Random Phone Pics

My phone is a piece of shit, and it's going to break soon. Consider it a miracle that I have not yet sat on it, lost it, or broken it in half out of anger over an ex-girlfriend. I concede to the fact, however, that its days are numbered. What scares me the most is that I will lose the myriad of treasures stored on the phone. Treasures in the form of pictures and videos.

So I figured it might be fitting to get these little gems off the phone and onto the computer before it's too late. Of course, most of these pictures will embarrass my friends, so of course I'm plopping up here on Puke on Your Birthday.

Pictures of old people are disqualified because I already posted pictures of them, and the more I think about it, publishing those photos might be illegal. Pretty much every picture I have is of a senior citizen, though, so I guess this blog post was pretty stupid. Onward!


I call this one "Dwyer in a Hole"



"Dwyer in Denim (a.k.a. the Canadian Tux)"


"I Make Light of Potentially Serious Injury"


"Jim Doesn't Drink He Is Just Holding Up an Empty Beer Bottle" (True story)


"Drew Is Not Ronnie From Jersey Shore"


"Teddy Roosevelt"


"Dave in a Dress"

And...

Thirsty Thursday: HERMIT

Yes. Waaaaaaay back in September of 2008, Puke on Your Birthday had a wonderful little weekly column entitled "Thirsty Thursday," written by fellow PoYB staff member Michael. It was an attempt to chronicle the misadventures in dealing with alcohol. In other words, an exploration of the new and exciting ways to enjoy our favorite beverages.

We've already covered the tasty Shanty and the elusive Flaming Dr. Pepper [BOTH DELETED]. What's next?

This is my attempt to resurrect this long forgotten regular column, and what better time to do so then right before summer? Four months—that's 120 days—of nothing but Thirsty Thursdays.

So look for PoYB's "Thirsty Thursday" to appear, well, every Thursday, from now through the foreseeable future. I have as many as four ideas right now, so hey, enjoy it for the next four weeks at least.

And now, for Episode 3:

"Hermit"



I don't know about you, but I'm getting sick of beer pong. I know! Gah! Blasphemy! I'm still in college and I don't wet my pants over beer pong!

Seriously, though, it's getting boring. I mean, nothing changes. Line your cups up in a triangle formation. Shoot your ping pong ball. Chug a beer or two. Yell at your opponent for allowing his wrist to cross the length of the table. Etc. Etc. I've feel like I've played enough games to last me a lifetime. Furthermore, I feel like there's nothing left to accomplish. Team Green has made a name for itself. I've gone 20 wins in a row with Michael. And, to top it off, it just kinda of seems like such a... freshman thing to do. Ya know?

Even more upsetting is the fact that Kings, too, has fallen out of favor. While I may not have created the game of Kings, my Rockledge rules have been honed and perfected over time, and it's how we play around these parts. But even so, everyone just groans nowadays when they have to play yet ANOTHER round of "States" or "Never Have I Ever." It's worn out, baby.

So what next? Do we succumb to the wallet-emptying bar nights with old men, or the It's Always Sunny style poisoned flip cup, or the inane nights of just binge drinking and talking without games at all? Never. NEVER! A new game has risen from the ashes and threatens to take our Thursday nights by storm. Its name is "Hermit."

And actually, it will probably sound pretty stupid.

The basic premise is as follows: Everyone grab around five beers—six for the tough-guy drinkers, four for those who tend to vomit like I do, but NO LESS than four. Then find an isolated area. Everyone try to grab a different room. If there are more people than there are rooms, someone can sit in the closet, or maybe a top bunk while another person is bottom. Just make sure you cannot see anyone else.

Then everyone puts their cell phones in a bag. Then the curtains are drawn, the lights and all electronics are turned off (don't forget the microwave's clock!), and the electricity, if possible, is completely cut off.

The game lasts a half hour. You are not allowed to leave your isolated area, not for any reason short of mortal danger. You are not allowed to speak to or make any sort of contact with anyone whatsoever. Just sit in the dark in silence, and finish all your beers.

I know, I know. This sounds like a horrible idea. It sounds like every school counselor's worst nightmare. I mean, the reason we are not alcoholics is because we DON'T sit in the dark and drink by ourselves, right?

But, having played hermit once, I have to admit... it's pretty awesome.

First of all, the 30 minutes feel like five minutes. Seriously, it goes by in the blink of an eye. Secondly, without distractions, you are able to drink really quickly. Four beers in a half hour is double my usual pace, but I did it with ease. Thirdly, one must remember the ultimate purpose of the game—to jump-start a party. When the 30 minutes are up, the lights go back on, and everyone stumbles out of their hermit hole, quadruply drunker then they were before, and the party begins with a bang.

This summer I will try to convince my friends around the neighborhood to play hermit once, and they will all look at me and laugh and shake their heads and comment on how Puke on Your Birthday is full of dogshit, but I maintain my belief that Hermit is a respectable and ultimately worthwhile drinking game.

Better than beer pong, anyway.

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

Next Week on "Thirsty Thursday"... Four Lokos!

God's Favorite

If you missed your chance last weekend, come out this Thursday, Friday, or Saturday night to see La Salle's production of God's Favorite. See the video for details.

Come see my laughable attempt to play an old man, an even more laughable attempt at acting sober, and my downright absurd attempt at pretending that God considers me His favorite.

'Tis the Season of Giving: My Worst Gifts

Presentation B.V.M. was a wonderful grade school to attend, and one of my favorite parts of the school year in my parish was the Christmas Bazaar. The old ladies with nothing to do and the stay-at-home Moms would set up all kinds of booths in the Church Hall, selling food, Christmas crafts, booths with games and fun activities. It was a great time of year.

In the corner of the hall there was a section blocked off with wrapping paper. It was called "Santa's Secret Workshop." In it, a few tables set up with trinkets and doo-dads that cost no more than five dollars. This was for the little first and second graders who wanted to do their Christmas shopping on a limited budget.

In first grade, I think I bought my dad a plastic screwdriver, my mom a three-page flip book, my sister a bottle of invisible ink, and my aunt a Chinese finger trap. Not my finest gift giving.

But hey, I was in fucking first grade, I had an excuse. I had neither the money to get anything better nor the means to get anywhere else besides the Secret Workshop to buy anything.

