TV Review: The Real World / Jersey Shore

I don't mean for this to be a blog post about what show is better, because let's face it, neither show can be considered "great" television. Both shows have a cast of eight young adults that live in a house together, "have their lives taped," you know the deal. Often, so-called intellectuals will describe these programs as an equivalent to a "train wreck," in that you witness a seemingly horrible ordeal and yet you cannot look away. I will not attempt to argue away that description. I will be man enough, however, to concede that I unremittingly adore The Real World: DC and Jersey Shore, though for wholly different reasons.

Let's start with The Real World. Aptly nicknamed "The granddaddy of reality TV," this season's version is the 23rd Real World to grace our precious airwaves. Since the beginning, the concept has changed very little. Strangers come together, get drunk, romances flair, arguments blow up, and in the end, everyone learned maybe a little bit about themselves.

Often, the beauty of this show is that the people on it are real. The title, remarkably, is not a lie. When we watch The Real World, we see in it not Jenny from Oklahoma or Rob from New York, we see our family, our friends, and ourselves. It is, in essence, relatable.

Last week I watched uncomfortably as resident jokester Andrew attempted to figure out exactly what it would take woo housemate Carrie. He failed miserably, because let's face it, he had no game. He is outward and weird in all the best ways, but when it comes to women, he is hopeless.

I watched, and I didn't see Andrew. I saw me. Not only did I laugh when he declared that he "would make his move soon!" but I also could deeply empathize when he was turned down. When Carrie turned down his offer to "hang out alone in the back of the boat," I felt a tinge of sadness. It was as if Carrie had turned me down too. I could fucking relate, man.

There is a downfall, however, and it can be summed it by a Seinfeld quote. Jerry was dating a girl that was almost exactly like him in every way, but finally broke up with her. "Why would I want to date someone exactly like myself? I hate myself!"

I can relate to the cast members of Real World, but sometimes it's just better to watch something out of the ordinary, something absurd. That's where the real fun is. Enter Jersey Shore.

If the Real World were your group of friends whom you traveled with to the zoo, Jersey Shore would be the animals behind the cages. Like Real World, it features a host of eight strangers who live together. Unlike those relatable characters in Real World, the people on the Jersey Shore are about as relatable as the circus's bearded lady. When the Real World cast argues about God, the Jersey Shore cast just takes more shots.

Here we have Mike "The Situation," who uses his six-pack abs to pick up every sleazy woman at the beach. Here we have Snooki, who gets a cut on her lip and calls herself "disabled." Here we have Angie, who calls girls "sluts," but would love nothing better than to hook up with lots of "juiced muscle." Here we have Ronnie, who finally sleeps with the girl he likes, smiles, looks right into the camera, and says (with either an abundance of self-awareness or a complete lack of it): "Yeah, we smooshed."

The eight tanned "guidos" that we witness every Thursday are a testament to the depravity of modern television. It's strange that I actually live on the same planet as these people, yet there is the proof, on tape! We laugh at Pauly D and J-Woww the same way that we laugh at a college buddy drunkenly sleeping in his own vomit—with great humor mixed with just a hint of sympathy.

I fucking love Jersey Shore, and maybe this is why: the buffoons that I watch living and partying in Sea Side Heights are not only hilarious, but also they are not me. While the Situation is taking shots and making an ass of himself and probably contracting a few STDs in the process, I am in a comfy living room, laughing along with friends. I am not the laughingstock of pop culture. I am simply the one doing the laughing.

Real World and Jersey Shore, despite their clear differences, are pretty similar in that they are both indications of how sad and sorry we have become as a nation. But why not enjoy the ride? I can't wait to see Ronnie get in another fight tonight...

TV Review: Entourage

Written by Jim C****
PoYB Freelancer

Featuring: Vince (Adrian Grenier), Turtle (Jerry Ferrara), Drama (Kevin Dillon), and E (Eric Connelly)

This is the story of four neighborhood friends from Queens who set out to Hollywood to follow in the success of Vincent Chase, a full blown movie star. Turtle is Vince’s driver, "Drama," a.k.a. Johnny Chase, is Vince’s brother and a small time actor, and “E,” or Eric, is Vince’s best friend and manager. The four set off their dreams in Hollywood with their agent, Ari Gold (Jeremy Piven).

Throughout the six seasons that the show has aired on Sunday nights on HBO, the ratings have gone through the roof. I myself really never watched it until this semester, but I always wanted to, so I bought Season 1 and I immediately became addicted. The show has a humor and hilarity, all while the four friends become successful. Vince ends up doing a movie for James Cameron called Aquaman and it ends up being the highest grossing movie of all time. Drama ends up on a show called Five Towns that ends up having success despite bad reviews. Eric ends up expanding his management into the Murphy Group where he manages several small time actors. Turtle’s claim to fame is that he ends up dating actress Jamie Lynn Sigler of The Sopranos.

Personally, my favorite part of this TV series is that they use real celebrity cameos and have the actors play themselves. The cameos range from Martin Scorsese to T.I., from Michael Phelps to Mary J. Blige, and it really shows the actors as themselves and it really makes the show feel like a real Hollywood story.

All in all, Entourage is a great TV series, and I am glad I own all the seasons and look forward to it being on HBO for many seasons to come.

Restaurant Review: The Point

I have been sitting on this review for a while now. I know eventually it will probably morph from a review to more like a rant, and like always, it'll devolve into cursing a lot and exaggerating my hatred. God, "PoYB Review Week" is a such a bust. Well, I tried, didn't I?

Anyway, I'm going to try to fairly and accurately review The Point, which is La Salle University's fairly new pizza joint located in between its busiest intersections. It used to be called "K's," but halfway through my freshman year, my ambitious university bought it and it... sat abandoned for awhile. Finally, everyone got their shit together, and after much anticipation, President McGinniss cut the white ribbon, and The Point was officially open for business.

It was not worth the wait.

Let me start off by saying "no offense" to my buddy Kyle. He has worked there for a few weeks now, but I cannot blame him for The Point's offenses, since he started a few days after I swore off this goddamn establishment forever.

I don't want it to seem that the food is what bothers me, because the food is bearable. It's far and above local pizza shop Sorrento's, which makes Play-Doh-flavored pies. I'd probably even prefer it to the Student Union pizza, which is relatively tasty in its own right.

However, the pizza is not perfect by any means, and the taste is certainly not worth the absolutely atrocious service.

