No Stairway... Denied!

Summer means party, and if there's one thing my backyard is used to, it's a good ol' fashioned party. Everyone in their swim trunks, beer on ice, late into the night. It's some great times. A big plus is that my neighbors rarely give me shit for the excessive noise on those wonderful summer nights. This is a very good thing, and I am grateful for their tolerance.

However, the tolerance with me unfortunately demands equal tolerance on my part. They too have barbecues of their own; though perhaps not as youthful, they can still get pretty loud. The worst part about it, I'll admit, is the music they blast—typical classic rock boredom that I've grown nauseated with over the years.

I am so goddamn tired of 102.9 MGK. Really, old man, how many times can you spin that "Free Bird" record? How many times can my ear drums tolerate the harsh tone of "Sweet Emotion"? How many more times must I be subjected to the torturous "More Than a Feeling" before my breakfast, lunch, and dinner are regurgitated in one cathartic wretch? It really gets me down sometimes, the state of rock radio.

I exaggerate, perhaps, but in this bold statement I tell the truth, simply and plainly: from the first time cavemen slammed rock against the cave wall in rhythm, all the way to Valencia telling those tween boppers about the strange things in the heads of Warped Tour goers, in the history of music there are has been no other song as overplayed, overrated, and overhyped than that juggernaut of the classic rock library...

"Stairway to Heaven."

Woah, woah, woah, let's hit the brakes real quick. "Joe, are you talking shit on 'Stairway to Heaven'? How dare you? This tune, like, totally changed my life!" Okay, fine, I'll tread carefully here. I'll admit right off the bat, I like this song.

"Stairway to Heaven" is a good song. A good song. I can rattle off many more good songs: the only Beatles' instrumental, "Flying," is a good song. A little known B-side by the Band called "Ferdinand the Impostor" is a good song. Panic at the Disco's "Nine in the Afternoon," though it gives me intense stomach cramps in admitting it, is a good song. That song that I played in fifth grade school orchestra for the spring concert (probably called something like "Jump Jam and Jive!") was a good song. I like these songs, but to say that any of them are the greatest song of all time would be absurd. And that CERTAINLY goes for "Stairway."

It's sad that radio had to ruin this song for me. I used to think it was a great song. Really. But I've just heard it too many times, and I'm way past the saturation point. It's not the song's fault I don't love it anymore, it's radio's fault. Also, I think another problem is that people try to pass themselves off as legitimate Led Zeppelin fans just because they know this song and claim it's "like, the best, dude!" You haven't lived Zeppelin until you see 20 minutes of "Moby Dick," until you try to dance to "The Crunge," until you cry during "That's the Way." Again, it's not really the song's fault I don't love it, it's those damn faux fans.

Okay, maybe it is the song's fault a little. It's too damn long, and frankly, it's boring at times. There, I said it.

I'm sorry Plant, Page, Jones, it's not your fault. You can't write great songs all the time. If it makes you feel any better, "Going to California" is probably one of my favorite songs of all time. Now there's something that should be topping 102.9 MGK's Philly 500 countdown! Alas, it's probably buried in the 300s.

In the meantime, please use "Stairway" sparingly. Please, for my sake.

 

No homo, man. No homo.

So while it may not be Tuesday anymore, and the jazziness of saying "Top Five Tuesday" does not apply, I will grace you with Wednesdays Top Five.

The other day, my ears were exposed to what many have told me is this summer's "hit song." It's called "I Kissed a Girl," and while I'm not sure who it's by, I can assure you that it won't matter... this chick will definitely be known as a one-hit wonder.

But that's besides the point. This song, which serves as blatant product placement for cherry chap stick, is the the inspiration for today's Top Five.

Guys, you like girls, right? You think they're cute. Well, I do too. But before you get your panties in a twist, note the title of this entry. Good. That being said, I can appreciate a cute girl. From this, I've established infamous girl crushes. Girls are allowed to have these crushes and not be a lesbian... it's just the laws of nature. So, without further ado, here is Mandy B**'s Top Five List of Girl Crushes:

5) Christina Ricci. Maybe it's the bond that Casper and I share. Maybe it's that she played Lizzie Wurtzel in Prozac Nation with such conviction. Or maybe it's the rough and tough nympho she played in the wonderful and underrated Black Snake Moan... but Christina Ricci is by far one the cutest and most talented ladies that Hollywood has to offer. And holla at a sister for rocking the fair complexion.

4) Olivia Newton-John. Ever since Grease, I've pretty much been "hopelessly devoted". Come on... you know you all love "Get Physical." This woman is like the female version of an Adonis. The weird thing about this is that I recently saw Liv's daughter on a shitty VH1 show, and she totally did not inherit her mother's looks. Sucks for you, Olivia Jr.

3) Maggie Gyllenhaal and Kirsten Dunst. Okay, these two are a bit interchangeable to me, and therefore are tied for the bronze medal of the Girl Crush Olympics. Mags peaked my interest ever since my little mind was perverted by the movie Secretary while dipping into the HBO channels at a young age. She became persona-girl-crush though, when I experience The Dark Knight this passed Friday. I get why Dent and Wayne get all hyped over her. Not only that, her brother is Jake and... something about a girl Jake Gyllenhaal just works, mmmkay? Kirsten has a limitation on this list though. She is only girl crush-worthy circa Spiderman-phase. Red heads, as I know, certainly do it better.

2) Jenny Lewis. I wish I were born Jenny Lewis. I think she kicks so much ass, and is adorable in the indie-girl sense. Not only that, I feel that she wrote The Execution Of All Things expressly for me, and that's enough to make the numero dos spot on this list. Rock on, sister girl.

1) Amy Winehouse. This is not a surprising choice, as I have a well-publicized love of the bee-hived crackhead. I think the term "hot mess" applies here. I think she's so cute, despite the fact that she's going to die of emphysema. At least she'll be a beauty while she's doing it. I love you, Amy. Get well soon, do a Back to Black tour, and divorce Blake and be my hereto-life partner.

Be still, little heart.

And that's that, good friends. I will be back in action with writing soon, pinky promise. I've been suffering an immense writer's block that I'm sure can be cured with copious amounts of psycho-tropic drugs and séances to Sylvia Plath. For more on this writer's block and other general Mandy-stalkings, see my other blog: The General Specific.

Secure the Border

If ignorance is bliss, and Geno's cheesesteaks are bliss, then Geno = IGNORANT. Read on for more.

Look at what the politically savvy and worldly aristocrats had to say at a McCain townhouse meeting lately: "Why, as an American, do I push a button to speak English?... I really get ticked... You go into Lowe's and it says Entrada." I am here, random Bucks County woman, to tell you this, to proclaim it from the mountaintops, to stand up and say: I feel your pain. Really.

