The Art of Selling Out: A Top Five List

above: sell out? not quite

In 1965, Bob Dylan was well on his way to reaching the (or an) apex of his career. His acoustic protest songs had struck a chord in the hearts of the American youth, and his anthems moved many to tears. He was the folk singing hero of his time.

Yet Bob Dylan wanted to push the limits. He wanted more. He was to go electric.

As goes the legend, Bobby showed up at the Newport Folk Festival armed with an amp and a guitar cord. He plugged in, lit up a fiery version of "Maggie's Farm," and left the stage to a chorus of boos.

Now, I'm not so sure about that booing part, but it stands indefinitely true that a lot of people were pissed at my boy for doing what he did. As I mentioned before, he was a "folk singer," and by going electric, he supposedly "sold out."

If these pricks would've just shut their traps and listened, they would have realized that his material that came out of the debacle—songs like "Subterranean Homesick Blues," "Like a Rolling Stone," and "Positively 4th Street"—were some of his best material yet. In the early days of my Dylan fandom, I'd comfortably say that this is the time period I'd pick as my favorite in his catalog.

Urban Dictionary defines a "sell out" as "one who betrays a cause for personal advancement." In this regard, Bob Dylan did no selling out. Fans and critics were the ones that pinned him as the folk singer in the first place; it's not like he purposely wrote songs to be a hero or to change the world. He did it because he enjoyed writing music. And when he went electric, he was still just doing what he wanted to do. He betrayed no one—his fans betrayed him.

Okay, so Bob Dylan is not a sell-out. Then who is? Ah, here we come to another one of my favorite blog posts... Top Five!

Top Five Sell Outs

5. Kevin Barnes of Of Montreal

Ha! I kinda just put Barnes on the list to piss him off a little bit. In the summer of 2005, I broke up with my first girlfriend of my life. As I had realized over time, the only thing we really had in common was music. Thus, I'll always remember the last thing I ever had a conversation with her about. I said, about a month after our break-up, "Are you fucking serious? Of Montreal is on a commercial for Outback Steakhouse!" to which she responded, "I refuse to believe it." Likewise! Of Montreal seemed like the hippest of our favorite indie rock bands. How could frontman Kevin Barnes sell out like this? As it turns out, Barnes is pretty bitter about the subject: "The pseudo-nihilistic punk rockers of the '70s created an impossible code which no one can actually live by," says he about "selling out." No excuse, man, no excuse.

4. The Fonz

Arthur Fonzarelli was the definition of cool. Laid back, leather jacket, macking girls left and right (on multiple occasions, twins!), and the ability to kick the jukebox just right. So what the hell was he doing in a dance contest? Come on, dude.

3. The Who

If I took irony into account on this list, the Who would probably be number one. Weren't these the same guys that did a whole album making fun of people who sold out? Remember, the one aptly titled The Who Sell Out? And here are, forced to sit through car commercial after fucking 21st century car commercial, listening to the already overplayed "I Can See For Miles" and "Happy Jack." And let me tell you something else, Roger and Pete. You are not the Who without John and Keith. In calling yourselves "The Who" you make a lot more money while insulting your departed brethren's names.

2. Judas Iscariot

You really can't get much worse than Judas when it comes to selling out. He betrayed our Lord and Savior for pieces of fucking silver. He killed Christ for money! If that's not a sell-out, I really don't know what is. Well, okay, at least he felt bad for it, unlike Roger and Pete up there. Not saying they should hang themselves from a tree, but Pete Townsend is a child pornographer, so...

1. The Cookie Monster

He was once every kid's hero—he ate cookies for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snack! Who wouldn't want to do that? He gave us kids hope that one day, ONE DAY, our mommies would just let us throw out that asparagus and chomp on some warm chocolate chip. Cookie Monster just didn't give a fuck. I loved it. But alas... times change. Cookie Monster now claims cookies are a "sometimes food." Now the Cookie Monster wants to eat his fruits and vegetables too. What the hell, Cookie Monster? You were my hero, and now you are talking like my parents. That's bullshit. You're a sell-out.

above: Judas Iscariot

Bleeding Red

My team

Three things will tell you right off the bat that I'm a Philadelphian, born and raised. The first is my so-called "Philly accent." Those less fortunate are quick to point it out, and I'm proud of the distinction. Secondly, I know how to order a cheesesteak. For christ's sake, you don't say the word "cheese" and you don't say the word "steak" at all, got it? Third, and probably most importantly, I root for the Eagles, 76ers, Flyers, and Phillies—and no one else.