If that was the excuse then, what say you of the terrible gifts you have given in your young adult life, dear Joseph? Because looking back, I've really fucked up on more than a few gifts.

Sure, there was the occasional thoughtful gift, like giving my mother that Nicholas Sparks book she so desperately wanted, or buying my father Phillies tickets, or getting my aunt a KISS in Concert DVD (she's a big fan of Gene Simmons). But for every thoughtful gift like these comes a gift that... well, is somewhat regrettable. For instance:

—Jim's 16th birthday. We thought it was be funny to get our ol' buddy Jim the board game "Dirty Minds," because we all knew he had the most innocent mind in our little circle of friends, and we all busted his balls constantly about it. It was poor planning on my part though, because obviously his strict parents would never approve of such a board game in their household, and Jim ended up burying it in the backyard. What a waste of $20.

It gets worse.

—Clara's 21st birthday. The party was in Delaware, and we, in Philadelphia. Halfway through the hour-long drive, I screeched on the brakes—we forgot a gift! Being typical college kids, we were strapped for cash. Then, a beacon of hope appeared on the horizon. Steve's Discount Liquors. Delaware lacking the taxes that its brother to the north is burdened with, me and friend Meg went halfsies on a $5 bottle of wine. Which we then gave to Clara, unwrapped. And then we ran out of beer. So me and Meg took the wine back and drank it ourselves.

It gets worse.

—Cindy's 17th birthday. This is one of those things I thought was a great present at the time, but after a year or two, looking back, is infinitely regrettable. The story goes that I used to have a website (a xanga, specifically), on which I would write "poetry." Horrible, horrible, horrible. It's embarrassing thinking about the stream-of-consciousness horseshit that I passed off as poetry on that damn website. Anyways, the only person that thought anything of it was my good friend Cindy. So, thinking I was hot shit, I printed out all the poems on the site and put them in a binder, along with a few new "poems." Not only was I a cheap bastard, but I think I was more than a bit full of myself in giving this gift. Thankfully we are still friends.

But it gets worse.

—Katie's graduation. My good friend Katie and I had grown close in the last two years of high school, like a brother and sister. We had done the school musicals together, went to proms together, and she even started hanging out at Burholme, which pretty much means that you are a friend for life at that point. Naturally, we deserved to give each other some thoughtful graduation gifts. I was going through my cigar phase around this time, so she, being the wonderful friend she was, bought me a nice cigar box, and filled it with all my favorite flavors of Phillie Blunts and White Owls. It was one of the best gifts I have ever gotten. My gift to her, well, um.... a vibrator.

It gets worse.

—Well, actually this gift is deceiving. Chrissy's Christmas present. She had been my girlfriend for a few months at that point. I got her a tongue scraper.

Was it really that bad though? Or was it actually really thoughtful?! Here's the full story. We both had birthdays at the beginning of December, and I took her out to a fancy restaurant and furthermore wrote her a heartfelt letter. She got me a badass Led Zeppelin box set. Good shit. In the spirit of being poor college students, we agreed that our Christmas gifts to each other would be less than $5 each.

She had a tongue scraper on her dresser, and I would always joke around with her that I would use it without her knowing, so one day it skeeved her out so much that she threw it out. So my gift to her was a new tongue scraper, along with a typed and signed document promising that I would never, ever use it under any circumstance. (Full disclosure: I really did use that first tongue scraper on my own tongue in a drunken stupor. She was right.)

Now tell me that isn't the best goddamn $5 gift you've ever heard of! Especially given the fact that I received a coupon for five free Checkerburgers.

So yeah, I've given some shitty gifts in the past, but I try, don't I? I mean, yes, there's been a fucking poem book here and a vibrator there, but at the end of the day, it's the thought that counts. And despite the fact that my present to Jim remains underground and Clara's was dry-heaved out the next morning and Katie's lay unopened in the deepest depths of her sock drawer, I still have the chance to give the best gift of all: friendship.

If that wasn't a useless blog post, I don't know what is.

Family Fucking Circus

The Family Circus is horrible. Just fucking horrible. I say this with a deep regret, because the guy who created it is a Philly native. I love this city and all, but c'mon, The Family Circus is fucking horseshit.

Consider the following two comics, and how truly awful they are:





Aw, ain't that just the cutest? A little girl mispronouncing a word. A boy misunderstanding a simple question. Gee, these kids are something else, aren't they?

Well, I can't take much more of this. My leisurely Saturday morning has been ruined too many times. All I want to do is enjoy my scrambled eggs and white toast with a little OJ and the funny pages, and that damn circle with the unfunny family residing in it RUINS EVERYTHING, every time, without fail.

It ends now.

With a little help from my friends Microsoft Paint, Biting Sarcasm, and Copyright Infringement, I'm here to deface the name of Family Circus. Enjoy my home-brewed version of this human abomination, and feel free to send us here at Puke your very own Family Circus comics!

"You've Never Seen...?!"

I can't wait to watch you dance for two hours!

Summer is approaching, and of course we all already have our BIG SUMMER PLANS ready to go. Will we finally build that go-kart we've been wanting to build for the past, what, four summers? Whose parents are going away first, and by extension, who is having the first house party? And will Kevin, David and I (fuck you Mike) actually fulfill our dream of making the drive down to Florida to see our beloved Phillies?

This is the shit I daydream about during the last few weeks of school every year. Big plans, getting everyone together, drinking a few beers, getting shit done.

I excitedly anticipate all the big parties and lasting memories we will make in Summer 2010, but there is one thing that I'd like to do, on a more personal note.

If there's one thing that I have slacked off on these past 21 years, it's watching movies. There's been many a time when someone makes a movie reference, and I say, "I've never seen [movie]."

"WHAT! You've never seen [movie]?!?"

And I'm getting sick and tired of it. It's not a matter of wanting to conform and watch movies just because all my friends have seen said movies. It's more that I have a nagging sense that I'm missing out on something. That because I haven't seen a particular movie, that my life is incomplete.

Of course, some movies that I've never seen I may have not seen for a good reason—like, they suck ass—but nevertheless, it's not worth the risk. I must make a concentrated effort to become a well-rounded film-watcher. And it starts this summer.