I mean, just the other day, I walked into my local Wawa (let me emphasize that it was, in fact, daytime, as I am no longer lawfully allowed in my local Wawa establishment at night). I gandered up to the ATM machine; My wallet was thin and I needed some quick cash to buy some tobacco, a flannel jacket, and a rifle (which mind you, I have every right to bear!). I popped out my debit card and  slid it into the ATM. I started to punch in my password... but wait! This god-awful machine had the audacity to ask me whether I'd like my instructions in English or... cough... Espanol. Pushing that button cost me an extra 1.3 seconds of my time. 1.3 seconds!!! What a pain in my ass. I will never get those 1.3 seconds back. I know who to blame, too. It's those darn tootin' Mexicans! Who are they to think they have the right to walk into a Wawa like I do? Who are they to take away those precious 1.3 seconds of my life? I could've used that time to protect our borders! Right, random Bucks County lady? Protect your borders! The number of Mexicans sneaking through the border into Bucks County is rising astronomically, right?!

And again, the other day I arrived at my local Lowe's. See, I had to buy some fencing to keep those darn Mexicans out of my garden. I walked up to the door and expected to proceed right in, right? Wrong! The sign that was hung above the door said "Entrada." Um, I'm sorry? What does this mean? I stood at the entrance for hours, confused as to what the sign was telling me. And then some kindly old woman told me that it was merely Spanish for "enter." Outrage! Can you believe this? How dare Lowe's stoop to this level, trying to make their shopping experience both convenient and enjoyable for people of all ethnicities!? It's just a damn shame. When Bucks County starts putting gibberish in their shopping centers, you know it's time to move. I shake my head in dismay.

I wish I could've been at that town hall meeting. Senator McCain, you know what you must do! Secure the borders. Kick those sneaky bastards out of this country, and back to where they belong! When the framers of the Constitution built this country's foundations, they wanted to build a fence around the thirteen colonies too, remember? So please, McCain, listen to Bucks County woman, and honor George Washington and Ben Franklin by tearing down that Lowe's sign, and modifying all phone services to have one option and one option only: "For English, press 1." Because America IS number one. God Bless America!

...?

Jesus Christ, I hate ignorant people.

Show some fucking empathy, you sad, sorry old woman. Imagine you couldn't even afford bread for your family, and meanwhile there's the hope of the great American dream a hop, skip, and a jump away. What wouldn't you do to get in here?

I'd be just as ignorant if I would say that we should open our borders to every single person, but really, let's be reasonable here. There are millions and millions of illegal immigrants in this country. I think it would be okay to have a system where they can earn their citizenship. Would that be so hard?

And god forbid the 300 million people that make up our great United States don't all speak one language. Do you think when our country was first established, everyone spoke the same language? Of course not! That's what makes our country so unique, it's a blend of some many different backgrounds and cultures. You'd be hard pressed to find another country in the world where an Irish Catholic family, an African American couple, and an old Jewish lady can all exist in peace and harmony on the same city block. I know, I know, it's tough, having to deal with the fact that some people are different than you, Miss Bucks County Lady, but you're probably just going to have to deal with it. If you want, hire an illegal immigrant to push the number one on your touch-tone phone. He'll probably do it for cheap.

Listen, kids, just try to put yourself in someone else's shoes, will ya? Even if you are a Conservative at a John McCain town hall meeting.

I believe in the Dark Knight. (No spoilers here. You're welcome.)

"Why so serious?" you (or a white-face lunatic clown) may ask. Well, this is why: the hype, for once, is completely true. Believe it.

That's trite, mayhaps, but true nonetheless. On this dark night, I found myself in the quaint theater that is Grant Plaza for a 10:20 showing of The Dark Knight. You may have heard of it, assuming you don't live in a hole or some type of padded cell.

Armed with the company of my three favorite people and a shit ton of garbage food, I nestled myself into the cushioned throne that would be my viewing spot for one of the surprising films I've ever seen.

Now, I don't know about a lot of things, but superheroes top the list. I missed that whole aspect of childhood, losing it somewhere between the phase where I colored on paper doilies constantly or put on shows in my front yard with some bird puppets I had. Yep, I know... that explains a lot about me.

Anyway.

I don't know anything about superheroes. Fuck, I didn't even see Batman Begins. But after 2 hours and 35 minutes of The Dark Knight, I believe in heroes. And Heath Ledger. And every member of what can only be described as one of the most talented casts to grace the silver screen.

Aaron Eckhardt pulls out yet another astounding performance, making me truly believe in Harvey Dent until the (very) bitter end. Christian Bale easily and believably transitions from Bruce Wayne to masked vigilante with all the integrity you'd expect from a hero, and the vulnerability from a human being. Michael Caine and Morgan Freeman are, as always, in a league of their own.

Am I forgetting anyone? Oh yes, the star.

Heath Ledger will be receiving a posthumous Oscar for this film. After seeing him perform this role, I understand why he is now dead. I feel like once a method actor channels the type of utter lunacy that Ledger used to conjure up the Joker, it would be impossible to live any type of normal life. I'd choke down a couple of xannies and SSRIs, too.

That positive note aside, it really is quite a performance. One for the record books, I'm sure, if we're suddenly keeping records of these things.

But in all honesty, you just have to see it to believe it. And then you, like I, will believe in The Dark Knight.

Bound for Obloquy

Yes, there are many activities that I am great at. Check out the previous blog post to pore over the many glorious talents of Joseph K***. However, after proofreading that piece of masterful literature, I kind of... well... I felt bad. I'm not as great as you think I am. Really. In fact, I suck. It's been a rough day, and what better way to end it than to drunkenly belittle myself over my flaws? Godspeed!

THING THAT JOE SUCKS AT #1: Laser Tag

Okay, so there's this place up near the second-closest mall in the area, Neshaminy Mall, that caters to the uber-nerd. It's the Laser Tag Center. For approximately $5 a round, you can strap on that red, blue, or yellow vest, grip your plastic gun with both hands, lock and load, and just GO WILD.

I've gone a few times. Call me a nerd, it's okay. I'm not embarrassed by my laser tagging. What does embarrass me, however, is that I keep going back, even though I am a bigger disgrace to laser tag than Mike S****** is to beer pong.

First of all, it took me about three rounds to realize that you had to grip the gun with both hands in order for it to function properly. Those motherfuckers set me up for failure! And when you get into the arena, it's misty with sweat from years of pubescent teenagers, and I'm forced to crawl on the dirty floor to avoid the goddamn tweens from shooting me in about two seconds.

And every fucking time you get hit, you have to wait like thirty seconds for your gun to start working again. And I swear to god, as soon as my gun is functional, I get hit again, from some fucking asshole sniper across the room. I can't move, I can't shoot, I can't do a goddamn thing in that fucking laser tag arena. I'd love to meet these goddamn laser tag rats out in the parking lot to see if their laser vests work against a Rockledge sucker punch, but god forbid they ever leave Laser Zone.

Fuck, I hate laser tag.