Now, if you read the Inquirer like me, you'll have already been beaten over the head with the Philly mythos that we're a "championship-starved team." I won't deny it. It's been 25 years since we've had a parade down Broad Street. Never has it occurred in my young lifetime. We've come close, and yet, not close enough. Yadda yadda yadda. We get it! We always come up short.

Frankly, I'm tired of being reminded. So, this blog post will not be a complaint about our starving city. Instead, I want to talk about my own personal experience.

As I stated before, when I am watching the four main professional sports, I always side with the Philly team. That's just how I was raised. However, if you know me, you know I'm not the most... um, athletically inclined. So, truth be told, I don't often watch Flyers regular season games, nor do I give the 76ers the time of day, and hell, sometimes I'll skip the Eagles' big Monday Night Football game if there is something better to do. Fine! I admit it.

Now, each of those three respective teams—the Flyers, 76ers, and Eagles—have all gone to their respective championships in the past decade or so. And yes, when they get there, and even the playoff games before that, I was there with them, watching every game. And I rooted for them with all my heart.

But in retrospect, this was all bandwagoning. Did I watch Flyers opening night? No. Did I see a single 76ers regular season game? No. Was I watching intently when the Eagles turned around their season in that pivotal Game 8? Probably not. I was always a fan, but I was not a die-hard fan until "it mattered."

If you've noticed, I left out a Philadelphia team. The Phillies. MY Phillies. For some reason, this team has become the team I have invested the most time in throughout my life. I'm always in the stadium either opening day or opening night. I actively watch at least two-thirds of the games (there's so fucking many of them, after all), and the ones I miss I always read about thoroughly the next day in the Inquirer. I've come to know and love everyone on the roster (except maybe So Taguchi, he fucking sucks). My heart pounds with every pitch Cole throws, every base Jimmy steals, every flyball Shane dives to catch, every homer Ryan smacks, every game Lidge saves.

When I bleed, I bleed Phillies Red.

For this reason, I find it fitting that my team, our team, has made it to the World Series for the first time in fifteen years. For one, I am not a bandwagoner when I put on my Phillies tee and cheer for the team. I've been watching them and rooting for them since day one. Their participation in the World Series increases my love for this team, it doesn't create a love for them.

A parade down Broad Street has never been a reality for me and my peers. It has become more of a myth. My father loves telling me the story about how he went to the Flyers Parade when they won the cup. It's lore, a legend. I can't think of any better time for that myth to come true than my last month as a teenager.

I have full confidence in my Fightin' Phils. I love this city, and I have a feeling—I KNOW—that my love of this city will never be stronger than it will be when I'm standing there on Broad and Market, piss-ass drunk at seven in the morning, rally towel waving.

Good luck, team.

My Not-So-Bleak Monday

Above: 13,000 sq ft. of hell surrounding a Taco Bell

This must have something to do with global warming. How else can you explain how it could be so inexplicitly warm at the median of October, and then all of a sudden the icy blasts of Mother Nature's breath are slicing across my face? Being a typically unprepared college student, I had no jacket to protect me from the suddenly chilly temperatures. Braced with only thin T-shirts (thinner than the average shirt since I have like three of them), my health is slowly dilapidating.

Okay, the weather gods should be well aware that I am immersed in rehearsing for a musical to premiere at the beginning of next month. Though my part is, deservedly, incredibly smaller than most other roles, it doesn't excuse me from actually having to use my voice. And when you wake up with a throat more sore than a chronic masturbater's left wrist, you tend to hate life.

Thus is the scenario I woke up to Monday morning. Not pleasant, I'll tell you. My lungs were laden with phlegm, my cough sounded like a wounded horse, and my head felt lighter than Phileas Fogg's hot air balloon. Damn you, immune system, damn you to hell. You've betrayed me at my worst moment.

Despite all this, I was scheduled to do some shopping for school that morning, so I desperately clawed my way out of bed and slinked to the mall.

Now, let me let you in on something. I fucking hate shopping, especially for clothes. I can't fathom a logical reason as to why I would need new clothes. What's wrong with the old ones? Why should my Beatles T-shirt be good one day, and the next I need to replace it? Why would a trusty pair of sneakers that I've used in all kinds of weather and at every occasion in the past two years of my young life, suddenly be thrown in the garbage? And really, Dad, do you NEED to be with me at the store, trying—nay, nagging—me to try on that pair of khakis two sizes too large because, "well, you never know!"? Mom, do you really think I'm going to buy that jacket because it looks "handsome"?! For the last fucking time, I don't shop at Kohl's! And wait a minute, maybe I should try on this pair of jeans again, just to make sure... I wonder if these shoes really fit, or they just seem this way in the store... Fuck, I know this tee is going to shrink and disfigure in the wash, I just know it....