The following is a list of ten movies that I pledge to watch this summer. I have not necessarily "always wanted to see" these ten movies, but my friends have wanted me to see them for years, and goddamn it, this summer, I'm going to do it.

THE LIST
(In alphabetical, not necessarily chronological, order)

1. The Big Lebowski—Who is the Dude? Why does he like White Russians? What's up with that scene where the cremation blows all over his face? I need these questions answered.

2. Bull Durham—I can talk from sunup to sundown about how big a baseball fan I am, and yet I've never seen the iconic baseball film. Shame on me.

3. Citizen Kane—This is supposed to be the greatest movie of all time, but I'm just going to go out on a limb and say I'll be mildly disappointed by it.

4. Die Hard—Apparently he's just a regular guy in this movie, but by Die Hard 4 he's jumping motorcycles off helicopters or something. We'll see.

5. The Goonies—This one is big in my neighborhood, though it never really interested me that much myself. It features the kid with the burnt ear from Stand By Me in it, though.

6. Reservoir Dogs—Full disclosure: I actually did sit down to watch this movie once, but it was with my first girlfriend ever, in sophomore year of high school, and we were alone in her house, and I didn't watch the movie.

7. The Rocky Horror Picture Show—I'm in a college theater organization, and I've never dressed up like a transsexual and done the Time Warp? Wha!!!

8. Scarface—Say hello to my little friend: The fact that I feel like less of a man because I've never seen Al Pacino shoot people.

9. Up!—A very recent film, true, but shit, it's a Pixar film. I need to make an effort to see this.

10. When Harry Met Sally—Probably ruined fake orgasms for everyone else.

This is my personal goal for this summer, and somehow I'll try to fit it in between working two great jobs, rolling the keg into my new house, hanging out on the beach, and driving down to Miami for the Fightin' Phils.

PoYB from the Vault: Cosmo Kevin

In the grand tradition of making fun of my friends, I present to you a video that appeared on CosmoGirl.com a few years back. Go to the 3:45 mark to see our own Kev C***** as the bashful and handsome prom date.



This is not an April Fool's joke. Kev was really on Cosmo Girl.

Bye Leann!

She stands at 5’3", sporting a powerful smile, an awe-inspiring laugh, and the phrase, "Shut your dick!" at inopportune moments: Leann Toth (THAL).

Yes, the Laf has lost many employees over the years, but this, my friends, is by far the most powerful blow to the Lafayette family. The Lafayette Redeemer has been eradicated of a distinguished giggle, the phrase "Shut your dick," and a best friend to all. You see, Leann was one of a kind. She could effortlessly make you laugh at any moment throughout the day just by being herself. Leann’s one-liners distinguished her as a comedian, and her kindness displayed her as a saint.

When Leann first started at Lafayette Redeemer at the tender age of eighteen, she, like all other new employees thrown into the elderly jungle that is the Laf, was a mere phantom ducking and lurking in the shadows of the kitchen. It was not until a simple house party that this personable beast was unleashed from her shell. In July of 2004, former Laf employee, Colin Snyder (Dishwashers Union), threw parties five of the seven nights his parents were away. It was during that week that Leann made her mark... through beer pong. After a successful night of beer pong, one person mentioned Leann’s skills to another former Laffer, Kate King. Kate responded with: "That new girl Leann is adorable." And from that very statement, a beautiful friendship was formed. Kate was sort of a ringleader at Lafayette and took Leann under her wing. From there, Leann rose in the Laf rankings. She is now known and loved by all.

Here are some Leann highlights as well as characteristics that will forever echo throughout Lafayette Redeemer:

• Leann didn’t think turkeys were real. It was her belief that turkeys were to Thanksgiving what Santa Clause was to Christmas.
• She nicknamed one female resident "Ben Franklin," because she blatantly looked like Ben Franklin. The nickname has stuck ever since.
• She always wore socks with designs on them.
• She made out with Chris Higgins at a Phillies game.
• She made out with Colin Snyder... after she finished puking.
• When Leann’s sister, Maris, said, "I’m not Irish," Leann responded with "Oh, me neither."
• Leann’s nickname was "Leannderthal," which was later shortened to, "THAL."
• When Leann hated a certain employee she would relentlessly tear them apart.
• "Shut your dick" and "Horrendous" were phrases you would hear every single time Leann worked.

If anybody wishes to add any Leann memories, please don’t hesitate to do so.

Leann has moved on to bigger and better things at [new employer], but her personality still lingers like the stench of the smelly guy from E7 (God rest his soul).

In the words of Leann: "Shut your dick!"

Happy Birthday Kev

The day is finally upon. Our very great friend Kevin Joseph C***** has turned 21, and he can now enjoy his very first beer. First beer, right? Right?

Yup, the kid's never had a beer in a his life.

In all seriousness though, happy birthday Kev. Tonight will be a really great time—shit, it better be, you've been talking it up for about four years now.

It's Spring, and You Know What That Means

Unless you count the high piles of black dirty snow in the mall parking lots, pretty much all traces of winter have melted away. Sure, it's a bit rainy out there, but that's okay—at least we won't be out shoveling tomorrow morning.

Spring is upon us. This means many things. It means that my stupidity in losing my jacket last weekend at a bar is rendered moot. It means that soon the warm weather will add yet another item to the list of reasons why it's damn near impossible to do my homework anymore. It means I'll spend less time in the stifling student Union eating my brown paper bag lunch and more time outside on the benches in the quad eating my brown paper bag lunch. It means I can finally ride with windows open in my brand new 1991 Toyota Camry—which also means I'll have to be conscious about singing Ke$ha too loudly when I'm at a red light. It all means that life is going to be fucking great once again.

Of course, it also means it's baseball season.

To kick off the season, I got a letter in the mail from the Phillies. They wanted me to join a "Baseball Fan Club" and pay more money to them every month for just the chance to call myself a true fan—fuck all that. But there was a little booklet explaining what baseball means to us, and it was a pretty good read:

"We enjoy everything about the greatest game ever played, from a perfectly executed hit and run, to a towering home run, to a 6-4-3 double play. Whether it's a 1-0 pitchers' duel or a 13-11 slugfest, we can't get enough! So what brings these fans together? We love that baseball is a timeless bridge that bonds generations of families. We appreciate the fact that hitting a baseball is the single most difficult thing to do in any sport. We like the flow and unpredictable nature of this game that isn't confined by a clock... just the players, a diamond, and nine innings. We like the sunshine, peanuts, popcorn, and aroma of juicy hot dogs at the ballpark!"

