourselves. That would be illegal.

November 14, 2008 — "Five Top Fives Friday!"
There is a list of the "Top Five Places I've Purchased Beer." However, I even state specifically in the list that it is all hypothetical, "since I'm not 21 and wouldn't dare try to buy beer if I were underage." You couldn't possible think that was sarcasm, could you?

November 30, 2008 — "Sometimes I'm Pathetic In Rockledge"
This entire post is a lie (mostly because I don't have the time or the energy to explain the 432789 supposed references to underage drinking). I don't drink goddam it!!!

December 25, 2008 — "Nothing Like Sacrilege on Christmas Day"
Just because I go to frat parties and am familiar with them doesn't mean I go to frat parties to drink. Who doesn't like being in a sweaty cramped basement that smells like piss just for the hell of it?

December 31, 2008 — "Bringing in the New Year"
My resolution for 2009 is to "cut down on my drinking" but it would be "foolish for me to say that" because it's not going to happen. Well, I for the past 20 years and eleven months I have cut down on my drinking—by not drinking at all—but I would be foolish to think I could keep it up, because I turn 21 in 2009, and I might have a beer on my birthday.

January 9, 2009 — "Extreme Top Five Home Edition!"
One of the reasons I listed for why I hated living at home was that "there's no fridge to stock with beer." I meant non-alcoholic beer. Since I was in a play that winter that required me to drink non-alcoholic beer, I wanted to get used to the taste.

February 3, 2009 — "Fucking Snow Day"
In describing what I'd do on a perfect snow day, I claimed I would "maybe [do] a little day drinking." You are mixing up syntax. I didn't mean I'd be drinking during the day. I meant I'd be drinking the actual day, in a metaphoric sense. Drinking the day for all it's worth, i.e., enjoying it to its full potential.

February 23, 2009 — "'Restoring the Roar'?!"
Yes, I did claim in this post that I drink Lionshead. But Lionshead is not beer—didn't you know that? It's really just piss in a bottle. You don't need to be a certain age to drink piss! I just loves me some piss!

March 1, 2009 — "Living in Filth"
It is described in a myriad of ways the amount of filth that had accumulated in Basil 249, especially from beer cans and boxes. But we weren't drinking the beer! We were simply being green and recycling our peers' cans!

March 7-8, 2009 — "An Hour of Power" and "An Hour of Power: the Aftermath"
What, you thought we were drinking that whole time? Yo, chill out. My friends and I can have fun and say stupid shit without boozin', thank you very much.

April 1, 2009 — "The End of an Era"
You're right, I do actually drink in the woods, and I have for years, and... aha! Gotchya! April Fool's!

May 3, 2009 — "Leaving Home"
—"when you sneak in 100 cases of beer" ...The boys of Room 249 did a lot of charity work, and one aspect was helping elderly gentlemen at the local underprivileged beer distributor. In an act of great charity, we snuck in an extra 100 cases of beer into the store from off the truck, without being asked. The owner was so pleased!
—"getting hammered and watching Spongebob" ...There's a scene where SpongeBob hits himself with a hammer. Art imitates life, life imitates art.
—"the one and only afternoon that we all were there, sober and single, and decided that all needed to change" ...We decided that needed to change. On our 21st birthdays. And not a day before.

August 20, 2009 — "Facebook Profile Pic Etiquette"
There's a picture of me in front of a big pyramid of beer cans. Look at how much I was smiling! That bum gave me all those empty cans, which I traded in for 85 cents!

August 27 — "PoYB From the Vault: Team Green"
This post is a huge story about my and Kev's escapades in beer bong. Little did you know it was my summer assignment for my Fiction Writing class in the fall.

Yikes!

I can see where you would get confused. There are a lot of posts on PoYB that could easily have been misinterpreted. BUT!

LET THE RECORD SHOW:

I have never consumed any kind of alcohol in my life, excluding the sip of the Blood of Christ I share every Sunday during the Sabbath. My first beer will be in two days, and I cannot wait.

PoYB from the Vault: Soccer?!

In honor of our boy Kev trying out for the Philadelphia Union in a few weeks, I have this gift:

click to enlarge

Yes, I did, in fact, once play soccer. Regardless of how much I hate it now, there was a dark time in my life that I allowed myself to participate in such filth. And holy shit, look, there's Ed too! And my Dad without gray hair! I cannot believe that this was the in the Northeast Times. They must have really been short on stories that week.

This must have been the year I made the All-Star Team. If I can do that, Kev, then you can definitely make the Union! Good luck from all of us here at Puke on Your Birthday!

Wonders

As I was reading through old posts on PoYB I came across an initiative to name the "wonders" of OUR world. I really like this, but I think Joe's suggestions in the comments never really embodied the WONDER part of the project.

I feel like "wonders" need to be just that—something unattainable, or something intangible, and not necessarily just a landmark. For example, I don't think Wawa makes the cut. I love Wawa as much as any of us, but it's too big a part of our daily lives. I think the Burholme water tower. It's the symbol of PoYB for a reason. It's been in the background of many of our best and worst nights, yet we've never gotten that close to it. Sure we may have ran around its base, but the water tower itself is unattainable. We can't reach it. It's symbolic of the fact that there's always something bigger than us, and I'm not talking about god. We are all individuals that are part of progressively larger groups. Friends, acquaintances, NEasters, Philadelphians, and young adults. The fact that so many people see the Water Tower in the memories of their nights spent around here brings a certain comfort to me. A certain knowledge that, despite all my fuck-ups, I'm growing up just like a lot of people.