 

THING THAT JOE SUCKS AT #2: Skateboarding

No one gave a flying fuck about skateboarding until Tony Hawk licensed that infamous video game starring himself. I'm not even sure I knew what skateboarding was up until that point. It's a moot point, though, because once skateboarding fever hit, it seemed like every 7th grade loser went to their local skate shop and invested in a shiny skateboard. If you are aware of my personality and how bitter I am, you should have guessed by now that I was not one of those losers.

But alas, most of my friends at the time were immersed in the latest skateboarding fad. Many an afternoon I would spend, much to my dismay, at a local skate spot, watching with the utmost boredom my friends as they *GASP* tried out the ollie. Oh my! Let's not get ahead of ourselves, with these risky maneuvers!

But who am I kidding? I made fun of my friends then, and I still make fun of my skateboarding friends now, for one reason, and that is that I plainly suck at this sometimes grueling physical activity. Sure, I can pull off a McTwist 9000 Kickflip 50-50 Hang Ten on Tony Hawk Pro Skater 3, but I couldn't even stay on the board for more than five seconds in real life.

I used to joke that my favorite move to perform was the four-wheeled manual, but clearly I was even better at being a pompous asshole.

Fuck, I hate skateboarding.

 

THING THAT JOE SUCKS AT #3: Fighting

Jesus Christ, just look at me.

I'm six feet four inches, that's true, but the only serious meat I pack is the glutinous fat pack I wear around my stomach. I could bench probably about 150 pounds max. Wait a minute... That was a typo: I meant to say I could bench about 15 pounds. At most. If someone like Kimbo Slice punched me in the face, the groin, hell, even the arm, I would probably cry.

I've never even been in a fight, that's how much I suck at it. The closest I've ever come to a serious brawl happened a cold night in December about two years ago. It was a snowy keg party in the woods, a gathering that I should have never gotten involved in. I was cold as hell on that evening, and so was everyone else—it was snowing, for christ's sake!—so we started a fire. Apparently, this was not kosher with the hosts of the party, and when I threw a piece of wood on the fire, the little prick punched me right in the face.

I was drunk, and as I mentioned before, numb from the cold, so I couldn't really feel the punch, but I certainly saw stars, and was dumbfounded someone would be so ignorant as to punch a stranger for no apparent reason. But I guess it takes different strokes to turn the world.

Bottom line, I didn't fight back. I was a pussy. I only stand up for myself when I'm belligerent, and even then if I ever got in a fight, I'd buy a one-way ticket to Jeanes Hospital.

Fuck, I hate fighting.

 

THING THAT JOE SUCKS AT #4: Drinking

I am no amateur when it comes to the act of drinking, of course not. Shit, dude, I've been drinking since sophomore year of high school, and for the past year I've probably been drunk more nights than I've been sober. So no, I'm no stranger to the phenomenon of getting shitfaced.

What gets me, however, is how bad I am at consuming this goddamn poison. When you think about it, when someone is a "good drinker," that means s/he they somehow overcame the body's natural proclivity toward rejecting the poison that the person is forcing into their bodies. My body, for some reason, seems to never overcome this, and I am perpetually feeling sick due to the nature of alcoholic beverages.

If you are my friend, and you've drank with me, you know the deal. I drink beers at a steady pace, and eventually, I throw up. I don't know why, and it sucks, but it's how I am. I've never played a game of Flip Cup, because I can't chug for the life of me. The only beer bongs I've ever taken were from 1) a dead kid, 2) my pops (theater, not biological), and 3) the president of La Salle University's Student Council, so I was forced to do this unthinkable deed in all three cases due to the benefactor of said bong. And I threw up all three times.

And don't get me started about shots. It's crazy that I used to be able to take big swigs of vodka when I was a younger teen. Nowadays, I can't even type the word "vodka" without wanting to puke. Whenever I get even the slightest sniff of Vladmir or Banker's or, what the fuck, even Captain or Jim or Jack or Jose, I get so sick that I'll more likely than not puke up every once of booze I've ingested throughout the night.

Don't make me chug a beer. Don't draft me for your case race team. Don't expect me to hit that beer bong. Don't think I'll be able to shotgun anything. Don't bring that goddamn liquor near me. I WILL fail.

Fuck, I love drinking.

Bound for Glory

Above: a young prodigy, Joe, learns the game

There are a lot of things I'm good at. For one, I'm the best dancer you'll ever see (I can't stress enough: Macarena Champion of Presentation B.V.M. Parish, 1998). I kick ass at beer pong; just ask Kev C*****... or rather, wait until he loses that C***** Slur. As far as waiters at Lafayette Redeemer go, I'm the best there ever was; really, how many times can that bitter old lady turn around and praise my charm and physique? And I'll be damned if I can't make the best fucking Sloppy Joe you've ever tasted; the Hawk Patrol of BSA Troop 321 will let you know that for sure.

I am good at many things, but goddamn, am I good at mini-golf.

People have told me that I have enough athletic ability to be drafted as a Super Bowl quarterback and a World Series pitcher simultaneously, and they have informed me that my heart is made of gold so pure that I could be saving lives in the ER, and they have notified me that my brain is so sharp that I should be cashing in Nobel Prizes like those birthday checks I get bi-monthly from my grandmother with dementia, but just hand me that cheap aluminum club and that brightly-colored orange ball, and I know what my TRUE calling is.

Call me a child prodigy if you must, but I prefer to be humble when it comes to my incredible mini-golfing skills. Yes, yes, I know—it's hard to be humble during my usual round at Burholme golf, when dozens, if not hundreds of spectators come to witness the true glory that is to behold on that scratchy green turf. Somehow, I am able to find the humility to admit that I am not the greatest mini-golf player to ever play the sport. Perhaps Tiger Woods could beat me. If he was on steroids. And it was night. And I was incredibly drunk. And he cheated.

It's tough, sometimes, being this good. There's a certain sense of guilt, when a friendly game of mini-golf with the family on Easter Sunday is ruined by the fire I set to the course. I feel bad, really, I mean, I just slay so many windmills. And that free game one receives by getting a hole-in-one on the last hole? Let's just say I haven't paid for a game of mini-golf in DECADES.

And it all leads up to this.

Joe versus one Miss H****. Island Adventure Mini-Golf, on Wildwood NJ's middle amusement pier. The match-up of a lifetime. It's the Yankees vs. the Red Sox. It's Rocky Balboa vs. Apollo Creed. It's Pat's Steaks vs. Geno's Steaks.

It's the culmination of a lifetime's worth of training in this elite sport. It's what I felt every morning as I woke up, it's what I thought about as I ran up the steps to the Art Museum every day for years, it's what I tasted when really I should be tasting the Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch that I'm chewing. It's what got me through all the heartbreak, all the sorrow, all the pain; none of it means anything, if just for this one chance to prove my greatness.

One win, and I will go down in Rockledge history as the greatest.