I'll be damned if I've entered the Point and exited in less than a fucking hour. An hour! For a pizza! At a shop that specializes in pizza! They don't know how to work the Gold Card machine, they don't know how to take phone orders, do they know how to unlock the door at the beginning of the day?

On my birthday, all I wanted was a goddamn pizza for lunch. I called an hour before lunchtime and put in my request: two large pizzas. "Uh, yeah, sorry man, we only have dough to make small pies." Not sure how that makes sense, but it's my fucking birthday, I'm not going to get mad. So I order four small pies instead. It takes an hour and a half. They try to make up for it by giving me an extra pie (so much for not having enough dough), but the fifth pie looks discolored and slimy. Fucking disgrace.

One time, it was 11:30 PM, and I was starving. Knowing full well they were closing at midnight, I called and ordered a large pie. "I'm sorry, you can't order over the phone, we are closing in a half hour." Well, can't I tell you my order now, and in a half hour I'll come and pick it up? "No, you have to come order in person." So I walk across the street... and they tell me they are out of pizza? First of all, you are a fucking PIZZA RESTAURANT, how are you out of pizza?! Secondly, and more importantly, why couldn't you fucking tell me that over the phone?!?!

About a week later, I was again really fucking hungry, and a little drunk, and it was only 10:30, so I ordered a large pie. Somehow, by the grace of God, it was finished and ready by 11:30. I take it back to the house, open it up... and it's burnt to shit. The whole bottom of the pie is black. Looks like it was baked in a coal mine.

Well, fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me as many times as The Point has, and I'm never going back. Never. Fuck The Point. Fucking disgrace. I'd say La Salle should be ashamed of themselves if they haven't already shamed themselves in a myriad of ways before this.

This could all be as a result of The Point being new and the workers not really getting into the groove yet. Maybe they will improve in time. I will never know, because I am never going back.

Video Game Review: New Super Mario Bros. Wii

Just about the only thing that New Super Mario Bros. Wii suffers from is high expectations.

The Super Mario Bros. series has traditionally set the bar for, ya know, the best goddamn video games ever created. My first game I ever played was Super Mario World, and it's still my favorite of all time. I remember the feeling of awe I experience while playing Super Mario 64 for the first time. Pick any game from the original Super Mario Bros. all the way to Super Mario Galaxy, and all you'll find is excellence.

And it's not that New Super Mario isn't excellent, because it is. It's just, it doesn't really add anything to the series. It's a rehash of everything we already loved about Mario. Maybe I'm spoiled. Maybe I should appreciate the wonderful little game that sits before me. I try. But I just can't shake that feeling that I've done all this before.

I guess another problem with my gaming experience is that I'm playing alone, and a huge part of this new video game is that, for the first time, up to four people can play any given level simultaneously. This is probably the titular "new" aspect of this particular Mario, and because I'm a lonely old bastard, I'm missing out on it. Let's be honest, when my friends do come over to play video games, we'll be busting out Rock Band. I tend to save the Mario experience for just me and Mario.

All this seems petty to complain about, because it's fucking Super Mario Bros., so of course it's going to be a great game. It really is. I continue to go through the game with much satisfaction and joy. It's packed with those special moments that only a Mario game could provide. However, when it's done, I probably won't revisit it that often. After 20 years, I still go back to Super Mario World all the time, and that's where New Super Mario Bros. Wii differs.

DVD Review: Lost, Season 5

DVD reviews piss me off.

Okay, I acknowledge the fact that this is an act of digging my own grave. It was my own goddamn idea to write a DVD review, despite the fact that I despise the very idea DVD reviews. So here I am, reviewing Lost's Season 5 DVD box set and shaking my head in dismay.

Should I even bother discussing Lost's content? I think we can all wholeheartedly agree that Season 5 of Lost was among the best goddamn seasons of Lost—nay, of fucking television in general—that it had ever been my pleasure to watch. It not only delved deeper into the character stories we have already grown to love, but it also touched on such nerdy issues as time travel, and it did so in a manner that anyone could appreciate, scientists and grandmothers alike.

Fuck, though! This is a DVD review, not a Lost review, so nothing that I have already described really matters that much. Yeah, the content of the actual episodes towers above most television in general, but what about the rest of the DVD?

It would be kind of sad that someone would buy the whole of Season 5 without being at least a little curious as to what Season 5 was all about. Those who have witnessed the first four seasons will appreciate this. Those who are buying it simply for a friend or relative, then damn, you have a chance to get involved in one of the most thrilling TV series of our decade.

How are the special features? More importantly, does it matter at all? When I got this DVD box set, I appreciated it for what it was—a legal way to catch up with Lost because it starts up again in February. I had not considered what special features were on the DVDs.

Trust me, it's not a lot. There's a few bullshit documentaries, such as: the cameras following around the dude that plays Richard Alpert; a series of behind-the-scenes in which the cast describes how they shot the toughest scenes this seasons; a short description on the methods that our scriptwriters use so that we don't blow our brains out with all these story devices.

Interesting? Sure, I suppose. But does this really add to the enjoyment of the series? I would say no. I realized this as I watched a short doc on how they filmed the scene in which Sawyer, Juliet, et al, were canoeing out in the stormy seas. When the behind the scenes shots showed me that they shot that scene in a pool on a sunny day, then it kind of ruined the sense of mystery and awe that the show had built around that set piece. Now whenever I see that scene, I'll notice how the cast pussied out when shooting the scene. I hate how the DVD altered how I perceive the Lost saga. Kinda ruins the TV magic of it all.

So, does this DVD set really matter? Meh, I guess. If all you want if the episodes in full, go to hulu.com. Every episode ever is still available there. If you want extras beyond the episodes that brought us to that thrilling hydrogen bomb cliffhanger, then you'll get but a taste of what you were looking for. If you are looking to see some episodes in high-quality video formats, and you don't give a shit about what is happening online or what bullshit the DVDs can give you, well then, I suggest you pick up this box set.

Book Review: Nine Stories

I probably averaged about a B+ average in my high school English classes. This, despite not really reading any of the books assigned. What saved me was Sparknotes. Thus, instead of reading 453 pages of Catch-22, I could just read 30 pages of Sparknotes. It not only gave me the synopsis of each book, but also what the book meant, what the author was trying to say, what certain things symbolized, etc. In other words, during that period of time I was supposed to honing my critical reading skills, I instead slacked off and never developed that ability.