Digression aside, I just really, really fucking hate shopping. What any normal teenager quietly goes about doing, and even enjoys sometimes, for me becomes a hassle, a nuisance, and a general evil that I try to avoid at all costs.

The thing is, this trip was different. I was sick, yes, and the sickness made me groggy, and this of all days was not a day I would have picked to spend doing one of my least favorite things. But when I got to the mall, and I got to the rack of new jeans... it actually went great. Instead of obsessing over which pair was best, instead of trying on pair after pair like a preteen girl, I simply grabbed a pair that looked good enough and went on my way. I didn't really have the energy to care. I didn't want to be there because I was sick, but the situation inverted itself, and I got out of there more quickly because I was sick. In some strange perverted way my sickness came to benefit me.

Armed with a runny nose—but also a few new additions to my wardrobe—I headed back to school. As is usual with Room 249, we got plans together for an evening of intoxication. I needed it after such a long day. Perhaps it wasn't the best idea, seeing as I was so sick and needed to get better for Into the Woods, but nevertheless I let my Irish heritage shine through, and cracked open a crisp beverage at eight o'clock sharp.

Soon I found out that it probably is a terrible idea to load yourself up on cough and cold medicine before a bout of underage drinking. I swear, usually I get past my tipsy stage and into my slightly drunk stage after about eight beers. On this evening, I was obliterated after only six. Six fucking beers. I felt like I exchanged tolerance levels with my thirteen year old sister. All this despite the fact that it said absolutely nowhere on the box about adverse effects by mixing the meds and alcohol.

But I woke up this morning feeling pretty good. Not good in the sense of my overall health—of course, my throat was still scorched—but something was pretty damn swell about me as I lay there on the top bunk. Then it hit me: no hangover. I managed to get drunk without actually drinking a whole lot. As I reflected further, there were added benefits. It took me less time to get drunk, less effort to stay drunk, and less money to buy said drinks. My sickness inadvertently helped me have a better, and more inebriated, night.

So, faithful reader, you may ask, what the fuck is the whole point of this long-winded diatribe? Because as far as the cast of the school musical knows, my throat certainly did nothing to improve my performance at rehearsal, and that sucks.

But as I sit here, thinking about my fall break and its ups and downs, I think a lot about how a sore throat could affect so much. When I woke up on that bleak Monday morning, the soreness in my throat did not bode well for my day. Yet, it helped me to get in and out of the mall with an efficiency I have never before experienced, and it helped me get fucked up in a way unlike I have since the first night this liquid Satan quenched my thirst.

I guess my whole point is I somehow found a silver lining in this cloud in my trachea. Not a bad way to look at life as you're hacking up pints of mucus.

The Valiant Return: PoYB's Top Five Cereals

Sorry, Fruit Brute, you didn't make the cut

No, it's not Tuesday, sorry Bee. I am in the mood for a Top Five though. It's been too long since we've shared our favorite depressing albums and lesbian crushes. Today, since I'm pretty fucking hungry right now, I'm going to do something food related.

Top Five Breakfast Cereal Brands

5. Oreo O's

You'll probably notice that almost all the cereals on my list are incredibly unhealthy for you, so let's start out with the most unhealthy of them all. I used to scoff at my Dad for eating cookies every morning for breakfast, but as I look back, I wasn't much better off. In fact, eating these little chocolate circles was probably ten times worse than eating actual Oreos for an early morning meal. And yet... how I loved them so.

4. Waffle Crisp

Shit, man, these little squares of goodness didn't even taste like waffles. A misleading name should not a tasty breakfast make, but somehow Waffle Crisp pulls it off. No wonder all those little old ladies wanted a bite so badly in those old commercials.

3. Cinnamon Toast Crunch

Wikipedia informs me that Waffle Crisp was created to rival the leading competitor in the niche of breakfast cereals that take hot breakfast foods, shrink them, and make them crispy in cold cereal form. Sorry, Waffle Crisp, Cinnamon Toast Crunch edges you out. Could it be the delicious blend of cinnamon and milk created? Methinks.

2. Cocoa Krispies

I have something to say to Cuckoo the Cocoa Puff Bird: FUCK your Cocoa Puffs. You ain't got SHIT on Cocoa Krispies. I mean really, does your cereal snap, crackle, and pop? I didn't think so. You are always bragging about how you use real Hershey's chocolate. Honestly, I never even liked Hershey's chocolate. Give me that fake processed chocolate any day.

1. Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch

It brings a tear to my eye thinking about it—God gives over six million adults and children peanut allergies, and I happen to not be one of them. When I was born, God truly smiled upon me. It's amazing to think I've been enjoying the Cap'n for almost twenty years now. Trust me, no special occasion is complete without it. When my dad would wake me up early in the morning for school, I'd be grumpy 'til I sat in front of a fresh bowl of the Crunch. When my mother would go out food shopping for our biannual family vacations, I'd always make sure PBCC was on the shopping list. And on Christmas morning, fuck my presents, I'm getting CRUNCH-A-TIZED. God bless you, Captain Horatio Magellan Crunch. I love you.

My Secret Degrassi Shame

above: my dignity, missing

I feel like everyone comes to a point in their life when they realize they've hit rock bottom. Perhaps you're sitting by yourself in a basement with a bottle of Jack, getting shitfaced, crying for no reason. Perhaps you've just broken up with your girlfriend of five years and you look around and realize you have no shoulder to cry on. Maybe you're addicted to coke and living on the streets.

My rock bottom happened recently. It's perhaps more serious than all my aforementioned examples. Yes, I have hit a low point in my life. Probably the lowest.

I'm addicted to Degrassi: The Next Generation.

Maybe you haven't heard of this show—and God, I pray you are one of the few kids my age who hasn't, maybe that will spare me some of my dignity—then you know what's so bad about this.

Wasn't I the kid who blogged over the summer about how bad shows like The O.C. were? Wasn't I the kid who constantly belittles boys and girls who watch this nonsense? Am I not the same kid who takes great pride in the type of entertainment I expose myself to?

And yet, here I am, not only allowing, but actually wanting to know what happens to Marco after he comes out of the closet, how Craig will react to the realization that he has been unfaithful to Ashley, and if JT and Liberty will ever get together, however unlikely it seems.

See, what's weird about all this is that I could easily sit here and list a hundred reasons why I shouldn't like this fucking program. I could tell you that sometimes Degrassi puts its teen stars in edgy situation just for the sake of being edgy. I could tell you that the show poorly handles its ensemble cast, and sometimes characters just disappear for episodes at a time. I could write how the plot is flooded, I mean really drowning, in melodrama. I could try to explain how truly awful the acting. Really, it's just plain bad. These Canadian actors just can't cut it.

I could go on and on! Degrassi is a show that in theory should be a show I absolutely hate, a show that I constantly berate my little sisters for watching, a show I scoff at when mentioned.

But no. No, I really like Degrassi: The Next Generation. And I'll probably watch an episode after I finish this blog post.

I am a fourteen-year-old girl.

A Promise, an Oath

above: Joe trying to figure out how to post on PoYB

Okay, in the past week, one M. B** and I have made at least three (drunken) pacts to write a PoYB post every day for a week. Really, we've been slacking on this shit.

So, starting today, I'm going to do it. I swear to God. I really will.

I call to action my fellow bloggers to do the same. Mandy, Mike, even Nick, let's get this ol' boy back on its feet, shall we? And hey, maybe Dave will, like, totally post something. Just once?

Enjoy, faithful reader.

Love,
Joe

The Good Life: A Restaurant Review of Lacroix

Above: Treetops Café

I cleaned up, put on a neatly pressed, crisp white shirt, straightened my finest khaki pants, and tied my tie to perfection. My shoes were shined, my belt buckled, and my hair combed for the first time in years. My lady, she put broke in her finest summer dress. She looked simply dazzling in her deep blue garments, and her hair flowed like the ancient Euphrates. We were quite a pair, and off we went to catch a horse-drawn carriage on a beautiful autumn eve.

Tonight, we were living the good life.

It's Restaurant Week here in Philadelphia, and you know what that means—dining that's normally reserved for the well-to-do is briefly available to us plebeians. We figured it'd be best to go to the most expensive restaurant we could find (after all, the prices are the same everywhere this week). Lacroix was our choice (it's pronounced "La-kwa" for you aforementioned plebeians).

We arrived promptly at our scheduled time of six post-meridian, and a kindly old gentleman in suit, tie, and cap opened the door for us. The atmosphere was simply marvelous—big white tables, candle-lit, soft music playing in the background, huge glass windows overlooking our city's quaint Rittenhouse Square. Imagine eating like this every night!

No water glass was left unfilled, no dirty silverware left idle, no whim left unfulfilled. Needless to say, the service was excellent. The young man who served us would have probably given me a foot massage, had I asked for it.