That's a bit corny, yeah. Isn't it so true too though? There's just something about this game that makes it far superior to any other sport.

And it's upon us once again. The men in red are in Clearwater as we speak, honing their talents for the big opener on April 5th. After that, it'll be six (or seven) months of chilling on the deck drinking beers and watching the game, listening intensely during the ninth inning while I'm driving to work, tailgating (legally!) at Citizen's Bank and witnessing it firsthand, making memories...

Will Roy Halladay be all he's cracked up to be? Can Brad Lidge erase any memories he has of last season? Can Rollins, Utley, Howard, et al, stay healthy? Will the Braves pose a legitimate threat this year? Will the young guys step up to carry our bare bullpen? Can the Phillies win it all again?

I'm going to enjoy this thoroughly.

There are about 23 days until Opening Day, and it can't come soon enough. Let's go Phillies!

"Getting a Head Start on the Weekend"

Puke on Your Birthday has been a little dry lately. Sorry folks. I have some ideas for some new posts, coming soon. I think everyone's just been pretty busy.

In the meantime, enjoy this new song by Titus Andronicus that could probably be the theme song to PoYB if it wanted to be (it doesn't).



Don't worry, it's not actually the theme from Cheers. Possibly better.

So, enjoy, and hopefully I can get this shit back on its feet sometime in the near future.

If We Make It Through December: Our Calendar of Songs

In the general scope of reasons what makes a song great, the title ranks relatively low in importance. However, I still find it interesting to see how songs that are otherwise radically different can be grouped together due to their titles. In today's post, I will shortly explore twelve songs, all that have the name of a month in their title. Think of each as the best from their respective month.

"January" by Pilot

I've never heard of Pilot before googling "january in song title," and it's not hard to hear why. It's incredibly corny. At least it's upbeat, which I can appreciate.

"One Heavy February" by Architecture in Helsinki

I don't know why I have this shit on my iPod. I could never get into the whole "twee" thing. It's too... cute. Still, it's the only bearable song with February in it.

"Ides of March" by Iron Maiden

Oh good, a heavy metal instrumental. As is the case with "One Heavy February," this was about the only song with the month's name in it that I didn't hate with a passion. I guess no one with musical ability likes name dropping the calender?

"April 8th" by Neutral Milk Hotel

It came down to either this or "Avery Island / April 1st" by the same band, but that song is yet ANOTHER instrumental, and I'd rather have Jeff Magnum all mopey than no Jeff Magnum at all.

"May This Be Love" by Jimi Hendrix

I know he wasn't actually referring to the month of May, this is one of my favorite Hendrix songs (fuck "Hey Joe") so it goes on this list.

"June on the West Coast" by Bright Eyes

I'm not sure how well known this song is, but it goes to show how damn good Bright Eyes (Conor Oberst) can be just solo acoustic.

"July, July" by the Decemberists

This is the song that gave me the idea to find other songs with months in the title. It's vintage Decemberists, before their prog-rock phase, and one of the best songs of all time, probably.

"August" by Love

I love and enjoy Forever Changes by Love, but this song is noticeably different from the music on that album. You can tell it's written by hippies. I kinda like it.

"Wake Me Up When September Ends" by Green Day

I will defend Green Day's American Idiot until my dying day, but still... this song was murdered by the radio. I don't want to listen to it anymore.

"October, First Account" by Be Your Own Pet

From the people that had us screaming "Just kidding, fuck shit up!" when we got a little too drunk in the woods, here's probably their only song that doesn't want to make you actually fuck shit up.

"Mr. November" by the National

Not sure if they are trying to be political here or not, but it doesn't matter. Listen to an otherwise subdued band go batshit crazy.

"Nightingale / December Song" by Sunset Rubdown

"And in this way, you will come find me in December."

There you have it, folks. Twelve songs for twelve months. I was thinking about doing seven songs for seven days of the week, but seriously, the only good song was "Sunday Morning" by the Velvet Underground, so it's not worth it. Anyways, hope you enjoyed some of these songs, and I hope you don't hate me too much for yet again putting together a bullshit blog post.

Puke on Your Donut

This morning I found myself not in the least bit hungover. Whenever this happens, I celebrate by going to the local La Salle Dunkin Donuts. It was a normal trip. I got my standard sausage, egg, and cheese on a toasted biscuit with a chocolate milk. It was tasty, as is fairly typical of Dunkin Donuts. However, as I was on my way out, something caught my eye, something out of the ordinary.

It was a poster describing a contest Dunkin Donuts was having. "Create the Next Donut!" it proclaimed. Whoever created the winning donut design would win $12,000 and free donuts for a year. Instantly, I knew this was a job for Puke on Your Birthday.

Contributors and humble readers of PoYB: let's create our own donut. Let's win this fucking competition and show the world we can do more than talk about Miley Cyrus and cheesesteaks. Let's make the "Puke on Your Donut."

The site doesn't let you make just any old donut, unfortunately. It gives you a list of options that you must choose from. Here they are. Check out all the options here. [broken link]

My goal is to create a donut that encapsulates something that we hold near and dear to this blog. I'm not really sure what that is yet, but in about a week I'm hoping to have a good idea of it. Then maybe we can have other people contribute their own ideas, and if one of us wins, we split the prize.

What do you say, Puke nation? Let's make some fucking donuts.

Look for another post or three later this week with our submissions.

Why I Like "Party in the U.S.A."

Back when I posted my Top 5 Songs of 2009, I wasn't being an asshole when I picked "Party in the U.S.A." as my #1. As someone who has a bit of an "indie" taste in music, people couldn't understand why I enjoyed this song so much. For a while, I couldn't even tell you. It was a song that just made me feel good.

I was at a party a few weeks ago when a somewhat pretentious music snob tried to engage me in this very conversation. I was having none of it. She kept badgering me: Why do you like this song so much? I tried to walk away. She pleaded: just try to dissect the song and give me some concrete reasons why! I left to grab another Miller High Life.