Think the real Wonders. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon weren't just a place people hung out. They were a tribute to the beauty and capabilities of a culture. So I say in the spirit of PoYB's original purpose, the documentation of what life is like for some young Northeasters, we really go and compile a list of seven to ten Wonders of Our World; things that really stand for something. I hereby, officially submit the Burholme Water Tower as a Wonder of Our World. So let's see who agrees, and what else we think matter to us. Let's think of a way to formally announce what our wonders are, in a fashion that everybody can agree upon. Over drinks one night, as a team, maybe we can bang out a good list.

Along with the Water Tower: I submit the Philadelphia Phillies as an official PoYB Wonder of the World.

Giving Thanks, from the PoYB Family

We here at Puke on Your Birthday, contributors and readers alike, all have a lot to be thankful for.

Joe:
I'm thankful for...

• 21st birthdays
• people who let me crash on their couch (God bless LAC2)
• the fact that Rose still knows who I am
• a cell phone that has lasted for a year (a new record!)
• my shitty car, recently nicknamed "Baby Beluga"
• Hurricanes. Lots of Hurricanes.
• my new ability to not vomit while drinking
• the C***** Slur
• The Sunset Tree
• that I am still passing all my classes, against all odds
• making it past my bearded life stage
• my incredible football abilities, as will be showcased at Turkey Bowl tomorrow
• those wonderful kids I'll be playing football with (I call them "friends")

Cindy:
I'm thankful for...

• Power Hours
• The European drinking age of eighteen
• The Joe three-dollar discount—for me only ;)
• Blueberry bagels toasted w/ D&D cream cheese
• Late night diner runs
• Keystone
• Home cooked meals (food is general theme mainly because I haven't eaten my favorites in about four months lol)
• Burholme—that's where it all started
• of course, my family
• and... my friends—it's kinda sweet, not too many people can say they've known their best friends since the 1st grade :)

Marielle:
I'm thankful for...

• grape jelly (non-existent in england)
• the ability to wear sweats to class
• patrick swayze
• skype
• the philly skyline
• french onion dip & ruffles
• movie nights (whether it's going out or staying in)
• memory foam mattress pads & pillows
• digital photography
• ridiculous parties that always happen when we all go down the shore
• mi famiglia

Dave:
I'm thankful for...

• Friends who really do love me
• Family who really loves me
• Competitive Philly Sports Teams
• Nick G******
• Birth Control
• Living in a house where I don't have to pay rent
• Music
• The Philadelphia Skyline
• Memories like Warped Shore and Brianna's parties
• All four of my grandparents being alive
• The Laf, which still kept me as an employee after all the shit I've done

Bri:
I'm thankful for...

click to enlarge

Jim:

I'm thankful for...

• family
• friends
• a roof over my head
• a car
• friends
• being financially sound in this tough economic time
• school
• internship
• memories with my friends and family
• my health
• that fact that i'm still good friends with all my friends that i've grown up with

Mike:

• i'm thankful for ingrates, because they make me feel better about my own imperfect sense of gratitude
• i'm thankful that people back home keep writing to me and want to know whats going on in my life
• i'm thankful that i do not live full-time in europe... which leads me into saying, thank god i'm from philadelphia
• i'm thankful for internet, without which many things i enjoy would be lost. for example, surfing APnet and finding new music, trolling forums, all things from digg.com, keeping up with philly news, watching the phils, EMAIL, etc.
• lastly, and most importantly, i know that i love my girlfriend, friends, and family... and i'm pretty sure the feeling is reciprocated!

Mary:

I'm thankful for...

• friends—old and new, near and far
• shadow boxer baby, had some great times with that car
• cute boots
• beer
• fire pits
• concerts of all kinds and tailgating
• puke on your birthday for keeping me amused

Katie:

I'm thankful for...

• My family
• My friends
• My dogs
• Shane
• Shane’s family
• My roommates
• West Chester University
• Residence Hall Association
• University Ambassadors
• Student Government Association
• Musical theatre
• Michael Bublé
• Wii golf and bowling
• Omelets at Lawrence after a night of drinking
• Liquor
• Einstein Bagel’s Santa Fe wrap
• Card games
• Makeup
• Cheese
• Skype
• Jeans
• Texting
• Random dance parties in 505 University Hall
• Cleo, Boomer and Barney (our fish who are dead)
• 24

Nick:

I'm thankful for...

• These friends I have
• Yuengling Draft
• Contraceptives
• The Phillies
• The Flyers
• Being Philadelphian
• Every new album I listened to this year
• Every old album I listened to this year
• I think my penis (aka "The Prestige") grew a little, not that it needed to, but I'm thankful anyway.
• My charm
• My jaw line
• My charm
• My cleverness
• Edward Norton
• It's Always Sunny
• Puke on Your Birthday

Many, many thanks to the entire Puke on Your Birthday fan base from us here in NE Philly! Have a great holiday!

Thought of the Day

"As a preamble to this rant, let's assume that everyone agrees on what the bases are for a sexual accounter for a woman onto a man. First base is kissing on the lips. Second is touching the penis. Third base is kissing the penis. Home is going all the way. If we assume these conditions, then consider the following hypothetical situation: there's one man in the room—you—and two other women. You are having a threesome in which one girl is hooking up with you and one girl is stroking your dick. One girl is on first and another is on second. All is going well until a third girl enters the room. The third girl attempts to kiss you. At the same time, the girl that was previously kissing you, goes to touch your dick; meanwhile, the girl that was jerking you off goes to put her mouth on your dick. Simultaneously, you throw all three girls out of the room.