I grasped my bright orange ball and sized up the opponent. You could sense a sneer hiding behind her cute smile, one that said "Silly boy, you are nothing. I am from Maryland, and I am superior." "She has no idea what she is getting into," I told my little friend (the orange ball). And with that, she placed her own ball (bright neon green) on the rubber mat. It begins.

Neck and neck for all eighteen holes, we were. Every par of mine was met with a par from her. Her miraculous holes-in-one were met with spectacular holes-in-one from me. No mermaid obstacle was spared, no pirate obstacle was left unmocked, no hole was left unconquered.

The game was finished. The brutal gauntlet was over. I mopped my brow and calculated the scores on the crisp yellow scorecard. With a blunt pencil I added up the digits, with a shaky hand I scribbled the sums, and with an equally shaky voice I revealed the outcome.

Tie.

I sat there, sunburnt skin glistening from the lights of the Ferris Wheel, the smell of popcorn and fried oreos scattered amongst the sounds of little children scampering around and teenagers screaming for joy as they loop-de-looped and corkscrewed, but I wasn't really there. I was in the ring, bloodied and battered after fifteen rounds with the Heavyweight Champion. I ain't just another bum from the neighborhood, Adrian, I'm something more. And no, there was no knockout, but I stood my ground, I took a beating but gave it right back. The crowds were cheering, they were chanting my name.

And when I lay on my deathbed, with the many fond memories of destroying many, many mini-golf opponents, I shall be content with it all, because when all is said and done...

My girlfriend didn't beat me at mini-golf.

A Day Once Dawned: PoYB's Top Five Sad Albums

Music, like I always say, can be a tool to make you happy. Much like alcohol, it makes you happier than you already were. As the summer starts to wind down, I'm getting bored with myself, and a sleepy malaise creeps in. I'm not really content, and there's probably no music that could lift me out of this. Oh well. At least I'm not depressed or anything...

But sometimes I am depressed. This Top Five Tuesday, I've decided after much deliberation, features the top five albums to listen to while you are depressed. Perhaps they will cheer you up, maybe they'll make you feel worse, but regardless, they just fit the mood.

Top Five Albums to Listen To While Sad

5) Fourteen Autumns, Fifteen Winters by the Twilight Sad. Every song is a whirlwind of pain and misery. I know that feeling, man, I do.

4) The Wall by Pink Floyd. The main character of this rock opera is fed up with this shit and builds a wall around himself. I listen to this album when sad, then go out and buy some brick and mortar.

3) Plastic Ono Band by John Lennon. Lennon was sad at this point in his life, so a depressed boy or girl can relate. There's just something so hopeless in the line "I don't believe in Beatles." Goddamn.

2) Get Lonely by the Mountain Goats. When you just want to escape, the Mountain Goats already packed their bags and hit the road to escape this madness. I'm jealous.

1) Pink Moon by Nick Drake. Just listen.

I may not always have my high spirits about me, but these albums will always set the mood for a rainy day. Thank goodness I don't need them at the present moment.

"What came first, the music or the misery?"

In the High Fidelity, Rob Gordon (or Fleming in the excellent Nick Hornby book) owns a record store and spends a lot of time making Top Five lists. After watching the movie recently, we here at PoYB have decided to implement Top Five Tuesday (OK, so I decided. What whatevs, I rule). I (or another up-standing PoYBer) will post a topic, and a list, and then in the comments you, our loyal readers, will post yours. Sounds fun right? Right.

In High Fidelity (the novel), Rob cites Marvin Gaye's "Lets Get It On" as his favorite single of all time. In dedication to the lovely Mr. Gaye and Rob's passion, the first list will include the Top Five songs you'd dream of, erm, getting it on to. So, with further ado, here goes nothing:

Top 5 "Lets Get It On" Songs

1) "Femme Fatale" by the Velvet Underground.
2) "Animal in Your Care" by Wolf Parade.
3) "Shampoo Suicide" by Broken Social Scene.
4) "Born the Run" by Bruce Springsteen.
5) "Rock Me" by Liz Phair.

This list is subject to change, and was mostly triggered by new found obsession with song #2. But anyway...

...now it's your turn.

And I'm (or Thought I Was) Proud to Be an American

Am I getting old?

As the years progress, I fear my youth is long behind me, and nothing makes me feel this way worse than holidays do.

I remember in my youth, I was terribly excited to wake up and see what dear ol' Santa put under our tree. My sisters and I would wake up at around, oh, 4:30 AM, and bug our parents for hours until they finally arose in what I now realize was a terrible hangover. And we'd all jump around with glee at the myriad of colorful boxes under that tall tree. Nowadays I sleep until about nine or ten, and now I, along with my parents, share the burden of the blistering hangover, and sure, the presents are great, but without Santa, now it's just my parents spoiling me, and along with that comes guilt.

All other holidays are starting to betray the strain of maturity too. On Easter, I wake up and find candy and perhaps a CD in my Easter basket, but the Easter Bunny no longer leaves little powdery pawprints on the carpet, and unfortunately for the adventurous side of me, we no longer participate in that legendary easter egg hunt (With one egg that holds five dollars! We'll be rich!). On Thanksgiving, I only rarely attend the big dinner with the family, as unfortunately, my work schedule rarely permits it. And don't get me started about Halloween; what once was an innocent night of walking around the neighborhood collecting candy has turned into a drunken blur of a night that usually involves me dressing up in women's clothing and waking up the next morning only to discover I have pissed myself and all over my bed (sorry, Pat).

Here we are, the most American of holidays, the birthday of our great and glorious nation, Independence Day, the Fourth of July. This great day used to have three very distinct and wonderful traditions I associated with:

1) The parade. The family would pack up the car with lawn chairs and breakfast foods, and we'd all traverse the mean streets of NE Philly to get to my cousins' house on Godfrey Ave., where we'd all set up along the pavement and watch in awe as the parade-walkers would stroll by, sometimes collecting money (we'd ignore them) and sometimes giving out candy (we'd jump out of our seats even before the candy hit the ground). Good times.

2) The flea market. This piece of shit little area of Lawncrest Playground would be transformed into a big party with a multitude of tents selling such items as bootlegged music, fart bombs, sand art, and last but not least, FIREWORKS. But only the shitty kind, like pops, or black cobras. Damn you Pennsylvania and your damn fucking firework laws! But good times nonetheless.

3) The big fireworks show. Again, the family would pack in the car, but this time we didn't need lawn chairs—a big sprawling comfy blanket would do. At dusk family and friends would gather, lay on the ground, and wait. And then began the show. It was glorious. The colors, the sounds, that warm fuzzy feeling you get when you see such a spectacle. The silence afterwards was incredible. It felt as if the whole world has stopped to enjoy those wonderful Lawncrest fireworks. And I would look around at friends and family and we'd nod our heads in agreement: that was FUCKING INCREDIBLE. Good times.

So what has happened to me? What is wrong with me? Why am I getting so fucking old? Today is the fucking Fourth of July and I just woke up. I missed the parade. I missed the flea market. A day that is supposed to have a distinct feel, well, feels wrong. It just feels like any normal day. This sucks.