But it's a lovely Sunday afternoon, I already had my Valentine's Day date this morning, all 26 minutes of homework have already been completed, and I'm bored as fuck, so I think it's about time I take up the challenge of backing up my opinions.

Reasons Why I Like "Party in the U.S.A." by Miley Cyrus:

1. The opening guitar rift is catchy, you have to admit this no matter how hipster you are.
2. Then the snare drum cracks, kind of like the drums at the beginning of "Like a Rolling Stone" that Bruce Springsteen declared "sounded like somebody'd kicked open the door to your mind."
3. The synths sound strange at first, but eventually they really do work in the context of the song.
4. Miley's voice is sexy. Don't kid yourself that it isn't.
5. The lyrics are simple, which is a nice change from the SAT vocabulary of Colin Meloy, the moody poetry of Thom Yorke, and mile-a-minute lyrics of any rap or ska.
6. The lyrics, while simple, also present a comforting message: No matter how shitty life can be (e.g. you find yourself in an uncomfortable situation, or you are the only one without stilettos), it can all be handled with a little optimism.
7. It also speaks of the healing properties of music, to which we can all relate. How many time have you found yourself in a shitty mood, only to be lifted by your favorite song?
8. Liking this song might be somewhat embarrassing, but some of my favorite humor is self-deprecation. Thus, the fact that liking this song made me look like an asshole makes me like it even more.
9. The song is fun for everyone who allows him or herself to enjoy it. Anecdote: my school's Jazz band was playing an hour-long set at a dance marathon, and there is only so much jazz you can play when people want to dance, so we had to scramble to find a closing song. Our guitar player just started playing the "Party in the U.S.A." guitar rift, I kicked in on drums, and everyone that was there sang every fucking word of the song. Some of the most fun I've had as part of the band. It was a big highlight of the night, and it brought everyone together.
10. It promoted—at least in my own mind—healthy discussion as to what music is supposed to be. Can a simple catchy song such as this be equivalent to the dense lyrics of Neutral Milk Hotel? Does music have to be "smart" to be good? Or is it all about the emotions music evokes? Does it even matter? Having Miley as my favorite song of the year perhaps helped other people question their own tastes in music, and those who thought they were "too cool" maybe brought themselves down a notch and appreciated something different for a change.

So what do you think? Is it such a bad thing to enjoy a simple pop song? I personally don't think it is. Don't worry, I'm not about to throw out my collection of Velvet Underground albums any time soon. I can still appreciate "smarter" music. It's just... it's just nice to turn on Q102 every once in a while and hear something like "Party in the U.S.A." or "TiK ToK" or "Bad Romance" and just enjoy it for what it is.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some more pressing matters to attend to—Hannah Montana is on.

Food Review: Wit or Witout

I recently ate at Wit or Witout, a cheesesteak place on Red Lion Rd. just before you reach the Boulevard. I ate there for a few reasons: I was off from work; I was hungry; cheesesteaks never fail; it was $4. In January the cheese steaks cost $3 and each month the price will go up $1 until it reaches $7.

Now, I'm not THAT guy. Ya know, the guy who feeds people some cheesy line such as, "The best cheesesteaks aren't from commercial places like Pat's or Geno's. The best cheese steaks are the ones you find in the small places in your neighborhood." I despise those people. I somewhat agree with them, but I don't go around preaching it like I'm some kind of martyr. That being said, I compared this cheesesteak to the one's I've had from places such as Steve's or Geno's, and will do so in this post to take advantage of the universal experience the readers have had at those big name cheesesteak places.

I ordered wiz wit.

Much like Steve's Steaks, Wit or Witout uses long slabs of meat. I'm personally a chopped meat kind of guy, like at Jim's Steaks, but I enjoy slabs as well. The cheese wiz kicked my tastes buds with a spiked boot. It was strong and good. Some steaks overpower the cheese, but not at Wit or Witout. The chopped onions were all chopped onions could be, as were the hot peppers. The hot sauce, on the other hand, was just right. Geno's has hot sauce that can potentially ruin a cheesesteak. It's just too damn hot. The hot sauce at Wit or Witout was hot, but delicious.

The service was slow, but it was hard to tell why. The place was packed, yes, but most cheesesteak place lines move swiftly. I'm going to conclude that the service was slow because each worker was inexperienced in the world of deli. I think the owner should've hired only experienced workers. As far as politeness goes, if you knew how to order and didn't pitter-patter around the pick-up window, then you were good to go. If you were slow, didn't know how to order, and strayed away from the pick-up window when you were up, then you got scolded and embarrassed in front of the entire eatery. There's nothing wrong with that. Have you ever been to a cheesesteak place where the people behind the register were cuddly?

Overall the place gets a 7 out of 10, as do the cheesesteaks. Go there and check it out.

Save Your Spot

Well, it's been a rough winter thus far, with more snow than I can remember having in a long time. And we're supposed to get even more snow tomorrow, which is absurd. Don't get me wrong, I'm loving it. It gives us kids a well-deserved break from the hustle and bustle of school life and allows us to just relax, be snowed in, and enjoy each others company over some day drinking.

I have to say, though, that this year, something is different. One aspect of my life is now affected more than it was in past years. You see, this is the first winter I own my own car, and it is a pain in the ass in the snow. My '91 Camry is terrible on the roads, and constantly just shuts off, sometimes right in the middle of Broad and Olney.

The worst part, however, is saving your parking spot. Because I refuse to shovel my car out for an hour only for some damn thief to enjoy my hard work and steal that dry rectangle in the street.

Which got me thinking. How was I going to save my spot this year? I think it's pretty lame when someone just puts a chair or cone to save a spot. There are many more creative solutions to this problem...

A construction worker


Because they just stand around all day anyway.


A patronus


Expecto Patronum!!


A case of Pabst Blue Ribbon


Gross! No one is going to go near that shit.


The girl from The Incredibles


She could, ya know, do that force field thing she's good at.


Otto Rocket, Reggie Rocket, Twister, and the Squid


They just wanna do some gnarly backflips on that sweet powder! Woogity woogity woogity.


The Super Bowl Shuffle


This may provide them with a reason to stay relevant.