So I can understand why I'm having so much damn trouble with Nine Stories.

J.D. Salinger's most popular book by far is The Catcher in the Rye, which was probably the only book I completely read on my own in high school (and, perhaps not coincidentally, sincerely enjoyed). Expecting more of the same, I delved into Nine Stories, and at the end of almost every story, my reaction was the same: "...What the fuck?"

Is Salinger fucking with me or something? Did he write this when he was the past the point of his caring, maybe right before he shacked up in a cabin in the middle of the woods, never to be heard from again? Because I can't make heads or tails of the short stories.

Some select stories include a guy with Post Traumatic Stress (apparently), an unhappily married drunk man (apparently), a kid who perpetually runs away (apparently). And I keep parenthetically saying "apparently" because JD Salinger never explicitly states any of these things. You need to pick up from the clues scattered around conversations that are themselves scattered amongst bizarre non sequiturs. Most of the stories end with no apparent resolution.

Again, is Salinger just fucking with us? Or am I so obtuse in my critical reading that his brilliance flies right over my head?

Shit, it might be the latter. After all, despite sometimes not making any sense (to me), his passages are wonderfully descriptive. For example, in describing a child's face: "His eyes, which were pale brown in color, and not at all large, were slightly crossed—the left eye more than the right. They were not crossed enough to be disfiguring, or even to be necessarily noticeable at first glance. They were crossed just enough to be mentioned, and only in context with the fact that one might have thought long and seriously before wishing them straighter."

Woah! I have to give my man Salinger some props for coming up with elaborate and creative descriptions like this time and time again throughout his nine short stories.

Each story is enjoyable up until they end. When they end, my joy ends and my confusion begins (save for the last story, "Teddy," which kicked so much ass).

Like I said though, it's probably just me being an idiot. I shall plow through this collection again to see if I pick up anything new. In the meantime, I recommend you check it out. It's no Catcher, but goddamn, Salinger can spin an interesting tale.

REVIEW WEEK

Here at Puke on Your Birthday, we specialize in writing about stupid shit that you probably have little interest in. Who cares about some pizza place, or that you're quitting smoking, or some silly little game we used to play in grade school? 98% of the posts you find on here are either angry rants or inconsequential lists.

Well, goddamn it, no more!

For the next seven days, we here at Puke are going to blow your minds with some real, actual reviews of things you might actually care about. Hard to believe, I know, but then, what we won't do to please our wonderful audience of three.

Here's the schedule for the following week:

Sunday — Book Reviews
Monday — DVD Reviews
Tuesday — Video Game Reviews
Wednesday — Restaurant Reviews
Thursday — TV Reviews
Friday — Movie Reviews
Saturday — Music Reviews

I'm hoping to have at least three or four posts each day, but who knows, maybe no one will post anything. And then after this week we'll probably go back to cursing a lot and making fart noises. Because that's what we do here at Puke on Your Birthday. We don't give a shit.

PoYB from the Vault: Blink 180Poo

I think this needs no introduction...

Smoking Ban

above: your typical college student

Well here's an interesting debate: Apparently, Widener University is planning to ban smoking from all of campus, both inside and outside buildings. I have to admit, I side with the smokers on this issue. (See the Inquirer article HERE.)

Okay, smoking causes physical damage to the body. That much is obvious, as every doctor, teacher, parent, and health advocate has jammed it down our throats since we were old enough to take a DARE class with Office Gallagher and Scruff McGruff. I have a few issues with a blanket ban, however.

First, there is a huge difference between secondhand smoke inside and secondhand smoke outside. It makes sense to ban smoking in bars. The toxic smoke will linger, and those trying to enjoy a nice healthy beer might not enjoy sniffing the sweet aroma of Camel Lights. Studies show that secondhand smoke is "the real killer." Hey, who am I to disagree?

I take offense, however, to the suggestion that there could be a significant amount of secondhand smoke outside. When a smoker exhales in the fresh air, the smoke billows towards the heavens, not towards your lungs. Unless you are standing right on top of an outside smoker—and if you have a problem with smoking in general, I don't see why you would be—then I cannot imagine it being a problem.

The second problem I have with a blanket ban on tobacco products is that it is a blanket ban on all tobacco products. I'm sorry, how are other people affected by chewing tobacco? Unless you are a dumbass like my buddy Dwyer and accidentally drink Kyle P****'s chewing spit, then there really is no need to worry about products like that.

The third problem I have stems from my mistrust of all authority (how very punk rock adolescent of me). In my eyes, this is just another excuse for people such as teachers and RAs to bitch at students who are just trying to mind their own business. Personally, I enjoy a fine cigar every once in a while. If La Salle were to ban tobacco products, I would lose this opportunity—with such a shaky disciplinary record already, who wants to risk losing their education over a Gold & Mild?

So smoking is getting kicked out of more and more places—bars, restaurants, now college campuses—which brings me to my fourth problem. Millions and millions of people smoke, and you can't just keep pushing them farther and farther away. They have rights too. At the Lafayette Redeemer, a retirement home I lovingly work for, workers were originally allowed to smoke in the kitchen (Christ, I probably wasn't even born yet). Secondhand smoke became an issue, so the smokers had to go outside on a picnic bench to smoke. Then the Laf became completely smoke free, so now my fellow employees go into the woods to smoke. What's next?

I concede that Widener is doing something right, in that they are offering free counseling and free Nicotine patches to those who want to quit because of the ban. Still, shouldn't this be the case regardless of whether there is a ban or not? If you want to quit smoking, then you should be able to use the University's help, and if not, why shouldn't you be able to smoke in the open air?

I also concede that some smokers are being idiots about the whole thing. Primarily, if smokers want the right to smoke (since the ban "impedes students' freedom of thought and freedom of expression" as a Widener kid was quoted in saying), then those rights come with responsibilities. I want smokers to be allowed to smoke outside, but are you really going to be such a dumbass as to smoke right outside someone's dorm window? If you want non-smokers to respect you, then you must respect them.

Overall, I guess that's what it comes down to. It's about respecting each other's rights, instead of just outright banning an activity all together. Colleges should respect the right to smoke, and smokers should respect other people's wish to live a healthy lifestyle.

Me? I have an opinion on the issue, as seen above, but I'm not really passionate either way. I can't stand the taste of cigarettes, and every time I try one, I cough like an eighth grader sneaking a cig in the schoolyard. However, I don't mind the smell in the slightest. I will thoroughly enjoy myself tonight at Rigney's smoky, opium den-like apartment tonight, and I will savor those luscious, cheaply flavored cigars.