The manager took a special interest in his young clientele, and served us a spoonful of delicious scrambled egg "straight from the cooks pan." Our palates were tingling. Likewise, every served dish dazzled our taste buds with their distinct and unique combinations of flavors. Pork shoulder has never tasted so good as it did with thin apple slices over it, nor did the salmon ever delight the senses with its blend of corn, water chestnut, and cheese. All the courses were well prepared, not only in taste, but in sight. It was quite an experience.

So all in all, dinner was delightful. I felt like a prince. We left, well-fed and well-nourished, with nothing but smiles on our faces. Lovely.

Then we, uh, got some Hurricanes and got fucked up in my dorm room, but that's another story for another time. For now, it was nice to savor the good life for a night.

Random Selections from the Marble Copybooks of Nicholas Gilbert, Esq.

As I'm sure most of you know (or should), I love to write, and it's taken me way too long to actually take the dive into this new-fangled blogging business. However, I've come today to bare some of my selected pieces from the notebooks I'm constantly scratching bullshit into when I have nothing to do. Now, I know PoYB, as we've come to call it, is much more often a forum for rants on the pleasures of drinking, dancing, rock-and-roll music, pre-marital sex, and just about anything else the Catholic Church and the venerable Reverend Shaw Moore frown upon, but we can all agree that blogging is more a practice in our beloved art of writing.

Having said that, this is not a rant. My words have, and never will be, as candid as those of Joseph or Amanda. I will never be able to write about life in the Bermuda Triangle we call Northeast Philadelphia with the poignancy of David or Mike. I enjoy college and being on the cusp of adulthood, but I just can't put it that eloquently. I write what I know, and, most often, that's lyrics. However, a lyric without fingers dancing across keys or fretboards is really just poetry masquerading as something a little less queer. Keep in mind, almost none of these selections have been read by anyone other than yours truly and are rough drafts at best, so enjoy.

Without further ado, Random Selections From the Marble Copybooks of Nicholas Gilbert, Esq.

"Those Before Us"

Our lives, built along the timelines of those before us.
Crossing fine lines drawn in the sand by those better than us.
Arrest my moral judgment, decisions aren't to be made on my own.

Father, I've been feeling sick,
Though I've not come for advice
Shamed as I am, I'm here to confess

He says that I can't see what's going on here
He says that I can't see we're going under

Most of this deals with my disillusionment with religion, especially the Catholic Church. I've never been a religious person, but I believe I have a certain set of morals. We were made to stand on our own two feet, and I hope to never see the day I use blind faith as a crutch.

"Beneath the Sheets"

Paper-thin walls crash down beside me. Laying, exposed to the world, in bed, the only solace I have left. "He's sleeping," onlookers will say, "these problems can wait til morning." The cool breeze and soft light, coming through what used to be my window, wake me along with the stunning realization that this night is real. All the things I hid from in sleep have been watching me, beckoning my consciousness to come together for a welcoming breath. And so, in this lonely state, I write. I write words that anyone can read or understand. "Perhaps," I think to myself, "hiding is not my only solace." This park, vacant as I had once been, is now only full of stepping stones. Each one is larger, growing from self-conflict to epiphany.

I really don't have too much commentary on this. I feel that the metaphors and similes speak for themselves. We all have rough times, and we all find a certain solace.

 

"Perspective"

If there's one good thing about this fire
It's that it casts the light on your face in a way I've never seen before
As the glare dances across your face I see
The intricate emotions hiding beneath every expression

Maybe it's just the contrast
But I've never seen
In the midst of such chaos and desperation
Such great hope

If I've ever had a constant
I'd call it change
Elegantly straddling the fine line we call decision
Perspective is the only thing that could save us

Here's to starting over
Here's to new beginnings
Here's to the night being darkest
Just before dawn

Sorry for the last verse/stanza being composed entirely of cliches. When in Rome, right? Either way, a constant theme in my life is all the terrible or rushed decisions I've made since college started have brought some of the greatest things in my life. I consider myself lucky in that I can honestly say one of the most hurtful things that ever happened to me turned out to be the greatest.

So, there you have it. Feedback is much appreciated. I'm not fragile, I swear. Also, bonus points to whoever can find a Kevin Bacon reference in this post.

Goodnight.

PoYB Recaps Summer 2008

Above: an epic summer

I'm not a night-shower person. I really can't stand the feeling of wet hair as I lay down to go to bed. Usually I'll shower as soon as I wake up, or sometimes after dinner and before I head out on the town, but never before I go to bed. With one exception. The last night of summer.