The Smoke Monster


Or the Man in Black. Or Fake Locke. Or Esau. Or whatever we're calling him these days.


A dizzy crosswalk from Rockledge


Not that people affected by these crosswalks should be driving, anyway.


Jay Leno


He seems to be good at keep his spots, even when some people say he may not deserve them.


Lady Gaga's penis


Ah, who am I kidding? You could totally park a car on it.


A strict RA


"No playing water pong in this parking space!"


The bum from "Billie Jean"


What, do you think Michael Jackson dressed him up for no good reason?


Oh boy, I'm so glad I skipped doing my homework to put together this shit blog post.

Here's to Life: Reflections on J.D. Salinger

"What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though."

These words of Holden Caulfield take an added layer of meaning after the death of his most intriguing and prolific author, J.D. Salinger.

Let's have a show of hands: who knew J.D. was even still alive? I'll be honest, I wasn't so sure myself. After all, he hasn't published any type of writing at all since 1965, and hasn't given a single interview since 1980.

"Hey there Salinger, What did you do?
Just when the world was looking at you
To write anything, that meant anything,
You told us you were through.
And it's been years since you passed away,
but I see no plaque, and I see no grave.
And I can't help believing, you wanted it that way."

Streetlight Manifesto was right, in a way. J.D. Salinger was so obviously a versatile writer, and even his frustrating messes like short story "Down at the Dinghy" are appreciated simply because they are written in such an interesting and captivating way. Salinger probably could have taken a shit on a slice of paper, folded it in half, and we would all call it a work of art.

But instead, he gave up writing, and for 45 years, sat on his natural ability while hiding in the woods.

Alright, it may be selfish for people like you and me and Streetlight Manifesto to be pissed about all this. So maybe we hoped and prayed for The Catcher in the Rye II and didn't get it, and that makes us upset, and we don't really have a right to be.

Still though, I am not going to mourn over Salinger's death. If Holden talked about wanting to call Salinger and have a nice chat, Salinger would ignore the phone calls. He was a bitter old man shacked up in the wilderness.

And yet, he just so happens to be a bitter old man who churned out one of my favorite novels of all time, so I'm conflicted. I guess I will simply have to take solace in the fact that, while J.D. Salinger is no longer with us, Catcher in the Rye will always be.

So I say, rest in peace, J.D. Salinger, even though the only time it ever felt like you were alive to begin with was when I read your writings. You will live forever through your novels and short stories, even though you probably don't want to be, you miserable hermit.

"Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody."

Another Bitter Eagles Fan but with a Different Rant

Ahh, so here we are. Football limbo. The week between the conference championship games and a game called the Super Bowl that most Americans pretend to care about just so they can shamelessly get intoxicated on a Sunday evening.

I’m a huge Eagles fan, as are most of the regular visitors of this blog. We all know that we’re not the classiest, nor the gentlest of fans on the face of the planet, but hell, we’re true fans. The way this season ended was different from the other hurtful endings. We lost to a franchise with the most disgusting following in the world. Yes, I said the world.

The body of this post needs no mesmerizing lede, nor does it need anything close to a cathartic tone. So, I’ll cut to the chase: Fuck you, Dallas Cowboys fans... who are not from Dallas.

Giants fans and Redskins fans never really pissed me off because they are true fans who geographically coincide with their team. There was even a fat fuck in one of my math classes back in sophomore year who was a Dallas fan. I didn’t mind him. The catch: he was from Dallas.

I don’t what it is with you assholes from Philly who are Dallas Cowboys fans. Do you just like to be different? Do you enjoy antagonizing people? Do you have a relative or friend who plays for the Cowboys? If "none of the above" is your answer, then I’m going to guess that you’re a Cowboys fan because your self-esteem is so low that you feel the need to favor a winning team. Are you a Yankees fan too? Or a Penguins fan? Grow a dick. Unless being a Cowboys fan is helping you get laid, go kill yourself, or become a real sports fan. Whenever you get heckled by Eagles fans your only counter-insult is, “So how many Super Bowls have the Eagles won?” What a great, original, and well thought out comeback, now stop living in the past. If you’re my age, the last time you saw your Cowboys win a postseason game before this year was when you were eight years old. Yes, eight. You couldn’t vote, you never smoked, you never drank, you never touched a girl, and you had divorced Nick Jr. from your life only a year or two back.

Let me put my hatred for these fans into perspective: There was this guy from Temple who we’ll called Dan. I spent four years with Dan, sharing many classes with him. Dan was a huge Phillies fan. He would spend a week in Clearwater, Florida to see the Phils during spring training every year. Dan loved the Flyers. He was only a few rows off the ice for the Winter Classic. Dan and I would have numerous conversations about the Phillies and Flyers and I admired Dan’s knowledge of both teams and sports in general. However, I could not be his friend, nor could I respect him at all. The reason being that this double-crossing fuck was huge Cowboys fan. In case you haven’t noticed, by his Clearwater treks and great Winter Classic seats, the piece of shit was rich. He and his dad also used their money to buy Cowboys tickets in Dallas once a year. I just couldn’t get past the fact that he was a Dallas fan and I, for the most part, hated him.

So go, all you pathetic human beings, go celebrate your team’s first post season win since 1996, and cry over getting manhandled by some dinosaur named Brett Favre. Savor your love for being an asshole—you’re good at it, and I sure as hell hope it’s the only thing you succeed at. I hate you.

The Kids Love Irony

Optimism, Again

Ah well. It happened, the thing I dreaded most. I've been kicked off my trip to Ireland. No longer will I spend ten days and nine nights traveling around the Emerald Isle, visiting ancient cathedrals, the birthplace of my ancestors, or the multitude of pubs. The payment I made was non-refundable. It was $2650.