Damn it, though, I am making a pact with myself, because all hope is not lost. There's still time! I am going to drag my ass to the Lawncrest fireworks show if it kills me. So what if I might be a little drunk? So what if I no longer will be with family? So what if we won't have a blanket? My friends and I are going to plop our asses on that Lawncrest grass, and we are going to enjoy those fireworks.

Then maybe I can prove to myself I still have a little youth left.

God Bless America.

And I'm (kinda) proud to be an American.

As I sat at work awaiting a stampede of elderly folks, I perused my favorite journalistic guilty pleasure: The Metro. I say "guilty pleasure" because while it is highly entertaining and undeniable smart, it contains many flaws that causes the Associated Press to cringe in profuse ways.

But I digress.

The Metro gave me a list of 25 reasons why it's still great to be an American. I decided to compile my own list... of reasons why, sometimes, being an American is a bit stinky. Except it's a Top Five list because it's 2:30 in the morning, I'm tired, and I suck at improving these things. So let's rock, doc!

Top Five Cringe-worthy American-isms*:

5) Dave Matthews Band mania. I don't hate Dave Matthews. In fact, his band is composed of some of the most talented musicians around (minus the namesake himself). What irks me though, is the hordes of twenty-somethings who have claimed him as their Lord and Savior and think that they're on a first name basis with him. Exhibit A: "I'm going to see Dave tonight." Yeah, you and 20,000 other people. And he doesn't care that you're there. He cares about not drinking the water, and pot. Not you, disillusioned, obsessed fan.

4) We're all big prudes. In Europe, a weather girl can remove her top mid-way through the forecast, and the Brits will just laugh like jolly ol' chaps and drink a spot of tea, without so much as a bat of an eye. In America, Janet Jackson gives us a peek of her tasseled-titty and we freak the fuck out. Calm down, guys. They're boobs. They're not poison death balloons.

3) Fat people. Now, I love fat people. And with the amount of fast food and simple sugars that I consume on a daily basis, I'm on a fast track to fattie-dom also. But in America, the fat-epidemic has caused what my father has aptly entitled a "fat-itude". Have you ever had to sit next to a lady on a plane who has purchased two seats for her and her excess baggage? Me neither, but I can imagine it's not all too fun. And America has A LOT of fat people. We all need to hop on the Wii fit, call the Governor of California, and become healthy again.

2) Apathy. Americans almost define laziness. We do nothing but complain about how the ozone layer is going to burn us to death, pollution is mucking up the air, and politicians are scheming against us. But no one takes action. Throwing money at a problem will not fix it; nor will bitching to anyone who will listen. Take Action. Write letters. Volunteer your time. Make sure you VOTE. Organize a concert that will stretch across eight countries and fight AIDS. I'll give you Bono's number, he seems like he has this shit down.

1) Our hairy Bush. You know, the one we elected. Wait, what did YOU think I meant?

And with that, Happy 4th of July. Eat some dogs. Hot dogs, that is. That's pretty much my only big plan for the day. What can I say? I really, really like them.

*The opinions of one Amanda Lynn Bee do not reflect those of PoYB as a whole. All hate mail should be sent expressly to her.

Just Call Me Edgar Allen Poe

a young Joe hard at work as a poet [EDIT: picture not really baby Joe]

If you know me personally, you know I like to make fun of people. I guess it's one of the ways that I show my love for my friends. My forte is bringing up past experiences to embarrass people. However, if you do know me, then you should also know that I am not opposed to making fun of myself. I've done a lot of stupid things in my life, and I find it amusing to relive these experiences for a good laugh.

I'm in a good mood today. I'm in the mood for some fun self-deprecation. So, here's a treat for you, oh faithful readership. I just uncovered some poems I wrote when I went through a "poetry" phase. And it's terrible. Awful. Please, I encourage laughter. I'll just read them and shake my head in dismay.

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

"In Regards to Our Actions"

I. On dark, cement pebble canvas

she dabbled into unknown;

we knew not the feeling—

inebriation was the freedom that bounded us

—and through confetti and streamer,

we broke free from innocence

and were shackled by the burden.

II. Written on a spiral bound book

were the letters and shapes

that conjugate your name;

oh god what wouldn't I give

to say it to your face—

instead of, from the window of a diner,

watching you run in the rain.

III. A farce, my life, both you and I

know it to be true;

I haven't the slightest idea of what

it is I'm supposed to do.

with this goddamn red ink pen in my hand

my feelings? my doubts? my shame?

I'll write it all down, but why should I care?

I'll throw it out all the same.

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

"Sleepwalking"

out the window

over the roof

on to the lawn

plan is foolproof

getting to wawa

by quarter to three

the moon is so bright

in the night i can see

the cars are all ghosts

the windows are black
not a soul is awake

'cept my friends on the tracks

eating pistachios
and drinking iced tea

at ryers station;

no place I'd rather be

peeing off bridges

running from cops

in a bright white paddywagon

on the corner he stops

he waits for the kids

to run off to bed

but we simply run

to burholme instead

the city never looked

so pretty before

gazing at the stars

will never be a bore

when you have friends like these

you'll never be alone

simply sneak out the window,

hop the fence, and you're gone.

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

"Acid Reflux"

Depths of my throat

can not fully express

the deep anxiety of

the current downward trend.

Acidic in its suppression,

stressful vomit encases controversy;

problematic heartburn,

freedom speech, bottle of Tums?

Just as the throat is charred,

so too does the spirit of rebellion

inflame when authority oversteps its bounds.

Revolt shall not ebb, but crash upon the shores.

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

"Lieutenant Chickenbrain"

The fluorescent heat stifles concurring thoughts, thus ratifying the shifty chord-like bloodstains in the bathtub. Amassed in masses in horrid in horror in hurry and horror, syrup and semen and serum, bloody windmills, fleshy windmills, spindle and thread spread her legs, out crawled cockroaches and encrusted sea tortoises in little barbaric shells of plastic, entangled and mangled in their own carcass, rolling in the dirt, with the worms, worms that scream and cry and scream and cry and scream.

Her smile cracks and bleeds and reaches into the hairy abyss, while tiny corpses cry in amusement, ripping cats to shreds and kicking spleens across the rusty sidewalk, rubbed brown with dead grass, rubbed yellow with rotting slugs, rubbed black with dead breath.

Envelopes envelop the tentacles that twist and coil in round, smooth, polyethylene crusts, smoldering in the lukewarm bathwater, popping in their graves, hastily slicing the enamel off their rotted teeth, carnivorous in value, but horsefly in range. Dense tongues burn and ember in soap-stained mouths, unable to speak, to breathe, uh bet, uh beet, uh bet, uh beam, uh laser beam.