Drunk Pizza

above: Kevin hates shitty pizza

There's a scene in The Office in which Michael, for some reason I forget, decides to order pizza for his staff. Except he gets it from a place that everyone really fucking hates, and someone (Oscar?) describes it as "a big circle of trash."

Pizza is sacred in American culture. Everyone has their favorite, and anything less than stellar is a piece of shit. For instance, I personally enjoy Vince's on Grant Ave., and consider it the best pizza known to man. I once dated a girl from New Jersey who described it as "adequate," and we no longer date.

However, as Bob Zimmerman once said, "Times, they are a changin'," and goddamn, he was probably talking about our economy. Honestly, I haven't been affected that much in the current recession. I am poor, however. I am in college, and recession or not, I'll be poor for the entirety of the decade.

So back to pizza. I want to go to Vince's every goddamn weekend and shell out $20 for every delicious large pie. It's just not possible though. I am poor!

If I can't afford my favorite pizza, what's left? Well, shit, I have recently happened upon a pair of the cheapest pizza places you can comprehend. I am poor, and I enjoyed pizza.

On New Year's Eve, Kevin and I decided we would hit up the newest Northeast Philly establishment for a quick bite to eat. It was Little Caesar's. Nestled between the dreaded DMV and it's dreaded test parking lot, Little Caesar's gave off a feeling of warmth and compassion. We entered the store, ten dollars in hand, and the server—within moments!—gave us our large pizza, eight pieces of Crazy Bread, dipping sauce, and a two-liter of Pepsi. For $10!

How was the pizza? Well, it was about as great as a $5 pizza could be. Kev was a bitch and complained that it was "too doughy." I, on the other hand, enjoyed every last bite of the six pieces I devoured. Yes, I ate roughly 3x as much pizza as Kevin did, and my I reiterate the fact that only weak pussy bitches cannot finish their meals.

I enjoy Little Caesar's, and it fulfilled me physically and mentally. However, emotionally, I still felt a void. My soul lacked something, and this intense longing was tickled when I saw a silly 30-second commercial for a previously unknown company. It was called Cici's, and they promised me endless pizza, pasta, salad, and desserts. ENDLESS.

Fuck the pasta and salad, Cici told me I could eat all the pizza I wanted for five dollars. Little Caesar's can go fuck themselves, because Cici's had no limit. I was free to stuff myself as I saw fit.

So, for a winter break adventure, I traveled to Cici's with the large-stomached Ed (also, the smaller-stomached Katie McC***). My challenge was steep. I had to match Ed, slice for slice. Any less, and I would never live it down.

Slice for slice we went. Every pepperoni was matched with a sausage. Every vegetable was matched with a buffalo chicken. Every ground beef was matched with a mac and cheese. And yes, they had mac and cheese pizza. And yes, it was fucking disgusting.

I felt like Rocky Balboa going fifteen rounds with Apollo Creed. Though, truth be told, we did those noble boxers one better and ate sixteen slices each. A truce was made: Fuck this shit, we need the desserts!

I paid eight dollars for 16 slices, a brownie, a cinnamon bun, and two sodas. That's a good price, right? Fuck yes, in this recession it is.

Listen, as I told you before, I'm a little poor. I wait tables at the retirement home and I put books back on the shelf at my job in the library, but the combination of those two jobs will never make me rich. I need good pizza, and I need it especially cheap. Little Caesar's and Cici's will do the job.

Digital Camera

The theme of my Christmas gifts this year was "Shit I Need For My Trip to Ireland." Accordingly, I received some warm clothing, a book about the cultures and traditions of Ireland, and a digital camera. The trip is a little over two months from now. In the meantime, I can wear and enjoy the warm clothing, and I can sit down and enjoy reading about those crazy Irish. But what am I going to do with this camera?

I am not a camera guy. I would just feel really freaking uncomfortable asking people to "get together so I can take a picture," or stopping the action of the gathering to "snap a great Facebook profile pic." I feel like that's more of a thing that girls (or Dave N*****) do. It's not even that I don't like pictures being taken; there's no better way to capture the essence of and reminisce about an incredible party. But I enjoy being in the pictures, not taking them.

So, I'll find uses for this camera, but you'll never see me using it for pictures like...

...the "Myspace" picture



... the "I'm getting so drunk" picture



... the "That concert totally fucking rocked!" picture



... the "I'm so sexy, please fuck me" picture (alternatively called the "I just farted" picture)



... the "Gosh I'm so artsy" picture



... the "Look at my new ink, yo!" picture



... the "Situation"

[Editor's note: originally going to be a picture of my stomach with drawn-on abs, but I deemed it too horrifying at the last minute]

... the "I'm Kev C***** and I take pictures of my lunch with my new Blackberry" picture



... the "Yeah I'm in a funny hat!" pictures





... the "Here are my friends, we are cute" picture



OKAY! You get the point. I'm not a picture guy. So what the fuck am I going to do with this camera other than take pictures of Irish cathedrals and pubs for ten days in March? First of all, I want to finally get around to photographing special spots in our neighborhood, maybe making it a series on PoYB and having different people write about each spot I photograph.

Other than that, I am clueless. Anyone have any creative ideas about what I could do with this camera?

Bringing in the New Year, 2010

Well, 2009 kind of sucked.

I don't mean to be dramatic. I am not going to sit here and say that every aspect of my year was terrible, because that would be a disgusting hyperbole. I had many, many great times throughout the past 365 days. I look back and remember fondly such times as parties down the shore, fun weddings, great times with my girls at C2, et cetera, et cetera.

I will, however, concede to the fact that overall, considering the year as a collective whole, 2009 fucking sucked.

Why is this so? Honestly, I don't feel like I am up to nit-picking any specific incident that added to the downer that was 2009. Instead, I will sum up the entire experience as follows: 2009 sucked because I did not follow through on my New Year's Resolutions.

Let's look them. This is copied from the December 2008 post, "Bringing in the New Year":

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.