Jerry Spinelli, the popular children's writer, wrote a book called Who Put That Hair in My Toothbrush? that started: "The saddest shower of all is the one you take the night before school starts... It's like you're not just washing the day's dirt away, you're washing the whole summer down the drain." As a rule, tonight is the one night of the year I take a shower before I go to bed, because the sentiment is so true. It's this shower in which I reflect upon the summer as a whole. Let me take you into my shower with me...

The first thing that show be said is that this summer was definitely a lot different then any other summer of my life. It was different because it's no longer defined as "freedom." For instance, while in high school, we went to school for six hours a day, we came home, we did some homework, we laid around the house alone for a bit, and that was it. Sure we had the weekend to unwind, but that was but two sparse days, and then it was back to the grind. Summer was an escape from that. Summer meant we could do whatever the hell we wanted. It was relaxing.

In a strange turn of events, summer's and the school year's roles have been reversed. Now it is school that is the freedom; there's freedom in living on our own, there's freedom in doing whatever we want, whenever we want on campus. In contrast, summer is now the daily grind. I've worked for the past fucking fifteen days. Who wants to do something like that? Not I. I did it for the money, the money I need for college, so I can have that freedom.

Summer used to be freedom from school, now summer is a necessary evil to make sure school can occur.

Alright, shit man, I'm definitely exaggerating when I call summer "evil." That's not true, sorry summer. While it was a hell of a lot less exciting than college was, it still treated me very well indeed. As is the case with any summer, there occurred a multitude of events that we will forever look back upon and react with a smile and a chuckle.

There was: the time we got chased by the dude from Joseph's Pizza; the night we played Edward 40 Hands; my sister's drunken graduation party; those many nights with my gal from Maryland; the night at my first bar, Copa Banana; late night escapades to diners; early morning escapades to diners; my and Kev's week of total inebriation on Senior Week; house parties at Kyle's, Clig's, Dave's, Bri's, Mary's, Andrew's, and Max's, to name a few; enjoying the fine musical selections at Popped! Music Festival; the Laf Kegs, part III and IV; "poker nights" at Andrew's; and last but not least, Basil 249's infamous Susqy kegs to raise money for our dorm room (final count: we raised $140 bucks).

I guess the final part of that paragraph is telling of what this summer was about. While I enjoyed summer, and I love hanging with the kids I hung out with all sixteen weeks of summer, a lot of the time I was just wishing I was back at school. The good thing about going to school so close to home is that I can have my cake and eat it too; while I see my best friends every week during the summer, I see them pretty much every week during school too, along with a truckload of other friends that I don't get to see during the summer.

So, in a sense, you can say that as of eleven hours from now, the chains of summer will be broken. I'll know longer live under my parents' rule. I'll no longer have to work every goddamn day. I'll no longer have to wake up alone, and drive five minutes to an hour to hang out with someone.

Summer, you were awesome, but god bless school.

I want to end this post with some of my favorite pictures of the summer. I don't want to sound so negative about summer, and this will remind me of all the great times.

It's been great, folks. I'll see ya on Second Floor Basil's, hopefully sooner than later.

History in the Making

There we sat, huddled in the basement, waiting for history to be made.

The torch is lit but once every four years, and every four years, athletes from all over the world gather in one city for a historic two weeks of friendly but fierce competition. Only the best of the best can stand up, show their gold, and claim that they are, without a doubt, the best in the world.

Every time the Olympics occur, certain men and women tend to stand out for their brave athleticism, their spirit, and their willingness to be the best. Among them, one man stands leaps and bounds above the rest. His name is Michael Phelps.

Much ballyhoo has been made by this one man, this champion of champions. The weight of America's collective expectations was placed firmly upon his shoulders. His task? To win eight gold medals, more than any other man has every done in recorded history. Win eight golds, and he would be marked as one of the greatest athletes to have every lived.

There we were, crouched in that tiny basement, waiting for Phelps to begin what would become the most important swim race of his young life. The elite group of four Americans waited with bated breath on the lip of the pool, tense with anticipation for the behemoth known as the 400-Meter Medley Relay. Michael Phelps was but one cog in the wheel of the team, but the world's eyes rested solely on him. It's all up to this.

The race was about to begin. Michael's teammate, Aaron Piersol, placed both feet on the diving board, and at the gunshot, he was off. The world fell silent except for the sound of the water splashing against the side of the pool in Beijing's Water Cube. Aaron backstroked with all his might, and through sheer will, he kept the American team in close contention.

Brendan Hansen shot off next, and his breaststroke was never more supple, never more firm, never more powerful. Like a dolphin, he swam from one end of the pool to the other and back, and handed the baton to America's hero, Michael Phelps.