"An unassisted triple play."

Lowlight

As the rest of the civilized world was gripped by last weekend's historic release of Twilight, I was making myself a buffalo chicken sandwich. Surely you're saying to yourself, "Nick, how in the world were you able to shake the image of Robert Pattinson's puffy hair out of your mind long enough to focus on an unimportant task such as nourishing yourself?" Easy, I say. Twilight is the biggest bullshit to hit the all-important trend battleground we call "Hot Topic."

These vampires fucking suck, pun intended. I intended the pun because it's far more clever than anything coming out of their mouths. The first problem lies at the very beginning of the series. Stephanie Meyer is a ridiculously terrible author. My mom has a copy of Twilight sitting right next to me and I read a passage. I want those few seconds of my life back. No one talks the way she writes. Her writing is the equivalent of the great Arrested Development character Tobias Funke's acting. Over the top, but with no substance. Secondly, the characters are completely devoid of any personality. Now, this may just be Meyer playing to her emotionally vapid audience, but I doubt it. Either way, it makes for the least enjoyable movie experience. It's like eating a cracker. You ate it, but you didn't really taste it.

My biggest problem with the series is its portrayal of vampires. It was my understanding that vampires were scary, terrible, blood-sucking monsters. Apparently not. Instead of being badass and wanting to kill people, Edward Cullen just wants to play piano and be sensitive. That's not fucking fun at all. If I was walking down a dark alley and I saw Edward Cullen I'd probably just make fun of him. He makes Count Chocula seem like Freddie fucking Krueger.

Fuck Twilight.

Altar Servers

What's the one thing in grade school that made you wake up at 5:45 in the morning? What was, surprisingly, the most popular activity to join in sixth through eighth grades? What made us put on thick robes, light candles, and handle copious amounts of wine every other week or so?

Why, that'd be altar serving of course.

Being at a Catholic grade school for eight years, it was almost inevitable that you'd eventually don the garments of an altar server. It's actually been a while since I reminisced about my time of duty at B.V.M., and all the strange and wonderful memories that I gained as an altar boy.

Father McFadden was in charge of our small army. No doubt our service was important because it helped to save babies from abortion. He was very Pro Life.

Somehow I doubt the reason so many people joined was out of the joy of actually serving. There was nothing fun about the thick wool albs we had to put on. Church, no matter what season, was always 1000 degrees Celcius on the altar, and more often than not, a poor young soul would pass out and slam his/her head on the altar table. I remember during one Holy Eucharist having to actually drag my friend Tom off the altar, for he had passed out and didn't have any chance of recovering anytime soon.

There was nothing fun about getting assigned to the 6:30 a.m. mass for an entire week. Like four people showed up for that damn mass anyway! I remember one week that I had the 6:30, my class also went to the 8:30 three times. Since I had gone to the Sunday service and the Saturday service the next weekend, I went to Mass a total of ten times in one week. Fuck you, altar serving.

Of course, we would be serving time in hell with Satan himself if we messed up on the altar. Did you miss ringing the bell during transubstantion? Did you mix up the water and the wine? Did you drop a little cup of hosts? It's a mortal sin if you did.

On the other hand, there were two reasons why it really paid to be an altar server. The first, and lesser reason, was working funerals and weddings. Whether the funeral was a most somber affair, or the marriage was a beautiful ceremony, it didn't matter—more than likely, you're going to be pocketing a hefty tip.

But there was a much larger reason for wanting to be a server, and the big payoff came in June. An all expenses paid trip to Dorney Park.

All the toils and pains of serving the priests were made worth it when we hopped on that bus, went to Dorney, and experienced a freedom that rarely occurred otherwise in our grade school years.

There were no chaperones, really. I mean, they were there, but we all ran off on our separate ways, only to see the adults again when we got back to the bus.

I went on my first upside-down coaster at that park. We got soaked on the log flumes, broke the sound barrier on Steel Force, got to fuck around with Snoopy and Pals, and cooled off at Wild Water Kingdom. It was there that I found out Mike was actually human, when he was too scared to go on Talon.

What a wonderful day, and we owed it all to altar serving. Shit, I would bet that at least half the students signed up to be a server for the sole fact that they'd be going to Dorney at the end of the year.

So, no, altar serving was not my fondest memory of my B.V.M years, but it's just one part of it that's funny to look back at and laugh. Good times.

Two-Headed Boy

Holy shit. Jeff Mangum is incredible.

As Seen on the Student Portal

click to enlarge

Well, I think we can answer that question with a resounding "NO."

R.I.P. Spectrum

Ask any Philadelphian about the Spectrum, and they'll tell you countless stories of the wonderful memories that were made in that ancient oval. Your uncle may tell you about how he saw the Flyers win back-to-back Stanley Cups in that arena. A friend might say that at the Spectrum he beheld the greatest Grateful Dead concert of all time. Some guy might talk about the time the Sixers won the championship, and chuckle, remembering how bad the team is today. My father loves regaling me with the story about how the Flyers beat those damn commies into submission with a few well-placed pucks.

Yes, the city will miss that great building that held some of Philly's finest moments.

As I reflect on my memories of the behemoth, I realize that my Spectrum Story is not as epic as my father's or my peers'. I didn't smoke with Jerry Garcia or witness the precursor to the collapse of the Soviet Empire.

I do, however, have a handful of very specific memories, ones that I'd like to share with you today, dear reader.