I shake my head in dismay when surveying these four resolutions I set for myself. (1) Did I cut down on drinking? Well, actually, a little bit, and I was proud of it, but no one seems to notice regardless of what I do, so what does it matter? People ignore my progress and focus on those slight temporary transgressions. These people can go fuck themselves. (2) Did I refrain from getting written up again? I'm not at liberty to say (What's up, my homies in Community Development?). But let's just say that the very notion of living in the townhouses, though logical then, is little more than laughable now. (3) Did I get naked at a party? Sigh... at least no one took a picture this time. (4) Did I let girls affect me? Well, I spent probably the majority of my year playing a watered-down version of the male lead from 500 Days of Summer, and the rest of it wondering why there was no happy ending like there was in 500 Days of Summer, so... yes, I let girls affect me.

I guess all I can do is repeat what I said last year at this time, and realize that it still holds infinitely true:

"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."

So, take whatever irony you can extract from that quote (i.e., the fact that I have recently lost some good friends), and join me in saying "Fuck you!" to 2009. Because 2010 is here, it's a new decade, and all we can do is try to make this year somewhat better than last.

Happy New Year from all three or four of us here at Puke on Your Birthday!!!

Reflections on a Christmas Myth

Among pretty much everyone my age, there seems to be a general consensus: Christmas was a hell of a lot better when we were younger.

As we grow older, we start to see the holidays as a commercialized endeavor, an uncomfortable family ordeal, or simply a pain in the ass. When we were toddlers, it was a magical time of year. We became good boys and girls in hopes of avoiding that coal in our stockings. We decorated the tree with a certain panache. We laid out milk and cookies in order to impress Jolly Ol' Saint Nick, so that he would give us the toys we desire.

But as Nietzsche once said, "Santa is dead," and I argue that our gradual demythologizing of this once great holiday rests solely on this fact.

It used to be I got really excited for Christmas. I strived with all my might to be on the "Nice" list so that Santa would put the new Banjo-Kazooie N64 game under the tree. I knew that he was always watching, and I'm sure that it gave my parents a much-needed month-long rest from the constant fighting and bickering they regularly endured from my sisters and me. I looked forward to the phone call I'd get from the jolly fat man himself, personally checking up on me to see if I had been good. I got a little nervous to sit on his lap when he just so happened to be spending the entirety of the Christmas season at my local shopping mall. When I woke up Christmas morning, the question was: Did he come? And, oh my fucking God, I think I heard the pitter-patter of eight or nine reindeer on the roof last night!

Unfortunately, as I grew up, I wasn't a moron. The legend of Santa Claus slowly but surely crumbled around me.

It started with the schoolyard discussion: "I heard Santa wasn't real." I couldn't believe my ears. This was preposterous! Why would my parents, nay, society as a whole lie to me? Why would such an elaborate charade be constructed in the first place?

Yet, certain clues started to pop up that pointed to Santa's phoniness. There was the fact that my parents always seemed extraordinarily tired Christmas morning, even though they went to bed roughly the same time as me. There was the fact that they were doing an awful lot of shopping, even though they shouldn't have to have anyone to buy for—weren't Santa's elves shouldering that burden? Then there was the fact that, when my grandmom remarried, Santa suddenly stopped calling, and instead, "Ebenezer" was giving me a call. Ebenezer was Santa's self-proclaimed head elf, and he sounded an awful lot like my new grandpop.

This is all became too much. I needed to know. Was he real or not? So one day, while my parents were at work, I tip-toed into their bedroom, and sneakily searched under their bed for proof. And there it was. A Stone Cold Steve Austin action figure. It was on my Christmas list, and supposedly the elves were busy making it at the moment, but here it was, under my parents' bed. Christmas as I had always known it was shattered.

That Christmas I felt dirty. Here I was, greedily unwrapping gifts I probably didn't deserve, and all this time I had been thanking some old man that didn't even exist. My parents sloshed through the snow and spent hundreds of dollars, and they had never received the thanks they truly deserved. And Christ! If I had known it was them getting my presents every year, I would have spent a lot more on them then the $5 I was spending at the B.V.M. Christmas Bazaar! I felt like an ass.

So here we are. Older, wiser, and experiencing Christmas in a whole different way. Sure, I still appreciate it for all the good things it bears—a deserved break from school, a chance to spend some quality time with family and friends, maybe a neat gift or two.

But the magic is gone. And I miss it.

One Final Post About Stupid Shit on Facebook

In May of 2008, I was pissed off at Facebook. I have always been pissed off at Facebook, despite the fact that I go on the damn website umpteen times every day. So, in my bitterness and rage, I created a Facebook group (that, frankly, I was eventually proud of):

click to enlarge

I promptly invited all my Facebook friends (maybe around 500 at the time) to join the group. A bunch of them actually accepted the invitation to the group, and people got a kick out of it, but then everyone forgot about it.

Then a weird thing happened. I checked it out the other day, almost by accident, and, I fucking kidding you not, there are 977 people in this group, most of whom I don't know and don't even share any mutual friends with. This is ridiculous!

It's ridiculous for a few reasons. First of all, now instead of good friends posting on the wall, there are morons from the dark corners of the internet writing all kinds of stupid shit. And I love it:

click to enlarge

Secondly, it is ridiculous because it's sad to think how aimless people had to be in their Facebook trolling to happen upon some inane group page. What, did they search for groups with the word "hate"? Did they search for groups with illiterate Australians clogging up the wall? Or did they just search for "Facebook" and this was so popular that it was the first hit? I don't know, and frankly, I don't want to know.

Finally, I find it ridiculous that people care that much about groups anymore, because, as I've come to realize, no one makes or maintains Facebook groups anymore. The general trend has shifted to being "fans" of something. So, instead of joining a group called "Puke on Your Birthday Glorifies Underage Drinking and My School Expelled Me for It," you can just simply say you are a "fan" of Puke on Your Birthday (despite the fact that you would probably be a liar if you did so).

So, when I happened upon this little group, it felt weird. It felt sullied now that people shit all over the wall with idiotic statements such as "This group is a contradiction FTW!" (No one can appreciate intentional irony used for comical purpose anymore.)

But it also felt quaint, because Facebook has moved away from the idea of "groups." So I no longer get mad at groups telling me to "Join because if 1Million do, my grandmom won't die" or "If 3 million join, I won't drop my phone in the toilet bowl while taking a shit anymore." I don't get mad because it doesn't happen. Those groups are toast.

But goddamn it, there's still a lot of little things that piss me off. I know I tend to harp on this crap to the point of nausea sometimes, but it must be said!

—Why must people continuously quote from Texts from Last Night? Yes, we get it, you get drunk, and get into situations that other kids who get drunk also get into. You can relate to kids your age in the things they say. A novel concept!