Phelps was, well, Phelps. His torso cut through the water as if he were flying across the clear blue sky. What else can be said about his performance, other than its other-worldliness, its glory, its tear-inducing beauty?

The anchor of our Dream Team was Jason Lezak, and he did not let the world down. Finishing the race with a finesse that would make Jesus himself jealous, his freestyle swimming caused entire civilizations to fall to their knees. He neared the end. He was inches away. He could taste the victory...

And there we were, hunched in a circle around the TV, cold beers in hand, teeth clenched, jaws quivering, about to witness history. And yet, despite all the hoopla, despite the dreams of Michael Phelps and America's yearning for a hero, despite the fact that history was truly about to be made...

I couldn't help but care more about how the Phillies were doing that night.

Contrary to Popular Belief, I Do Have Friends

(Above: two inevitables, Team Green and the beer-amid)

Sometimes I take things for granted. I have food on the table and clothes in the drawer and a roof over my head. I have parents who support me. I am able to receive a great education. However, one thing I rarely take for granted is the group of friends I associate myself with. Everyone knows our little group; it's gotten to the point that my parents ask me who I am hanging out with, and I say, "Ya know..." And they do know.

Just like it is assumed who I'll be hanging out with on a typical summer night, it is likewise assumed what always happens when we get together to drink. I guess it's typical for anyone who drinks to assume that certain things will happen, like maybe a certain friend will always puke without fail, or a certain two people will always hook up, no matter what. There's no doubt, however, that in my group of friends specifically, certain events always occur when we get inebriated. In a celebration of these good times, I shall attempt to list them. Let me know if I missed anything.

THINGS THAT ALWAYS HAPPEN WITHOUT FAIL

—We perpetually try to figure out how many beers we'll need, if it will be enough, and if someone will need to go out and get forties. As I'm usually in charge of buying the beer, you can probably expect a text of "how many beers are you going to have?" pop up in your message inbox. And the same happens during the party: someone will come into the room and say something absurd like "Okay guys, we have 73 beers left... do we need to go on a forty run?" But it's with good intentions (the intention being our getting shitfaced).

—The first beer or two is the last of the serious conversation all night. Some of it might involve the good times that happened at the previous party. Some of it might involve asking how so-and-so is doing, or how this and that went. Really, though, it's just the layover period in the party, since we are still sober and no one has yet to really start drinking yet.

—When everyone feels good, we play a drinking game. The first priority is beer pong, and in this game, there's always that one team that holds a dynasty for like eight games in a row. Usually this is Team Green, which consists of Kev-o and me. We like to pretend that we are better than everyone else, and sometimes it's even true. Also, we make fun of Mike for calling the game "Beirut." Last time I checked, I could find that on a map, not a party.

—If beer pong is not an option, the focus shifts to Kings. None of this "two for you, three for me" shit, either. We play Rockledge Rules. Some memorable rules included having every curse that rolls off your tongue being written in permanent marker on your body; whenever anyone needs a beer, Mandy has to get it, and bark like a dog when finished; when the keg is kicked, Joe has to hold it above his head... naked. In any case, one is usually fucked up after this.

—When everyone gets loaded, we usually blast some Taking Back Sunday song and scream it at the top of our lungs and dance around and shit. Okay, I'll concede that Taking Back Sunday isn't that good of a band in general, but come on, they really are a good drunken singalong band.

—At one point in the night, we'll try to convince Katie to hook up with a girl. She never obliges.

—Someone shows his or her penis or bare ass or some supposedly "private" part of their body. Let's not kid ourselves though, it's usually my penis.

—Someone will leave the room and start talking to their special someone on the phone. Do it at your own risk, however, because you'll be labeled as "whipped" for the rest of the night.

—There reaches a point when everyone ceases to be drunk and starts to become hammered. I'd estimate this occurs at the point when the participants crack open their extra forty. Once everyone is nice and bombed, two things always happen, with no exceptions. The first is that their is an intense search for food. When someone finds three-week-old chicken patties in the back of the freezer, the focus of the party shifts from the keg to the oven, where in approximately 15 minutes (preheated to 425 degrees) those little golden-brown beauties will make our lives that much better.

—The second thing that happens when we pass into the realm of heavy intoxication is the various heart-to-hearts. The range of topics are far spread, but they could involve anything from the trouble you are having with a guy or girl, the insecurities of being a teenager, or just simply how great life is. Inevitably, though, these so-called heart-to-hearts always end in the reaffirmation that "you are, like, my BEST friend, man." God bless alcohol.

—Someone will be significantly worse off than the others in terms of how drunk and sloppy they are. An award is given out every night for this person: "The Jim C**** Honorary Load of the Night Award." Usually, Jim earns it.