1) Just barely past the point where I actually started remembering things, I remember heading to the Spectrum with Mommy and Daddy and little sis to witness a show better than all the Flyers games put together (so I thought at the time). The grand spectacle I would witness was none other than Disney on Ice. So what if it made no sense that Donald Duck, Simba, and Jafar were all of a sudden matching the skills of Michelle Kwan? That show blew my five-year-old mind, and I miss it still.

2) It was 1998, and I wouldn't come to truly appreciate sports for a few more years yet, but there I was, in attendence for a Philadelphia Phantoms team on the brink of Philly's first Calder Cup. Not knowing that the Calder Cup really didn't mean shit, I was fucking PUMPED. My father, sister Jenn, and I busted out our vintage Phantoms jerseys, bought some popcorn, and enjoyed the Phantoms kick the proverbial ass of the St. John Flames. This was the one minor Philadelphia championship I was forced to cling on to until the Phillies sent my drunk ass parading down Broad Street last fall.

3) Flexing my event-planning muscles, in the Spring of 2007 I organized a massive Senior Skip Day for opening day of the Phillies. Naturally my classmates and I got down there hours before gametime, and naturally we started sipping the suds just as early. So if the Phillies play in Citizen's Bank Park, where does the Spectrum come into the picture? As a wall to piss on, of course. God bless those Spectrum janitors.

4) It was the Fall of 2008, in what turned into my final pilgrimage to the Spectrum. Friend of PoYB, Kev C*****, organized a trip to see the MONSTER TRUCK RALLY. We get onto the subway, only to find that a Kenny G concert was going on right next door at the Wachovia Center, so between that and the RALLY, the Broad Street Line was full of hicks and cheap beer. And it was wonderful. We walked up to the ticket window, shaking with anticipation to see some TRUCKS get CRUSHED. But oh! The disappointment when we find out all tickets are sold out. We turned around, went to Chickie & Pete's, and Kev didn't finish his meal. (Also, who the fuck let Kev plan an event?)

After the RALLY, I never again would return to Spectrum, and now that it is closed permanently, I guess I never will for sure. My memories are scarce and fleeting, but those few times I did step through that hallowed concourse, I will cherish.

Perhaps it was fitting that for my last Spectrum event I couldn't even get tickets. Maybe I wasn't meant to make beautiful memories there. I am fated, I suppose, to tell my children about those epic moments at the Bank, the Linc, and the soon-to-be-built Entertainment Complex instead.

That's okay. I'm fine with that. The Spectrum is an important part of Philadelphia no matter what amount of time I spent there personally. So, in that regard, I say, Rest in Peace (CoreStates/First Union/Wachovia) Spectrum.

Things That Will Never Be Posted on PoYB

From power hours to Power Rangers, from fat old men to hot young lesbians, there are many boundaries we here at Puke on Your Birthday are willing to cross. However, the sky is not the limit. This is a list of subjects that will never be breached on our website, so help me god:

• Tips on great workout routines
  
• My encounters with people who have Asperger's
• What really happened that night at the shore
• The Top 5 Lifetime Original Movies
• How to sneak beer into the dorms
• A report on a new band that "totally sounds like the new Neutral Milk Hotel"
• The best places to fuck in the Connelly Library
• A poem about how people in my theater group make me sick
• How my ex-girlfriend is a dirty cheating whore
• Top 5 places I've urinated
• "Who's better, Villanova or St. Joe's?"
• That time Mike was totally coming on to me
  
• Why in the world Colin Meloy would want me to fuck a swan
• Any naked pictures of me whatsoever
  
• That rap that I wrote about The Canterbury Tales
• An account of my first boy/girl pool party
  
• A list of what university administrators read this blog
• The video in which I do an interpretive dance to an *NSYNC song in fifth grade
  
• Why Rolling Stone is still legitimate after publishing that terrible Lady Gaga cover
• The real reason my computer got that virus
• Details about the Three Horny Elephants Reunion Tour
• Anything that could ruin my 2048 Presidential Bid

Vincent's

We expect mascots from big corporations. Mickey Mouse is the unabashed spokesmouse for Disney. Super Mario is the face of the Nintendo company. When we see Bugs Bunny, we think Warner Bros. Likewise, mascots represent our favorite (or hated) sports teams. The La Salle Explorer is always fun to mess with during basketball games at Tom Gola Arena. Mr. Met is a piece of shit. And what would a Phillies game be without the Phillie Phanatic?

However, it's not often you find a local business with its own mascot. Sure, you have the Rita's water ice cup. Every summer, Wawa has those Beatlesque British dudes. And even ol' Siwek's Hardware Store down on Huntingdon Pike has that goofy mechanic guy on their sign.

I've never seen a mascot like the Vincent's pizza dog.

Vincent's Pizza, as far as I can tell, is the only single place in all of Rockledge to offer greasy dinner foods like pizza, steaks, and fries (Joseph's, the Hollywood, and the Blue Ox are all outside the Rockledge border). It has decent food. Edible, and definitely enjoyable, especially when shared with a few good friends. Great nights have started and ended at the establishment. Hell, I even took a date there once (Hey, Pattie, do you read PoYB???). So the importance of Vincent's is not lost on me.

It's just that, I can't fucking stand that dog.

He is absurd in all the wrong ways. He is so totally illogical. His goofy grin eats away at my soul. It hurts to be in his presence. It hurts to enter the glass door with an empty stomach, knowing he is watching me enjoy my moderately-priced meal. I wish he were real, so the vet could put him down.