—What the fuck are these stupid "question and answers" that everyone keeps posting on my wall? Why do the questions insist on being so picayune? And why do people answer them in such an uninspired fashion? I.e. "What is Joe's favorite thing to do?" Answer: "umm, idk."



In addition: Congratulations for being so clever, kids! About 4376 of you felt the need to reference my drinking habits in answering the question. "What would Joe do to increase his study habits?" Answer: "Well, uhh, he'd, uhhh, I dunno, finish a whole case of Natty and then like ten Hurricanes and he, like, wouldn't give a fuck!" So clever. Bravo! Bravo!

—When Facebook came up with the "Notes" application, I bet they were hoping that Facebook could eventually become something of a blogging tool as well. Unfortunately, it's turned into a wasteland of unintelligent surveys. Myspace lives vicariously through Facebook notes. Hell, I wouldn't even mind it if people actually wrote out funny or well-written survey answers, but most of the time it comes out like this:

click to enlarge

I could continue, humble reader. There are countless other things that annoy me on Facebook (how people who you don't even know wish you a happy birthday every fucking year; how increasingly stupid these unnecessary applications can be; how only 23 people are "fans" of PoYB), but I'll stop there.

I'm throwing in the towel because, in the midst of my compiling pictures for this blog post, I was invited to join a group called "See If Someone Is Stalking You" and I just about can't take it anymore.

Questions that you, the humble reader, may answer in the comments section of this blog post:

1) What annoys the fuck out of you on Facebook? Because I'm exhausted just thinking about all the possible answers.
2) Why do we continuously go on Facebook, even though it rots our brains and gives us cancer?
3) WHY THE FUCK IS EVERYONE RESPONDING "MAYBE" FOR MY FACEBOOK EVENT? WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?
4) Hey, remember when Mike had all the PoYB posts published as notes under his profile on Facebook, and at least three people told me how wonderful "Mike's post" about Michael Jackson was? The fuck? I guess his egregious actions could retroactively explain this:

Eureeka's Fucking Castle!!

A few days ago I posted a plea for a copy of Eureeka's Castle Christmas Special, because for the first time I can remember, the internet had failed me.

Well, some kind anonymous soul gave me a link, and it is everything I hoped for and more. Mr. or Ms. Anonymous, usually I'd call you a coward for staying anonymous, but today I want to kiss you. Thank you!!

So, with out further ado... enjoy!

Eureeka's Fucking Castle!

[Obviously there was a long-dead link left here, but you can now watch it on YouTube.]

2009 in Music

2009 was a weird year for music for me. I feel like a lot of the music I discovered this year didn't actually come out this year, so in telling you "the best music of 2009," I'm only giving you a fraction of the music I came to enjoy. In trying to come up with my Top Ten Albums for my school entertainment publication, I had a really tough time, simply because I listened to less than ten albums from 2009.

So, in that regard, I'm skipping writing my top albums here, and am instead presenting two separate Top Five Songs lists. The first is the top five songs of 2009, the second, the top five songs I loved this year that didn't actually come out this year.

Top Five Songs of 2009

5. "Rain On" by Woods




4. "Lust for Life" by Girls




3. "Lizstomania" by Phoenix




2. "You Go On Ahead (Trumpet Trumpet II)" by Sunset Rubdown




1. "Party in the U.S.A." by Miley Cyrus




Top Five Songs of Not 2009

5. "Dance Music" by the Mountain Goats




4. "Creator" by Santogold




3. "Make Your Own Kind of Music" by Mama Cass




2. "Letter from an Occupant" by the New Pornographers




1. "She Bangs the Drums" by the Stone Roses

Remember This?

The cover of a school newspaper, September 18, 2008.

Eureeka's Castle and the Limits of the Internet

I was all set to bring back the Top Five, humble reader. I had the vision of doing something in the Christmas spirit. Then it hit me. "Top Five Songs from a Christmas TV Special." And then I found out that there is, in fact, a limit to what you find on the internet.

Above is a forgotten Nick Jr. show called Eureeka's Castle. I'm not quite sure I remember the premise of the show. I only remember that they had a kick-ass Christmas special. In said special were a few songs, one beautifully sung by those furry purple and orange puppets in the picture there (Wikipedia says they are named "Bogge" and "Quagmire"). It was called "Put It on the List," maybe. But it was a spectacular song, and even though I can't for the life of me remember anything else about this show, I can still hear the song in my head.

But I can't find it on the internet.

So there is a limit to the world wide web. I mean, this is literally the first time I could not find something out there through a few well-placed google searches. Unbelievable.

This is a challenge, reader. Do me one better. Find this video on the web. Remember, the song is called "Put It on the List" sung by Bogge and Quagmire on Eureeka's Castle.

If no one is able to find it in a few days, I'll be forced to root through old boxes in the basement for a VHS copy of the special, but don't make me do that—my aunt's vicious cat lives down there.

Are You a Good Writer?

Here at Puke on Your Birthday, we try to be modest. We do not claim we are writing the next great American novel. No one is saying that we have perfected the English language. Hand in a copy of a post from PoYB to your Lit professor, and you might just fail the course.

On the other hand, we are for the most part not terrible writers either. I guess we are somewhere in the gray area between amazing wordsmiths and community college English writers.

So where does any particular piece of writing fall in the general scope of things? Use this easy ten-point scale to figure it out. A "10" is really fucking good writing, and a "1" is complete dog shit. Where would your blog fall?

THE "GOOD WRITING" SCALE

10 — The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

9 — Phil Sheridan's article on the Phillies' World Series win

8 — Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Chapter 36

7 — Highway 61 Revisited's liner notes

6 — Puke On Your Birthday

5 — The transcript of any given Degrassi episode

4 — My third grade social studies textbook

3 — The kid's menu

2 — My sister's xanga [a tragically broken link, forever lost]

1 — The Metro

Spare Change?

The following blog post was written by Joe K***, and reflects his thoughts and opinions during the time it was written. Looking back, he doesn’t stand by what he wrote anymore, for various reasons. Please read an explanation HERE. This blog post will remain published as more of a time capsule of how immature or wrongheaded I was. I do not agree with certain things that are written below. People change. I’ve changed. I am sorry.

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

the object of desire

They say that beggars can't be choosers. But what about those being begged?