I'll be okay. In fact, I can think of many reasons this could be a good thing:

• I'm scared to leave Rockledge anyway.
• Now I can spend my spring break serving food to old people.
• I drank one Natty Light last night, and it was the best $2650 can of Natty Light of my life.
• They say "only the good die young." This may mean I'll live forever.
• La Salle can sleep soundly at night now that they have kept their biggest troublemaker at home.
• I can sleep soundly knowing I'm not going to blackout in a foreign land.
• At least now, by banning me from the Travel Study, La Salle is treating me like an adult. On the trip, they were going to treat us like children with an absurd 11 o'clock curfew.
• Now I know where St. Miguel's Resident Coordinator lives.
• When I visit my grandparents' house, maybe now they'll talk to me about something other than Ireland.
• Nothing can overshadow our upcoming summer trip to Florida.
• Ireland doesn't have Hurricanes on tap.
• I was pretty sure Continental Airlines #22 was going to crash on Lost's island. Or did the nuclear bomb change the course of time...?
• I know now that my patron saint is not Saint Miguel.

Alright, hey, obviously this is all a joke. I'm really fucking bummed I'm missing out on such a great opportunity. But what else can I do other than make light of the situation and try to do better next time?

After all, there are more important things than money, and I have the whole rest of my life to go to Ireland (and without a curfew!).

I've often questioned myself as to whether I am being optimistic or simply immature to take a grave matter so lightly. I honestly believe it is the former. What good would it do to mope and complain? What's done is done. Things happen for a reason. It'll all get better soon. Need I drop on you even more clichés?

This is "Emo Joe," signing out.

Finish Your Meal

This is one of those PoYB posts that not many people are going to find funny. The title of this blog is subtitled "Our Neighborhood: Tales and Opinions," and though the "opinion" part tends to be universal, the "tales" segments tend to read more like an inside joke. It is our privilege and our duty to bring our neighborhood's nuances to our mass audience, but ultimately, it is only a select few that will actually enjoy the tale spun.

In this vein, I present you with the story of why Kev C***** can never finish his meal.

Well, okay, we all know why Kev C***** cannot finish any meal that is set before him. The answer is obvious—he is a pussy. A well-loved pussy, certainly, but a pussy nonetheless. So I guess the question is not why he is such a little bitch when it comes to eating food, but why he continues to be one, why he will always make bullshit excuses as to why he cannot finish, and why, despite the hours upon countless hours we have spent busting his balls on the subject, he still refuses to change this terrible and cowardly habit.

The picture at the top of this post is a picture of my plate at the end of a $20 meal Kevin and I shared at the local Applebee's on chilly Wednesday night this past winter break. Note that the only thing left on my plate are the bony remains of my BBQ ribs and a few inconsequential crumbs. Anything that was edible ended up in my stomach, despite my not really being that hungry to begin with.

Some cultures look towards muscle strength as an indication of power. Some instead turn toward brain strength. Here in our little nook of Northeast Philadelphia, we look to stomach strength. (Mike will now surely chime in and state in his squeaky little nerd voice that the stomach is also a muscle, which supposedly invalidates my argument, at which point I will tell him to go fuck his Ivy League self— you see, I find ways to knock ALL of my friends down an equal number of pegs.)

If we truly do consider eating a feat of strength and a source of power, than that makes me the prince, and Kev the pauper. After all, look at his fucking plate at Applebee's on that same night I cleaned my own plate:

Pathetic. This picture captures but a mere moment in the long history that is Kevin C*****'s abnormally small stomach. Remember all those diner trips during which Kev ordered two breakfast sandwiches and only ate one? Remember that time at Chickie and Pete's that saw Kev pussy out yet again, and so I was forced to step up and finish both my meal and the rest of his (which, of course, led to me vomiting a big mess of crab fries moments later, but doesn't that make it all that more badass?)? Remember that drunken post-lacrosse-watching dinner at Treetops, when I literally ate TWICE what he ate, and he still had to resort to hiding food UNDER HIS PLATE?! (embarrassing us both in front of the buxom Pattie Flanagan?!)

It has become one of the longest running inside jokes that I am a part of. While it's true that a lot of my friendly insults lobbed toward peers involve fabricating shit out of whole cloth, this one is entirely true. Kev's eyes really are ten thousand times bigger than his stomach.

Tonight, we trekked to the new cheesesteak shop, Wit' or Wit'out, right off of the Boulevard. It was a pretty nice joint, and I was in a good mood, so we didn't even discuss Kev's pitiful eating habits on the way there like we do before any typical food trip. I was particularly hungry, so I bought two American wit'outs. Kev bought one steak and cheese fries. I finished both my steaks before he finished his first.

And STILL, an entire half of the cheese fries order remained on his plate! I didn't even call him out on how much of a weakling he was being; instead, I questioned: "Why can't you just finish them?! The power to stop all this heckling is in your hands! You may even avoid a fiery blog post about your shortcomings if you just finish these fucking fries just this one fucking time in your goddamn life!!"

But there they sat, greasy cheese dripping off that handful of limp uneaten french fries. In the battle of Man vs. Food, Food always wins, and Kev is never a Man.

Of course, the joke may be on me, because I don't see any beer belly on him.

Still, Kevin C*****, I implore you to hang your head in shame. Because you never fucking finish your meal.

The Purple Orchid II

It was a rainy Tuesday morning in Miss McHugh's sixth grade classroom. Recess was in session, and after the Pretzel Captains handed out the morning's pretzels to all who had paid the 25-cent fee, we all settled down to enjoy the quick break that had been afforded us before English class. As was the norm, I gathered among a few acquaintances who watched WWF as fervently as I did. Having watched a thrilling Monday Night RAW the night before, I expected to discuss it as such, but something more pressing had been brought to the table.

"Dude, we did it," whispered Keith. "Did what?" I asked curiously. Mike spoke up, "We got into the Purple Orchid II." "WHAT?!"

As difficult as it may be to imagine now, the Fox Chase area was at one point called home to one of the seediest strip clubs in Philadelphia. It was located right there at Five Points (the complex intersection of Cottman, Oxford, and Rising Sun in the NEast). Nowadays it's a Crown Fried Chicken:

But back then, it was known as the Purple Orchid II. If my memory serves me correctly—and I was only twelve at the time—the outside of the Orchid was a dump. Beer bottles and trash were everywhere. Shit, had it not been for its notorious reputation and bright purple sign, I would have thought it was an abandoned building.

My aforementioned wrestling fan acquaintances did, in fact, slip into the Purple Orchid II one afternoon after Presentation BVM let out at 2:30 (Okay, fine—allegedly). How they got past the beefy bouncer, I'll never know. "Did you see any nipples?" we all inquired. "Yeah, I think we saw one or two, before the bouncer kicked us out."