Let me list the ways why his existence annoys me:

1) He is a dog. This dog is carrying a pizza. MY pizza. Even if we ignore the fact that he is a dog with normal human hands (an inexperienced animagus, perhaps?), he is still carrying a pizza. A pizza that I am about to eat. Vincent's has dogs hanging around the food. Is a dog slobbering on my cheesesteak as it is being prepared? How about the stromboli, am I going to find a dog hair in it? Not only is it probably against a myriad of health codes, but it's just plain fucking disgusting.

2) The dog is from Italy. Vincent's in no way, shape, or form specializes in Italian food. The pizza they make is not Italian. It is very, very American—cheap, greasy, tasty. Chicken tenders, hoagies, and tall glasses of Coca-Cola do not say "Italy" to me. So the dog is a liar.

3) Is that a fucking diaper he is wearing? Furthermore, are those little specks of dirt his cleats are flicking up, or is he dropping little turds all over the grounds of the Leaning Tower of Pisa?

4) The dog is playing soccer. If this is not a sufficient reason for me to dislike the dog, I don't know what is.

Look, I'm not saying that I'm going to boycott Vincent's or anything. Like I said, I enjoy their food and their atmosphere and their location (fucking Rockledge!). Maybe I wrote this blog post in a failed attempt to flex my ability to ramble about insignificant non-matters.

But that dog annoys the fuck out of me, and it pains me to know that he represents Rockledge alongside the mayor, the Oom-pah-pah band at the Austrian Village, and Miss Jillian at her dance studio. Frankly, it's fucking embarrassing to have an Italian dog playing soccer with a pizza in MY neighborhood. It's a fucking disgrace.

Dislike

This argument may sound frivolous. It is. It bares no importance in the broad scope of my life, and if I'm being honest, I can think of a whole lot of other subjects that would be better suited for a PoYB-style argument pro- or con-. This is just a little annoyance that bugs me in just the slightest of ways. What better place to bitch and moan about unimportant things then this stupid fucking blog?

click to enlarge

Facebook started out as a way to connect with friends. "Social networking," if you will. Over the past few years, it's degraded into a place where people can just throw up any random thought they have. Other people can then comment on the thought. It's just millions of people spouting opinions that don't matter. (I can include myself in this—I enjoy writing a "witty" facebook status.)

Facebook has made it easier for us to proclaim our "important" opinion by making one click to say you "like" something. Now people are clamoring for a "dislike" button. Four million users have joined a Facebook group to petition Facebook for such an option!

This annoys me for a few reasons (not that it matters, I'll remind you). First of all, is it really that important to have an easy way to express your dislike of something? I can imagine thousands of tween girls reading their boyfriends statuses: "[Boyfriend] is going to the strip club tonight."

"I don't like that one bit! If only there was some way I could tell my boyfriend that I dislike this without having to make more than one click or type anything at all!"

Furthermore, I say that the whole idea of having a "like" and "dislike" option in addition to an option to write a comment is senseless. I notice a trend that people tend to "like" something, and then proceed to scribe an additional comment explaining why they in fact do like this particular status.

For instance, when someone types, "OMG I absolutely love that band! Great status!" we can all assume that they do like the status. We don't need to read the comment and then be reminded that the comment was a positive one.

If the "like" button seems pointless, then a "dislike" button would only further a pointless cause. And it pisses me off.

Ahhh, but... fuck it. I'm not sure why it gets me so angry. If I got so pissed off about inconsequential things on Facebook, why do I spend hours and hours a week on the damn thing? To pursue my argument further would paint me as a hypocrite—and that is something I certainly dislike.

Neighborhood Update

Anyone know what's going on with the water tower at Burholme? Think it's just a new paint job or something more serious? If it ceased to exist, not only would we all be really thirsty, but PoYB's profile picture might become archaic!

Feeling Blue After a Red Season

This is my yearly Phillies post, and boy, do I wish I could write it in a different context! I sit here knowing full well that our beloved Phightins probably will not overcome a difficult 3-1 deficit in the World Series, and in all likelihood, they will lose to the Yankees this week, if not tonight.

It's disappointing, that's for sure. Just a week ago, it seemed so damn likely that the Phils would come up big for a second year in a row, win the hearts of the city yet again, and we'd have another lovely parade down Broad Street. One game away from elimination, and that seems like nothing more than a pipe dream.

But goddamn it—it was a great season, and I'm going to try not to forget that during this long off-season.

The Phillies have played 175 games so far this year, and we all followed each and every one. When I think about it, all my best memories in the past nine months, all of them happened with the Phillies playing in the background.

That great party back in June started off with everyone crowded around the radio in the backyard, listening to the Phillies overcome a six-run deficit in the bottom of the ninth. The worst hangover of my life got a little easier to handle when I read about Cliff Lee's complete game shutout in the paper. About the only good night I had at Beechwood while on the lease was watching Cole Hamels fuck up the Dodgers. I've never felt closer to my senior citizens than when me and all the old folk gathered in the Lafayette Pub to watch the Phillies take on the Red Sox at Fenway.

I won't soon forget the stunned silence from me, my dad, and my grandpop, jaws dropped to the floor, as Bruntlett pulled off an unassisted triple play—Bruntlett, of all people! My ears still hurt from Dave screaming when Jayson Werth smacked a walk-off homer in the bottom of the eleventh in the basement of the N*****s' house. I will, though, forget the game that me, Mike, Kev, and Dave went to see against the Nationals, when I fell asleep and missed a grand slam. Or how about when Sarah got so drunk she couldn't make it into the stadium on Memorial Day, and missed probably the only earned run Chan Ho Park gave up all fucking summer? Or how about those eleven times this summer that ten million citizens of Philadelphia wanted strangle Brad Lidge (this, according to my Facebook news feed)?