I live in Philadelphia, which has the nation's highest homelessness rate among the top ten populated cities. I go to school in North Philadelphia, which offers a fair amount of beggars. I frequent the corner store to buy forties, which is pretty much guaranteed to feature at least three people, maybe more, asking for spare change.

This is not an assessment of the homeless situation in my great city. This is not Puke's editorial to "clean up the streets" or "build more soup kitchens." Though I am all about helping out the homeless (remember this?), I write this post about my experiences as one who has been constantly begged.

I'm not going to lie, I have given out my fair amount of change, for better or worse. But over the years, I've come to be picky about who gets my spare nickels and dimes. Consider the following examples, just in case you yourself one day are asking me for the contents of my pockets.

1) The beggar who asks for bus fare money.

Do I give him my change? Maybe.

I know what's it like to be short for token money, so I can empathize. However, am I being asked on a bus route? Can I see the bus coming? How desperate does the beggar look for money? All these things are considered in the "bus fare" situation.

2) The beggar who has a dog.

Do I give him my change? Yes!

Goddamn, it breaks my heart to see a homeless dog. Screw the owner, he better use that change to buy the dog some Puppy Chow.

3) The rude beggar.

Do I give him my change? No.

One day, I was walking in a Dunkin Donuts. Me and another lady approached the door at the same time. I opened the door for her. She did not say thank you. When I walked out of the store, she asked me for spare change. I have no spare change for those without manners.

4) The musical beggar.

Do I give him my change? Yes.

I always have respect for musicians, regardless of their economic status. Whether it be a guy with a trumpet outside the Linc playing the theme song to Rocky, or a guy with a guitar strumming away on Broad Street, or some random kook banging away on a bucket he pretends is a drum, the musician always gets my change, and all of it.

5) The hungry beggar.

Do I give him my change? No, I give them food.

I was always told that some people ask for money for food and just use it for drugs. Well, they can't all be like that, right? One time I was asked for change because "I am so hungry." So in addition to eight Hurricanes for a party, I bought a pack of crackers for the poor gent. He looked at the crackers and said "Man, fuck that." So much for hungry.

6) The thirsty beggar.

Do I give him my change? Probably.

I'll be going to get my forties, and a guy will stop me: "Man, I just really need a Bud Ice tall boy." I'll be damned if I didn't know that feeling! Here's a quarter, sir!

7) The carjacking beggar.

Do I give him my change? "Oh Jesus! Lock the doors!"

I was at a red light on 7th and Olney the other day, and I kid you not, some lady ran up to my car and literally tried opening the door to get in. I'll give you change, just don't kill me!

8) The con-artist beggar.

Do I give him my change? Fuck yes!

I was at a Phillies game, tailgating at Jetro, when some guy came up to my group with a "little wager." He was carrying around a little plank of wood, three cups, and a marble, challenging us to guess which cup the marble was under. The guy was obviously hammered and kept dropping the cups, which ruined his ruse. Then the cops came and shooed him away. Hey, at least the dude was creative. He earned his money.

9) The con-artist beggar, part II

Do I give him my change? Shit, I guess I did

I was waiting for the R8 downtown when a guy asked me if I had change for a dollar. I did, and being the good Samaritan I am, I gave him four quarters... and then he ran away. Without give me the dollar. He made me look like an ass, I guess that's worth some change.

Regardless of whether the giving change helps alleviate poverty or just perpetuates the problems, homelessness is a real issue in Philadelphia.

I might regret this post later if it comes to seem like I am putting myself above these people. I am not. Like I've stated above, I can empathize with many of their plights—the need to get on a bus, the need of a beer, the use of music to make life better.

I just wanted to highlight some of my experiences with beggars, and the myriad of creative ways they try to shake me down for those coins. Man, Philadelphia is awesome.

Inspiration from Essays Past

Man, fuck this. An essay is due tomorrow. I should really finish it now. I stare at the topic, and it looks like nonsense:

"Thomas Beaudoin’s book Consuming Faith has the intriguing subtitle: 'integrating who we are with what we buy.' What does the subtitle mean to Beaudoin, and what does this integration have to do with faith? 4-5 pages."

Goddamn it. I can't make heads or tails of the topic. Not that I really can do much with essays nowadays anyway. I can never bring myself to start a paper until, oh, two hours before it is due. When I do finally start it, I bullshit and crank out the minimum amount of words and never think about the subject again. You could say that I'm in an essay slump.

It's especially disheartening because I used to be so damn good at writing essays. Things were never this hard. Why have I changed? What went wrong?

I need to delve into my past to try to figure it out.

As a consequence of procrastinating, I came across a packet of old essays and projects from grade school that my mother had saved. Seeking inspiration, I looked through them and tried to pick up from where I left off, tried to recapture some of that old magic. Here are some examples of what I found:

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

Seventh Grade

"The Wizard of Oz: Dorothy Goes Back"

This is the story of what happened to Dorothy after she returned to the Land of Oz.

It all started when Auntie Em and Uncle Henry got in a fight. They eventually divorced, and Uncle Henry moved to Las Vegas. Auntie Em sold the farm and started her own fast-food chain called "Auntie Em's Famous Toto Burgers." Dorothy, getting sick of recent events, moved to Oz permanently.

When she arrived though, it was not the beautiful paradise she once knew. The munchkins were at the peak of a civil war, and the poppy field was ruined in a fire. The fire spread to the Emerald City, and the Scarecrow, forgetting about his flammable body, tried to put out the flames. He died on August 23rd. The Cowardly Lion was nowhere to be found, and the Tin Man has retired and started his own collection of flying monkey skins.

After the Wicked With of the West was melted in Dorothy's previous visit, her castle was turned into a Motel 6. That is where Dorothy and Toto slept.

In the morning, Dorothy decided to go for a walk. She walked toward the Yellow Brick Road, but to her surprise, someone had painted it purple! As she pondered over who would commit this hideous crime, the Cowardly Lion appeared. He greeted Dorothy and asked if she wanted to accompany him to the royal palace of Zo. That's Zo, not Oz. It was located about five miles away from the Emerald City. Dorothy agreed and joined the lion on his journey to the palace.

On the way, Dorothy noticed something strange about the lion. He was moving a bit stiff and his joints, especially his knees, were making weird clunking noises. "Is something wrong, Lion?" questioned Dorothy. "You are coming with me!" he exclaimed. He then took off his mask and revealed his true identity—The Wicked Witch of the Northwest!