—When a new person enter the fray, perhaps a friend from school or a cousin or otherwise, they are pretty much guaranteed some sexual activity that night, assuming everyone is drunk. Just trust me, it's a theory tried and true.

—And finally, each individual person has their little idiosyncrasies while inebriated. Dare I name some? Mandy has her infamous "Whaaaaaat?" when faced with some absurd claim. Kev puts on the C***** Slur and does the C***** Shuffle. Kyle looks for some "ace." Katie shows everyone her vagina after chugging a bottle water... I mean, uh, vodka. Andrew is chain-smoking and showing us his card tricks. Ed becomes, if it's possible, even more like a teddy bear (a very large teddy bear). Mike shows us his emo hardcore dancing ability. Dave shows us his emo hardcore singing ability. Mary is flirtatious. Keelan keeps everyone in check. Marielle says she'll hook up with Kev. Brianna is even nicer, even when we thought she couldn't be any more nice, and occasionally passes out in a shower. Jim is, well, acting like Jim often does. And I act like my dad.

This is all just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to hanging out with these kids. The bottom line, though, is that no matter what is bound to happen, or what new surprises are in store, it is ALWAYS a great and memorable time.

This is why I consider these people my closest friends.

"Might drink too much, but we feel fine / We're gonna build something this summer."

Above: even as an infant, one Ms. Amanda L. B** knew what was up.

The Northeast Times once ran an article that birthed one of the greatest opening lines to an article ever: “It may not be their legal right, but there’s little doubt that young people in Northeast Philly still consider drinking in the woods their birthright.”

This, more or less, is a summation of my childhood. When the alcohol bug began biting my friends and me as teens, we sought refuge in various wooded areas and outside hideouts in order to engage in underage drinking. Sure, drinking outside had its downfalls. We sustained many a mosquito bite and strange rash. We could barely see in the darkness of night. We froze our asses off just to down a few cans of Natty Light. Hell, we’ve run from cops, almost been arrested, and had two beautiful, unopened cases of Miller taken from a cherry top. But these experienced have helped define us as a group of friends. Drinking is, and never has been about getting drunk to us... it’s about being together, and forming memories that we cherish deeply.

When I moved to La Salle, drinking outside was no longer a necessity. We had cramped dorm rooms and shady frat parties that were able to house our liver-damaging events. The good times were aplenty, of course, but it was kinda sad. No longer was the thrill and underhandedness a part of me and my friends' drinking experience. We could no longer be young scamps who stayed out until *gasp* 12:30 in the morning with nothing but cases and smiles on our faces.

This summer has brought back some of that glory for me, though. A choice few of my friends have started throwing kegs in the woods in order to build up a beer fund for their ultra-banging party room this year (which is conveniently located directly across the hallway from my St. Basil suite). During these kegs, a bunch of us regulars (and some surprising visitors) have gathered in a choice locale of the Pennypack Woods. It’s a fool-proof spot: it’s so far back that no cop in their right mind would haul their cookies there just to bust a bunch of cute Irish kids’ keg. It’s also soundproof, and the good times cannot be heard until you are nearly face-to-face with the party.

A lot of people make fun of us N’east kids for these events, but I can honestly say that they have provided some of the greatest times of my Summer 2008, as well as helping me develop a thesis statement for my inevitable “What I Did This Summer” essay.

I mean, some classic things have happened at these kegs. I’ve done legendary keg stands (or... pitiful ones...). The most random people have gotten some summer lovin’ against the trees. We’ve stood for three hours in torrential downpour just to get our drink on. Some super white kid has tried to engage people in a rap battle. We’ve had false alarms when, thinking the police were on our heels, we all dropped our cups and bolted into a path of thorny shrubbery. Heart-to-hearts have been had; fights have occurred. Planets were saved, and lives were lost. But in this sea of trivial happenings, we’ve all been able to hang out and enjoy the company of those we love most while using our cellphones to see the tap of the keg.

Another great aspect of the nights is what can be crassly called “the after-party.” This party occurs when, in droves, we drunken idiots have sauntered (or dangerously faced the wheel of a car) to headquarters: Wawa. This has resulted in some nameless friends being banned from said Wawa, but nonetheless; many good times and chicken sandwiches have been had there.

So in short, don’t judge a man before you walk a mile in their shoes, and don’t judge my friends and I until you’ve drank in the woods with us for an hour. In fact, come next week. And your ass will totally be kicked in how amazingly awesome we all really are.

The drink of the gods; the elixer of life.

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.