From sitting on Kev's deck and watching "Griff Lee," to being holed up in the band closet alone listening intently to Scott Franzke on the radio, to sitting with my parents and sisters in the rain to see our "rain delay specialist" Jamie Moyer throw six shut-out innings, to getting a text from a friend letting me know that RAUUUUUL hit of a walk-off homer (because the house I was in had neither a TV nor radio), to standing in the back of Citizen's Bank Park with my Pops watching the Phillies win their second pennant in a row... God, I could go on!

The 2009 season gave me so many goddamn great memories, I can be nothing but thankful for our wonderful hometown team. This year is most likely not going to end in a parade, but nevertheless it was about as good and as fun a damn season as one could ask for.

If the Phillies do end up losing to the overpaid Yankees, I will not be happy, but I will be content, as we were able to enjoy yet another well-fought season of heroics. And I will be excited already for next season.

Thank you, Phillies.

Make Your Own Comic

See that picture up there? My friend needs you, our faithful reader, to come up with a funny caption for it. It's for my school newspaper, but you need not go to said school to contribute. If you get chosen as one of the best, you get your name in the paper, and possibly even a dollar! Help me out, kids!

Weezer, Snuggies, and the Facade of "Being Cool"

What the fuck are Weezer doing to themselves?

I've asked this question to myself more than a few times over the past few years. When their third self-titled album came out two summers ago, I questioned the integrity of music. While acknowledging that two songs were pretty catchy, I dismissed the remainder as lame, hokey, and stupid. It was just hard for me to stomach that the genius behind Pinkerton now had a pedophile moustache, was trying to rap, and was churning out lyrics that rhymed "biotch" with "kids" (or... "kee-ods"?).

With shit like The Blue Album and Pinkerton, Weezer became well-respected musical artists, and since that time, they seem determined to destroy that reputation. Things like naming your new album Raditude, selling a Weezer Snuggie, and working with Katy Perry will make you not only the laughingstock of the rock industry, but also will greatly disappoint those angst-ridden teens you touched with tales of long-lost loves across the sea.

The bottom line is that Weezer has pretty much lost all credibility in the music community.

However, I'm starting to question the whole idea of "credibility" in music in the first place. When I start allowing myself to fall in love with songs like Shakira's "She Wolf" and Miley Cyrus's "Party in the USA," I have to question my own credibility as a listener. If I lack credible tastes in music, and yet the "uncool" music I hear still makes me feel good, then I'm forced to reconsider my outlook of music in general.

Take Weezer's new song "(If You're Wondering If I Want To) I Want To," a song that is right up there with the porks/beans and troublemakers. Rivers sings about hoping a girl makes the move, and the lyrics are just as impeccably terrible as always.

Yet, it is a damn catchy song. I'd gladly listen to it. Am I "cool" for listening to it? Of course not. My favorite music website, Pitchfork, would scorn if they knew one of their loyal readers was actively enjoying such a lame song. But fuck it! If I like the song, what's the big deal?

Life is better when you shed the facade of being a music lover for the sake of loving "cool" music. A lot of people wear their musical tastes on their sleeves, saying because they like such-and-such a band, they are better than other music lovers ('sup, hipsters).

The whole point of music, I'll stress, is to give an enjoyable experience to the listener. There was a time when I dismissed catchy Weezer songs because they were not cool enough. That time has passed.

So let Lil' Wayne rap on your album, Weezer. Sing about how "the girl got hot" and make it filled with illiterate rhyming couplets. Let grandma snuggle up with her Weezer Snuggie. I don't care anymore—I'm done with trying to be cool. Just keep making catchy tunes, and I'll back it.

Next up, Weezer and Miley Cyrus collaboration?

R.I.P. Fat Joe

It's been a morbid week here at Puke on Your Birthday.

With Mike's "JoePop," we lamented the death of Joe's beard. With a poor comparison to Degrassi, we mourned the loss of two old and formerly-prestigious Catholic high schools. In a look back into neighborhood lore, we mourned the death of a neighborhood homeless man. And with a solemn vow for cleaner lungs and cancer-free futures, we celebrated Nick's murdering a deadly habit.

It is my great displeasure to add one more to the list, a death more significant to me than all the beards, cardinals, bums, and cigarettes combined. Well, kind of.

R.I.P. Fat Joe
?? - October 2009

"Fat Joe," as we liked to call him, was the fattest old man I'll ever know. He lived and ate at the Lafayette Redeemer Retirement Home, and he lived to eat. Some residents get regular-sized portions. The more daring get a large portion. Fat Joe got the "FAT JOE SPECIAL."

He was loud and obnoxious. He talked about dirty things you didn't want to hear an obese senior citizen talk about. He made a mess of his table and rode away on his electric scooter at the end of his meal with a full stomach, full enough to induce a spare heart attack or two.

And yet, he was actually kind of cool, in a fat obnoxious way. He was never sad. He always was quick with a joke or quip. And regardless of the rules against such an act, he always gave the waiter a two-dollar tip.

I felt bad for him. He was lonely I think. He lived by himself, never married, and as far as I know, he never got laid, even though getting laid is pretty much a given for an old man in a retirement home filled with widowed old women. All he had was his dog (that looked like him...?) and his triple portion of roasted chicken leg with a large side of sweet potato.