Incestuous distortion, murdering metal, sharp daggers of the lumpy stars plummet through the tombstone in agony and defeat. Corn-beef toe-nail boots sharpen wit, sharpen the spade that flew through the air, fast and bulbous, coming down through the cascade of withering flowers, stopping once but to stare at the shriveled cheekbones of the ugly rose.

Slithering, slathering paint, blood red paint, lamb's blood, forever eels, the eels are real, hairy and real, blimpy in their crooked conscience, dancing upon the soul of mother and father, each stomp a piece of glass through the chest, broken floorboards, splintered coffin of the phosphoric amateur, limped and handicapped in his speech, mucus dripping from the protruding disease on his fleshy skin, fiery and red, charred dreams of the dying youth.

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

"Muddy Footprints"

Part I: Preparation

A medley of euphoric rage,

cacophony to the blind.

Where shall the darkness

meet her demise?

A motley crew of mixed fruits,

intolerable to the drunkards.

What could the potato chips

afford atop this abode?

Part II: Commencement

The melodic pitch of innocence

burns in the embers of desire.

Inflamed by rebellion,

Ignited by desire:

An orgasm of adrenaline,

An abundance of consequence.

Fightin' Will Not Be Tolerated

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.

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

 

Yes, this is Joe K***, reporting from the field, and yes, I did attend the "Skool Ova" Party.

I, one of the whitest kids you'll ever meet, went to a dance that involved perhaps 150 African Americans, and three white guys (I went with fellow PoYB bloggers Mike and Dave). Why did we do it? Well, for short, those two kids on the top left corner of the advertisement up there, John and Javar, are Laf employees, and you know how Lafheads stick together. We also kind of went as a joke, as I'm sure I would never find myself in that kind of situation by accident.

We knew we'd be in for one hell of an experience when we turned every head in the parking. Sigh... Dave, you would blast Valencia out of the car speakers around this crowd. We stuck out like a sore thumb. When we got the entrance, the bouncer (so to speak) looked at us quite quizzically: "Uh... are you guys here for the SB party?" to which I replied, "Yes, good sir, and here are my seven dollar bills." And we ascended the stairs of the ghetto-est of ghetto buildings—the Glenside VFW Post. Skool Ova indeed.

Now, notice on the pic at the top that the advertisement reads, "There will be grubb." So you would think that meant at the very least soda, right? Thinking along those same lines (and retrospectively, thinking like typical white boys I suppose), we brought in some rum, planning on mixing it with coke inside. Hmm, not so much. Apparently "grubb" means chips and water. Joe K*** was condemned to being sober for the remaining of the nights, as there's no way I can do straight liquor, not a chance in hell. Oh well.

So, what's a white kid to do when he's sober, surrounded by 150 people who look at him and think it's some kind of joke? Well, first of all, I accepted the fact that we were a joke and thoroughly embraced it. Some of the girls liked it to: "White boy! Haha, white boy! Let's get a picture with white boy!" I tried to show off some of my dance moves, but apparently being the 1996 Macarena Champion doesn't matter when skool ova.

See, I did attempt to dance, and see, not everyone ran away!

When I was all worn out from simultaneously amusing and frightening the African American girls, it was nice to step back and enjoy my complimentary water. Also, it was funny as hell watching the chaos on the dance floor. First of all, I was under the impression that it was some sort of high school dance... and yet, there were chairs spread out in the middle of the dance floor for lap dances. Ahem, excuse me, did I just say "lap dances"? I meant everyone was getting a "lappy." I've been to a strip club and have blown my pay check on lap dances by seductive women, but I kid you not, I've never seen anyone give a "lappy" like these women at the Glenside VFW. I think the most tasteful one must have been when a girl did a reverse handstand while giving her pappy a lappy. I think you had to be there to ever picture that one.

And so, after about two hours of alternating between standing out on the dance floor and standing in the corner, we called it a night. As a perfect and telling ending to our stay at the party, we heard a girl exclaim: "Damn! What the... ya'll white!" And apparently, we were.

I don't want to come off as racist in this post. Though the color of my skin and my blatant "white-boy-ness" determined how I was treated at the party, I nevertheless had a great time. Likewise, I count the African American kids I work with at the Laf and came to support at Skool Ova among the nicest and funniest kids I know.

It was an interesting experience, to say the least. Stepping out of your comfort zone is never easy, and I can definitely say that the scene at the pimped out VFW was not my comfort zone. But I enjoyed it, if only for the amusement of the atmosphere and the company of good friends (despite the fact that the company of good friends were delegated to the corner of the room).

It was a great night, though I must admit, getting back in the car and blasting some Taking Back Sunday was somewhat refreshing as well. Summer has treated me well. Thank goodness skool ova.

My Journey in the 4th Circle of Hell

Back in my day, we only had 86 channels on the television. Just recently I was over a friend's house, and his little brother was amazed at this fact. "How did you survive?" they implored, "967 channels is the only way to go." I suppose it's not such a bad thing, this overstuffed digital cable. For one, there's always something on. For another, it's the only way I can watch old school Nicktoons. And finally, there are many, many movies to pick from at any time during the day. Unfortunately, with all good comes bad as well...

Enter SOAPnet. Not that I was ever a fan of soap operas even before digital cable's existence, but a 24/7 channel is absurd. What baffles me even more is the kind of programs they run. You'd think it'd be all General Hospital and All My Children, right? Nope. Every time I walk through a room with one of my two sisters watching TV, they are always tuned into SoapNet and it is always showing... The O.C. So, um, since when was The O.C. a soap opera?

Fuck it, that argument is beside the point. The point I was leading up to (very slowly, it seems), is that girls my sisters' age, namely ages fifteen to eighteen, are batshit crazy about shows like The O.C. and One Tree Hill and Two Bush Valley and all that other nonsense. I hate it all, and though it may be a little harsh to say, I wouldn't think twice to question the sexuality of any guy my age who watched this fluff (Jim C****, I'm looking at you).

However, it occurred to me that I really have no right to say how much The O.C. sucks, as I've never seen one single, solitary episode. C'mon, we all know it's terrible, but how can I know for sure? There's only one way.

I, Joe K***, am about to venture where no nineteen-year-old male has gone before. I have a copy of the first season of The O.C. sitting next to me, and I am about to watch the first few episodes. Like a modern-day Professor Lidenbrock, I'm not sure if I will return; if I do, perhaps I will be armed with knowledge that will make me a better man. More likely though, I'll be scarred for life, so let this blog post be a lasting tribute to a boy named Joe K*** who was willing to take the ultimate risk.

Episode 1: "Pilot"

The DVD slides into my laptop like butter. Like some evil, filth-ridden butter. I'm expecting a big group of people to burst into my room at any minute to start pointing and laughing at me. Sigh... I guess this is it.

Our favorite show starts out with a swell one-liner: "I'm your big brother, if I don't teach you this, who will?" And the punk kid proceeds to smash a car window and steal the car (No keys? How did he start it?). Cops pursue, and he, along with his little brother / star of the show, gets arrested. And damn it, I realized that I still don't know the main character's name. Not that it's important.