The witch took Dorothy to her castle and enslaved her for the rest of her life. If you take a trip to the magical land of Oz today, you'll see Dorothy at the castle doing chores for the Wicked Witch. Unfortunately for Dorothy, she never lived happily ever after.

Does this help me with my essay-writing today?

Despite the awfully pessimistic ending, the obvious rip off of Return to Oz, with a brutally simple plot, I managed to get a 98 on the paper. Maybe that is the trick—just write simple stories about magical lands. I'm sure my religion teacher would love it.

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

Sixth Grade

"My 'I Am' Poem"

I am an exciting, intelligent guy with a creative mind.
I hear the rain singing a beautiful hymn of joy.
I wonder when the final judgment will come. I see the sun dancing on the rooftop.
I want to watch the sun set below the mountains.

I pretend I am hiking on the trails of Kilimanjaro.
I feel the icy cold wind blowing the hair off my head.
I worry that I will trip and fall off the cliff to a horrible death.
I cry when I reach the bottom but then remember I left my car at the top.

I understand I might not be able to achieve all my goals.
I try to reach out and touch other people's lives.
I hope to one day establish a world of peace.
I am an exciting, intelligent guy with a creative mind.

Does this help me with my essay-writing today?

What the hell kind of magical mushroom was I tripping on when I wrote this crap? Good lord. If I handed in something like this for a religion essay, I'd at best get a chuckle out of my teacher, then a sigh, then a tear, then a big fat F.

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

Fifth Grade

"Andy the Ape"

A Fable by Joe K***

One day, deep in the jungle, a monkey was born. His parents named him Andy, Andy the Ape. He was skinny and frail. As Andy grew older, his friends started to tease him about his skeleton-like body. Poor Andy. One day he decided he would do whatever it takes to become strong. He exercised and worked out for ten years. Today, Andy is the strongest ape in the jungle.

Moral—Work towards your dreams, and they will come true.

Does this help me with my essay-writing today?

I think perhaps I could end this essay on a more appropriate note if I added the following: "And then Andy realized that looks weren't everything. After trying to work out for one day and then giving up because he couldn't even do a push-up, he grew old, lazy, and developed a beer belly. Not many girl apes liked him."

I'm starting to think that maybe I was never good at writing essays in the first place.

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

Third Grade

"It Was Wonderful!"

I went camping. I was at the campground with my friends Matt and Tom. We have a greart [sic] time. We went fishing, had a [sic] canpfire and went in the pool (there was a pool across the street). That night we went on a hayride. After that we went to the dairy barn and got some ice cream. Then we packed up and went home. The end.

Does this help me with my essay-writing today?

Well, that was truly wonderful, wasn't it? So inspired! So original! I actual don't remember this camping trip ever happening, so it's possible I made it all up. Maybe that's the way to write an essay—just make a bunch of shit up and hope that I spell "great" right instead of spelling it "greart."

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

Second Grade

My favorite hobby is to collect trading cards. I have about 200 of them. It is fun to collect them.

Does this help with my essay-writing today?

God, this sounds like a story you could find in the Metro newspaper. So no, this doesn't help.

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

First Grade

I like to play basketball. It is fun.

Does this help with my essay-writing today?

Yes, I swear to God that was my entire essay. If my teacher was asking for a twitter update instead of an essay, then this might pass. But unfortunately, college papers require more than eight words.

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

Kindergarten

This is fucking absurd. I swear to God, this is a picture of an essay I wrote in Kindergarten:

Does this help me with my essay-writing today?

Oh man, I wish it did! Look, all we had to do in Grade K was scribble lines and pretend they were actually words. Adorable. I am really curious as to what this story was about. Based on the bright blue X, apparently it tells the fictitious tale of the time my father and I murdered a turtle.

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

So I've gone back to the basics, and tried to figure out how I lost that essay-writing magic that I once held so dear. Unfortunately, no sequels to The Wizard of Oz or shaggy dog stories about turtle murder will help me with my essay about Faith in an Economic World.

FUCK.

Turning 21: Part III

Part III: The Future
Or, a Noble Attempt to Follow Up on Mike's Heartfelt Post Yesterday

Well, it's finally arrived. Today, I have turned 21. I will finally be able to have my first beer.

Thus far, in my multi-part celebrations here on our beloved PoYB, we have discussed my drinking in the past, and my distaste for the law presently. In our final installment, I'd like to discuss my future, as a legal drinker.

In many regards, my 21st birthday will have made the biggest impact in my life, out of any birthday I have ever experienced, or ever will. I could get my driving permit at age sixteen, I could stay out past curfew and buy porn at age eighteen, and I could, um... buy cigarettes in New Jersey at age nineteen. But goddamn it, now I can drink!

So, all in all, huge changes are in store.

And yet, nothing will really change at all.

Okay, so, changes. One big change will be that a burden I've carried for years will finally be lifted. No longer will I have to constantly be on alert for cops at a tailgate gathering. No longer will I have to figure out how to get alcohol when even the shadiest Olney beer distributor starts carding. No longer will I be at a party and figure out my escape route when the cops inevitably bust it. I will be free from the law that has oppressed me and my peers for far too long.

Another change is the added responsibility. To quote Spiderman in what has become a terrible cliché: "With great power comes great responsibility." Just because I can go to the bar legally doesn't excuse me from the chance that I could still take a trip to the hospital. There's still a wide margin of error, and I need to continue to control myself.

In the last few months, I've done a lot to change myself for the better. With being a half-step away from being expelled from my ever-so-strict university, change was needed. I think thus far, I've done a great job. No use letting my age hinder further progress.

So all this shit is changing just because the calendar has turned from November to December and I find myself a single year older. Yet, I look around and see that nothing has really changed at all.

Tonight, I will be going to McNally's and drinking my first legal beers. I will be attending this bar with friends that I've always shared beers with. The place will be different, but the experience will be the same.

My friends and I have been through innumerable experiences together while drinking. We've hung out in backyards, in subways, next to fire pits, in pools, on beaches, and inexplicably, on a polo field. We've shared many inside jokes, laughed hard, left many a meal unfinished. From that first Yueungling snuck out of the cooler at the '01 block party to that glorious day we will road trip to the Miami bars and beyond, my friends are what made the 21-year wait worth it.

I don't care what kind of laws Congress passes, my reasons for drinking have always been the same. It's there to have a great time with your friends.

Nothing has changed.

Happy Birthday, kid. You made it.