About a month ago, he moved out of the home that he had lived in for probably a decade or more. His destination was a new apartment by the Delaware River, complete with (rumor had it) his own personal chef. I've served this man for well over four years, so it was bittersweet moment the last time I saw him roll out of the dining room. I said to myself that this would probably be the last time I saw Fat Joe. As it turns out, it was.

I can't say I'll miss Fat Joe. It was a sure sign of a bad day at the home when you were assigned to his tables, because frankly he was a pain in the ass—no matter how many two-dollar tips he gave out.

I won't miss him, per se, but our workplace certainly will forever be different without him. For every Sylvia, Eda, Lipman, and Ruth that dies, a part of me dies too. Fat Joe's death is no different.

I hope they serve Fat-Ass Portions up there in heaven, Joe.

Cold Turkey: Pt. II

Well, here I am, five hours in. Haven't broken the pact yet.

I'm pretty sure the lack of nicotine is causing the nervous feeling. It's also probably why I feel alternately  hungry and nauseous every five minutes. I also feel fairly cold. Very cold. I hate this. My body hurts, also. Then again, there was only one point I actually thought about how I was feeling and said to myself, "I want a cigarette."

After five hours I am placing the odds of me quitting at 50-50.

Cold Turkey: Pt. I

For as long as you have known me, fellow pukers, I have been a smoker. Hell, for as long as I've known the current incarnation of myself, I've been a smoker. I started smoking about five years ago, and it's become a solid part of every drive, party, workday, bad day, great day I've known over those five years. I literally have not gone a day without smoking in those years.

It is with a great optimism that I am willing to write these words. Tomorrow, at noon, I am officially attempting to quit smoking. For those of you that know me, this is not the first time I've said this, but it is the first time I am serious about it. This will be no easy task.

R.J. Reynolds (the purveyor of my trademark Camel Filters) has raped me of an estimated $10,000 over the years I've smoked. Those same Camels have robbed me of an estimated 254,800 minutes (or 4,246 hours; or 176 days) of my life based on that seven minutes for every cigarette.

Do I feel any hatred towards them? God no, I fucking love smoking. I enjoy the taste, the feel, the smell, everything about them. Cigs have gotten me through some tough as times. On the other hand, I'd love to save $10,000 over the next five years. I'd love to not die young. I'd love to learn to sing, be able to run the bases without needing an oxygen mask, be able to play a show without hurting for days. I'd love to wake up without coughing up mucous of suspicious colors.

I know it's not going to be easy, but I've decided to blog out every side effect of this endeavor, starting tomorrow after my last cigarette. You're going to know whether I have diarrhea or if I'm constipated. You'll know every mood swing, every urge. I encourage everyone to take bets on how long this will last.

PoYB from the Vault: Lenny and George

Wow, I forgot about the neighborhood bums! In this installment of "From the Vault," we find a Joe circa 2007 writing about that crazy pair of homeless men that wandered our streets back in the day. Some called them Lenny and George, after the main characters in Of Mice and Men. Perhaps other people had other nicknames for them. Perhaps they actually had real names. In any case, enjoy!

above: is that you, Lenny?

I love my neighborhood.

This small part of Pennsylvania, Northeast Philadelphia and the suburbs to its north, it is my life, it is where I was born, where I grew up. I have spent many Friday nights wandering these streets. I know every nook and cranny by heart. I can tell you every street name, and why each of those streets is important. And then I can walk down one of those streets, and I'll know everyone I see. It's home.

I love this neighborhood, and I love everything about it, from the water tower at Burholme Park, to the myriad of tweens that conjugate around the local Wawa, to the smashed bottles on the train tracks, to the guy in Dunkin Donuts who threatens to call the cops when I walk in. It's all a part of me.

I'm sorry to say that an integral piece of this neighborhood was snatched away from us a few weeks ago. The neighborhood bums, Lenny and George, are gone. One was ruthlessly murdered and thrown in a lake, the other has disappeared, whereabouts unknown.

I remember fondly all the memories of these two gentle folk. They lived a simple life—the two slept together in the shrubbery of Burholme park. They had only a few possessions, mainly consisting of a Flyers winter jacket, a shopping cart, and various boxes of beer and cereal. They could be spotted at the usual haunts on any given day; their favorite spots seemed to be Oxford Beer Distributor, where they lit up cigarettes and shot the shit; the abandoned trolley station, where they enjoyed reading the newspaper and drinking liquor; and the fence next to Pathmark, where they sat and enjoyed (or resented?) life.

I remember one time we spotted them in the bushes, trying to sleep at around six in the evening. One must have been half-deaf, as he kept yelling "WHAT?" at every word his companion spoke. It was a comical scene and a tragic scene at the same time. I remember one time I tried to get them to buy us some alcohol. They just laughed and chased us away. I remember mostly them walking around aimlessly, just like us kids, except they didn't have a home to return to afterward.

I was eating dinner tonight when my dad announced that they had found one of the bums floating face-down in a lake the other week. The police were trying to locate his closest friend—did he perhaps have something to do with this crime? or perhaps he would have some answers as to who the perpetrator was?—but to no avail. The other bum is long gone.

I wonder where he is now. I wonder if he has found another neighborhood to occupy. I wonder if he misses Burholme at all. I wonder if he still has that Flyers jacket. I wonder if he is happy.

Yes, we lost an integral part of our neighborhood. But life goes on.

I'll end this tribute by posting a poem I wrote about these guys a few years ago when I was going through a rough time. Childish, perhaps, but nevertheless a fitting tribute to two gentle folk.

"Living the Good Life"

Sitting on the cold steel,
of the abandoned railroad tracks,
In their shopping cart, they builds a stash,
of valuable knick-knacks.