We then meet what seems to me the main adult character of the show, a dude named Sandy. He seems the reject-surfer-turned-lawyer type, and he's helping the main character with his court case. After realizing Main Character has an alcoholic mother, Sandy gives Main Character his home phone number. Hmm, I wonder if he'll use it?!

Sure enough, Main Character arrives home, promptly gets beat up by his step-dad, and kicked out by his mother. So, to recap, five minutes into the series and we already have a car chase, an arrest, tears, and physical child abuse. This should be interesting.

The main character has a first encounter with who will no doubt be "the one" for him, eventually. And my goodness! What witty dialogue opens their relationship! "Who are you?" "Whoever you want me to be." Swoon! Then the typical generic jock picks her up with mainstream rap pumping in his SVU speakers. "Who is that guy?" he mouths to Marissa (Larissa? I'm not sure I know her name either). Foiled!

We next meet a quick-talking son of Sandy named Seth, who, according to the locals of Orange County, is a "fucking queer." I thought he seemed pretty cool, I guess? Maybe that's just me fighting for the underdog. Or maybe I'm gay too and I was aroused to hear of his fucking-queer-ness. Maybe.

The next half hour unfolds in a melodramatic mess that involves a fashion show, a visit from the Securities and Exchange Commission, a confession of Seth's creepy stalking tendencies, an Avril Lavigne reference (this show is already dated), and more tears. And more fights. And more drama. Another car chase was conspicuously absent.

I can immediately see why young people are so attracted to this show. In it we have a down-on-his-luck youngster who, through sheer chance, falls into the hands of a generous man who gives him anything he'd like. He goes from living in a shit house in shit Seattle to living the dream in a mansion in Orange County. This is what little fifteen-year-old girls dream of, I suppose. However, on a deeper level, the little ones can relate to this show. Marissa/Larissa's mother says, "Oh god, honey, you look dreadful in that hair clip," making her feel like an idiot. "Hey!" collectively say the fifteen-year-old girl population, "My mommy said a mean thing to me too! I'm just like Marissa/Larissa!"

But you're not.

This show is incredible in the way it is so over-the-top. Incredible in a very bad way. Watch the scene when Seth and main character walk into a party at "the beach house my mom let me use." I've been to many parties in my day, but I've never seen that many drunk bikini-clad model-like women dancing around in one room. Okay, I've never been to the O.C., but I find all this very hard to believe.

Let's try to think of the positives, shall we? Hmm... Okay wait, give me a minute... damn... uh... okay, here's one perhaps: Seth is kind of a likable character in my eyes. I think? Yeah, he is. He is likable, I now realize, because he hates the type of people that are showcased in this series. He scoffs at the rich petty snobs that surround him. Kudos Seth. But alas! He ruins it with his obsession with exactly the type of girl that his character allegedly despises; Summer, his stalker victim, is at first glance a naive hoity-toity elitist that would never associate with someone like Seth. Get over it, man, really.

My original plan was to watch a few more episodes of this train wreck, but I'm sorry, dear reader, I just can't bring myself to do it. Even with the suicide hotline on speed dial, I just can't.

I'll end with my favorite quote of the episode. Towards the end of the episode, Seth and main character get in a fight with aforementioned typical jock-type character and jock's goons. Outnumbered, main character is pushed to the ground, where the jock villain winds up and kicks him right in the groin. "Welcome to the O.C., bitch!" he exclaims. And as I stare at the face of the main character on the DVD box, I can imagine him laughing at me and exclaiming the same thing.

Nothing's sacred anymore.

Your rack, indeed.

 

Before I jump into what I can promise will be quite a rant, I need to establish something: I am a nerd. One of the nerdiest of the nerds, in fact. I read a lot of books. I give a FUCK about an Oxford comma. I used to play Dungeons & Dragons every Friday night for a year. Hell, I spend an (extremely) large amount of time blogging about albums and Chad Kroeger. But above all of these things that put being in the running for captain of Team Nerdy, one stands out: I have devoted much of my life to online Scrabble.

Scrabulous, for all of those who don't know, is the one of the best tricks the interweb has ever pulled out of its sleeve. It allows you to challenge others to games of virtual Scrabble. On Scrabulous' official site, most people join tables with random others to participate in the ultimate game of brains and wordy brawn. It has slowly but surely become one of America's favorite time-wasting device.

Facebook, never to be left out of the loop, has adapted this as an application. Here, people can challenge their F-book comrades to games. Here, nerds band together and sit online for hours while they plow through game after game of Scrabble with their buddies. Or, they start up March Madness-like tournaments focused around it. But I digress. Scrabulous has become part of me, and I part of it.

Recently, I awoke at noon to utter boredom; none of my friends had used their turn in any of our games, leaving me alone and unable to revel in Scrabulous glory. After some farting around, I found that the application allows you to put out a game request to Scrabulous users world-wide. Elated, I immediately put out a request for a game, rubbing my hands together in anticipation of kicking yet another user's bee-hind.

Quickly, a user named Larry F. accepted my plea for a game. As I clicked onto the fresh game board, though, my stomach turned. There in the accompanying dialogue box was a gruesome phrase: "Hey baby, you wanna cyber?"

After some primo expletives and suggestions to stick certain fruits in certain places, I deleted the game and closed my laptop. Was this guy shitting me? Was he really trying to be sexual in SCRABBLE?! Feeling like I had just watch a porn in Church, I took a break from Scrabulous. It saddened me in unspeakable ways that some weirdo had just tried to come onto me via Scrabble.

Nowadays, I still play a helluva lot of online Scrabble. On occasion, I still put out game requests to the global Scrabble network. I'm sad to say that many of these times, Creepy McCreepers from Creeperville have tried to seduce me through the application. While I of course don't give into any of this infinite weirdness, it still bothers to no end that people can turn anything into something not-so-nice.

Because really, where does it end? Has the Internet simply turned into a breeding ground for all sexual deviants and psychos? I don't know, but the more I see, the more I worry.

My nine-year-old niece has recently began spending time on the Internet, and I can't help but look over her shoulder as she journeys the web through my Dell. For the first time in my life I finally understand why The Berenstain Bears, Sesame Street, and—okay, okay, MY PARENTS—always told me not to talk to strangers.

And in short, I am afraid.

Have It Your Way

Looks tasty, doesn't it?

I've been eating fast food all my life. There are fond memories of pulling up to those golden arches after preschool for a delectable Happy Meal lunch, memories of collecting those little Pokémon trinkets at each Burger King visit, memories of warming up after a long winter's day of sledding with hot Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers and fries. Fast food has infiltrated our way of life; I never think twice about the impact it has, because, shit, what's better than a Checkerburger and spicy fries after a night of drinking?

It's somewhat amusing, when you think about it. There are so many reasons why we should NOT be eating this crap Ronald McDonald feeds us, and yet, I continue to go back, time and time again. What's wrong with it, you ask?