Somehow, allowing sixth graders to enter the building wasn't the worst of it.

I've always wondered what the hell happened to the sleazy establishment. Up until Crown Fried Chicken expanded into the Northeast by occupying the Five Points building, the Purple Orchid really did turn into an abandoned building. Like I said, it already looked abandoned, so when it was vacated for real, nothing much changed.

Rumor had it that the club's owners were busted for drugs. I don't know how sixth graders would obtain this information. I don't even think I knew what drugs were at the time; Officer Gallagher didn't tell us anything about them in DARE class, except, "Don't do 'em, kids." Yet, somehow, when we passed the Orchid on the way to Custard's Last Stand, someone would inevitable insist that drugs were the cause of its demise.

In my search for answers, I stumbled upon a few documents that tell us a story of crime and decay. But let's start from the beginning.

According to a 2001 Northeast Times article, there had been a "Go-Go bar" located at that location since 1961 (holy shit!). Before that, it was a family restaurant, but now "neighbors think that the former owner of the restaurant rolls over in his grave when he sees what's happening." (Ha!)

From 1961 until 1997, it was owned by a local guy named Yale Beletz. Since he owned a strip club, I'm going to assume that he was a sleazeball, though I'm sure he paled in comparison to the man he sold it to. In 1997, Steve Paik bought the property. I imagine him being just like Mr. Paik from Lost.

The neighbors, no doubt, hated the guy for allowing a tolerable Go-Go bar to decay into a rotten, drug-infested wasteland. Like I said, the neighborhood knew it was no good, and you could tell by the litany of trash and filth accumulating outside the premises—right next to the bus stops that school kids waited at.

In 2001, I suppose neighbors had had enough, and they all went to the Zoning Board of Adjustment meeting to bitch and complain. It was there that Judge Flora Barth Wolf told Paik that he had to make some changes—get rid of those scummy couches and put in some tables and chairs; only ten of those poor, poor dancers at a time; closed on Sundays to coincide with ancient Quaker law.

Judge Wolf made a glaring omission, however. She should've said something along the lines of, "Hey, don't sell any drugs either."

I guess Paik thought if he complied with the decision and replaced the lice-infested couches with clean, lice-free tables, he might as well make lemonade out of lemons. After all, those new tables are great for doing lines of coke.

The neighbors continued to bitch though. They kept finding crack vials and condom wrappers all over the outside of the building. Something was going on, and police detectives were on the case. The summer of 2002, shit went down.

Somehow, I uncovered the police report of the raid online. Rather than have you read the entire 99-point report, I'll summarize it as follows:

The manager of the Purple Orchid was named "Frenchy," aka Jeffrey French (and not this Frenchy either). The report goes into detail about how they set the dude up, using an undercover agent who bought coke through Frenchy. The cops built up a case against him, got a warrant, and busted the shit out of the Orchid on August 15, 2002. In Frenchy's office, they found 68 bags of coke, and a duffel bag full of steroids, plus a few xanax. In a stripper's bag they found a shit ton of marijuana. The cops also took the $4000 on the premises and peaced.

Now, the owner of the property, Mr. Paik (whose sister, according to the report, is named Sun, I fucking kid you not), argued that he had no idea his boy Frenchy was drug peddling in his strip joint. However, the Judge gave him a big Fuck You and told him that since Frenchy was hired by Paik, then Paik was responsible.

Though I can't find anything about the Purple Orchid's actual closing, we can all assume that it was due to this incident. I mean, the cops took all the money, and then fined Paik an additional two grand, plus shut him down for two months. I am going to go out on a limb and say that the Purple Orchid II simply never opened back up.

I thought long and hard about trying to get a hold of Steve Paik and ask him a few questions, but I'm pretty sure he is not willing to talk about his failure as a strip club owner.

It's probably for the best there isn't a Go-Go bar ten blocks from my house anymore. I'm sure, since we're now 21, we would all be going there this weekend and doing stupid shit and getting into all kinds of trouble. Honestly, strip clubs with drug dealers named Frenchy are not the safest place to hang.

So that's the story of the Purple Orchid II. I certainly don't remember it that well, but it's nevertheless an important part of our neighborhood lore. It has been my privilege to document it for Puke on Your Birthday.

Helping Make Review Week a Failure

Hi, my name is Nicholas Gilbert, and I helped make Review Week a failure. After about 20 minutes of expressing to Joe how "stoked" and "filled with great ideas" concerning "shit I should really fucking write about" I was, I ended up falling flat on my face. Let's try out some excuses.

• Joe, my grandmother died, and I spent Review Week mourning.
• Joe, I got lost while chasing a mountain lion, and had some difficulty finding internet access.
• Joe, I was at Rite Aid when I decided to play with one of those blood pressure testing machines and got stuck. Help was miles away.
• Joe, while I'd love to review, I feel it'd give people way too deep a look into my life. I'd prefer to remain a puzzle wrapped in an enigma... wrapped in a tortilla... wrapped in a Snuggie.
• Joe, I forgot when Review Week was, because I recently switched to a Gregorian calendar.
• Joe, I'm constipated.
• Joe, I found out Simon is leaving American Idol. Obviously, when presented with such news I became inconsolable and locked myself in my room for the week.
• Joe, I had every intention of posting, but I'm going on a review strike. I won't review until the NBC late night situation is figured out. Someone's gotta take a stand for Conan.
• Joe, I have transient amnesia.
• Joe, I didn't know I was pregnant. Needless to say I've had some things to deal with.

OFF THE HOOK!

Review Week Was a Failure

But that's okay. Maybe Puke on Your Birthday's true calling is the trivial, with no room for reviewing pop culture products. I mean, even the ostensible "reviews" this week often turned into angry rants the more I typed.

Also, as it turns out, not many people actually want to write for Puke. Only Jim C**** manned up and sent me 300 words about a TV show. But again, maybe Puke isn't meant to be some blog that everybody chips in and writes for. Maybe the select few are meant to write, and the masses are just supposed to read it and laugh. And that's okay!

So FUCK Review Week. Let's get back to writing about things that don't matter. Everyone enjoys those more.

—Joe