A box of Honey Nut Cheerios,
A pack of cigarettes,
A Flyers coat, so worn and torn,
A few spare fishing nets.

By day, they sleep in shrubbery,
By night, buy kids some beer.
On weekends, frisbee in the park,
Sunny days, sky so clear.

This playground is their humble abode,
This beer-bottle stream, their bathroom,
This old wooden bench, they calls it their couch,
This wise oak tree, their bedroom.

They have nothing to worry about,
No hopes, no dreams, no cares.
Goddamn! I wish I had their life,
But life is never fair.

Goodbye Lenny and George. We'll miss you.

Degrassi All Over Again

above: not Degrassi

In 2007, a student of Lakehurst High School, Drake Lempke, killed Degrassi's mascot and popular student, J.T. Yorke. J.T. was well-liked, so naturally his murder was not taken well by the Degrassi student body.

To make matters worse, that winter, Lakehurst shut down (burned down, actually), so all those students were transferred to Degrassi. The tension was palpable, culminating in a full-on gang war between Degrassi and Lakehurst students. Toby made a threatening podcast, girls were tripped in the cafeteria (so embarrassing!), and Spinner got in fist-fights with Johnny DeMarco and Bruce the Moose, even though the fifth-year senior had testicular cancer at the time.

A few years later, Cardinal Regali shuts down two Philadelphia schools, Cardinal Dougherty and North Catholic, at the end of the school year. I guess a lot of those students will find themselves going to nearby schools like McDevitt. It might be weird at first, but I think as long as no one kills the McDevitt Lancer anytime soon, things will be okay.

Rest in Peace, Cardinals and Falcons.

Wiz Wit'

above: Swiss? Swiss?!

To those of you reading this who have ever spent time in or around Philadelphia, this should not be new information: Philadelphia makes the only legitimate cheesesteaks in the world. When you visit a state on the complete opposite side of the U.S., and you see that the local sandwich shop carries a “Philadelphia Cheesesteak,” you then start to realize how big of a cultural landmark Philly has created.

As a native for almost 21 years, I have naturally eaten many a cheesesteak. I have made the obligatory 2 AM trip to Jim’s in the Northeast. I have taken the pilgrimage to 9th and Passyunk to buy two cheesesteaks at a time—one from Pat’s, one from Geno’s. I have gone out of my way to taste a delectable Steve’s steak—for breakfast. I have spent countless hours discussing with friends which shop makes the best sandwich, and why you are wrong. I know my cheesesteaks.

What constitutes a great cheesesteak, though? Does it have to do with the quality of the actual steak, how tender it is? Does it depend on your choice of cheese, and how well it complements the meat? Could a good steak simply depend on how fresh the roll is?

For the sake of this article, we will assume that the four aforementioned steak shops make the best cheesesteaks in the city: Jim’s, Pat’s, Geno’s, and Steve’s. While there are many other shops around the city that make quality sandwiches, these are not only the tastiest, but also the most famous.

For those of you who are from out of state, you can attest to how well known the cheesesteak phenomenon truly is. When the new freshmen come to a Philly school, which opening weekend trip garners more participants: a bus trip to the Liberty Bell, or a bus trip to Jim’s on South Street? The latter of course.

However, as is the case with anything popular, there exists a certain social etiquette one must follow while enjoying it. As you may or may not be aware, there is a certain set of formalities one is called to follow when ordering a cheesesteak.

ONE: When ordering a cheesesteak, know what you want before you get to the front of the line; in all likelihood, there will be a throng of impatient and hungry Philadelphians waiting in line behind you.

TWO: Be succinct. We know you are ordering a cheesesteak. There is no reason to even say the words “cheese” or “steak” aloud.

THREE: What you should say is, first, your cheese preference, followed by whether you want it with onions or without. This should be shortened to two words. For example, if you want a cheesesteak with American cheese and fried onions, you should step to the front of the line, and tell the cook “American wit’” (Yes, that’s wit’, and not "with"—be sure to bone up on your Philly accent). Wiz cheese but without onions? That’s “Wiz wit’out.”

FOUR: There are many types of cheese out there, but you risk becoming making a fool of yourself when asking for any other cheese besides the three standards: American, wiz, or provologne. This is probably the reason John Kerry lost his 2004 Presidential bid—he ordered his cheesesteak with Swiss. Swiss?!

Now, don’t be too frightened. No one is going to beat you over the head for breaking the cheesesteak etiquette. When I questioned the grill man at Jim’s for this article, he simply laughed and shrugged. There’s no law on ordering sandwiches.

There is, however, a standard that native Philadelphians are proud to live up to, and they expect visitors to strive to do the same. It’s the equivalent of holding the door open for someone or wiping your shoes before you enter a house. It’s not mandatory, but it’s polite and expected.

So go, enjoy those wonderful cheesesteaks. Savor the taste that Philadelphians have enjoyed for countless generations. Just make sure that you show your appreciation by applying some social grace and proper behavior while ordering. Respect the cheesesteak. Love the cheesesteak.

Word of the Day

Today's word of the day is:

tweeker (n.)

According to urbandictionary, a tweeker is one who is addicted to meth or a similar drug. However, I've been hearing it used a lot recently meaning "whore" or "slut."

Thus, if someone calls you a "tweeker," they probably don't mean it as a compliment.

You may probably say that you've never heard this word, but I guarantee you'll hear it within the next few weeks.

Puke on Your Birthday: keeping you up to date on slang since 2008.