• First and foremost, the food itself is grossly unhealthy. I'm way too lazy to look up facts and figures, but eating a Big Mac will probably take a few weeks off your life.
• Not only is it low in nutritional value, but the way the food is handled is often unhealthy. No cook would think twice about picking a burger off the ground and feeding you with it.
• Going deeper, the meatpacking industry is in shambles, and has been for years. Big Corporations take advantage of the lowly immigrants who work in the plants. They regularly get underpaid and under compensated for injuries.
• Big Corporate doesn't give a shit about you. If they can roll a profit, they'd gladly and knowingly feed you E coli—and have many times in the past.
• Kids are manipulated. Cute characters like Ronald and fun toys bring in the children from all over. And if the kid likes it, they become lifelong customers, not to mention they bring in their parents as extra customers.
• Salads? Sir, when someone gets a salad at McDonald's, and they use the dressing, it contains more fat than a burger.

Fuck it, that's enough rant. Nevertheless, it's important to examine why exactly we continually visit fast food joints when it's painfully obvious how bad it is for us. Personally, I feel sick every time I eat a burger from McDonald's, and yet, I find myself ordering two double cheeseburgers every time I go (which is often). Why? Why?

I've reached the conclusion, as I'm sure countless others have in the past, that it is an addiction. Much like alcohol or drugs, fast food takes hold of you. You get cravings that have to be nourished or else you'll be uncomfortable. And just like the threat of a hangover never deters the average drinker, so too does the threat of queasiness, obesity, or E coli do nothing to deter me from supersizing.

It's a terrible problem, a problem that no one will ever be able to do anything about. Not that anyone wants to, either. Hell, I could write a million more blog posts about the horrors of fast food, but still I'll go out on a Friday night, short on cash, and pick up some Wendy's. Usually, I am an optimistic person, but I've come to accept that this is a lost cause.

Now if you'll excuse me, a hot and juicy Quarter Pounder awaits.

Rot in Pieces.

LOL, you're a d-bag.

 

There is no band that I loathe more than Nickelback.

I realize that this is a gigantic statement, considering there are some really terrible bands out there. I mean, Fred Durst has a band for chrissake. But I would rather drown in hours of the song "Nookie" than ever be in close musical proximity to Nickelback.

My opinion is not a popular one, I know. Nickelback has a shitton of fans, sells out shows, and even got to make the theme song to the first (and best) Spiderman movie. These things, however, only help to fuel the fire of hatred that burns in my soul for Chad Kroeger and his band of horrendous goons. They are the forefathers of a genre that I despise: contemporary rock.

This grinds my gears for many reasons. The biggest one is that people who don't know diddly-squat about rock music consider Nickelback to be a fine example of what the genre is all about. And they're not. Nickelback disgraces the genre of rock as a whole by being boring, narcissistic fugly pieces of crap who write the same songs over and over again. My left foot could sound more sincere singing the worthless garbage that has given Nickelback platinum records.

Another awful aspect of heinous faced Kroeger and the boys is that they're procreative. Their success has helped to spawn even more wretched fake rock bands, like Breaking Benjamin and Seether and that shitty band that wrote the song about the lips of an angel. And people lose their shit over these bands. My former place of employment was filled with girls who obsessed over crappy rock bands of this nature. They went to concerts in parks where all of these artists would band together and play shitty festivals to shitty chicks who threw their bras onstage for shitty songs. It's sickening, and it's marring the reputation of rock music.

One day, real bands will get the commercial recognition they deserve, and the face of modern rock will no longer be a man who looks like Fabio on coke.

Rest in Peace

As I my life stretches into adulthood, I've often taken the time to step back and reflect on the memories and experiences that have brought me to this point. The innocence of childhood is long gone, this is true. Where did it go? When did it dissolve? Many a night I've lain in bed, unable to sleep, just wondering what happened to the life we once knew, a life filled with games of Capture the Flag on a crisp summer night, of bike rides on Sunday mornings, of walking to McKewon's Deli for something to do on a Friday evening.

I have no regrets, that's for sure, but still, sometimes I do pine for the old days. So how did we get here? One can simply answer this with one word: alcohol. Now our crisp summer nights are filled with not only the crisp smell of freshly cut grass and hamburgers on the grill, but also the sweet aromas of malt liquor. We no longer ride bikes on Sunday mornings; instead, my head is next to the toilet bowl. Friday nights, we travel to Wawa, but it's not so much walking as it is stumbling (and fucking with the Dunkin' Donuts guys as we go).

Think deeper though—how did we start this cycle of wasted nights? How did we procure this elixir of cheap pilsner beer? My mind pictures one man, and one man only. That man is Andy.

Good ol' Rat-Faced Andy. Where the fuck would we be today without him? I shudder to think. And no, he didn't give a shit about us kids; when he bought us alcohol from Wine & Spirits, it was purely a financial endeavor for him. This is how he made his living, scraping together the few bucks that kids tipped him each time he traveled to the liquor store.

But I pitied him. His face looked like it had been attacked by a swarm of locusts and would never recover. He smelled like holy hell, which hurt us all when he hopped into shotgun on the ride to the store. He lived in a dump on Fanshawe Street, no doubt where he (and the few friends he had) would circle up and shoot up. He was socially awkward; didn't he realize that the sixteen-year-old girls he served probably would NOT want to go back to his pad for a drink? He always seemed to be down on his luck. One time he explained that his house had just been robbed: "Man... they even took my shoes!"

I pitied him, but at the same time he was exalted by our group of friends. Yes, he was a creep and a skeezeball and a crook, but goddamn, he got us drunk! All those good times at the end of Jim C****'s block, all the times we got hammered and built a fire at the Burholme firepit, all the random parties and get-togethers in all the random backyards on all the random nights, none of it would've happened had it not been for the heroin addict who would come running at the first phone call. He was Andy. He was OUR Andy.

Andy is an enigma wrapped in a mystery, like some kind of perplexing burrito. He could disappear for months at a time, only to reappear suddenly, bottle of Banker's Club in hand.

I've talked about the loss of innocence, and as it happened, the next step after drinking alcohol was actually buying the alcohol ourselves. This happened when we discovered that Krewstown Beverages was serving to underage kids. Our need for Andy ceased. It's sad, but that's Social Darwinism for you—those who are not needed fall by the wayside. And so, Andy went into hibernation.

He's been spotted a few times since then. Nevertheless, all contact has been lost. Now we have fake IDs and can pretty much buy alcohol anywhere; when we want to get drunk, we simply drive to Oxford Beer and buy a case. No one thinks to call Andy anymore.

I guess the whole point of this short essay is to say thanks. Thanks, Andy, for all the good times you provided. If not for you, we might still be bored on those typical Friday nights in Burholme. But we weren't. We were drunk. We were fucking hammered. And we had fun. Thank you. Thank you.