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(07/21/05 4:00am)
Things were never supposed to be this way. Or maybe, rather, I never expected them to be this way. See, in the second grade, when most kids were dreaming about becoming astronauts, or firemen, or doctors, I was dreaming of becoming nothing. I was content to sit, to "vege," to loaf. Handball at recess? No thank you. Cub Scouts? I lasted a week before deciding the uniform made me itch. I've never had any impressive personal aspirations. And frankly, I'm fine with that.
(04/21/05 4:00am)
Earlier this week I was sitting with some friends when I realized something: I was talking about myself. Not just talking, but, you know, talking. I noticed the glazed look in their eyes, the fact that they didn't care that I was unemployed, that I was destined to be a loafer. But I kept going. Why? Because that's me. That's just what I do.
(04/14/05 4:00am)
Tamagotchi:
(03/17/05 5:00am)
Frankly, we don't care who you are. Your personality bores us, as does your pathetic attempts at conversation. Face it: it's not who are you, it's what you like. Call us materialistic (don't worry, it won't be the first time), but the label on your carefully distressed t-shirt matters. A lot. Hipsters aren't hip solely because they have a working knowledge of existentialist philosophy. Ennui takes work, dedication and a careful selection of equally troubled brands.
(02/17/05 5:00am)
I don't blame us. We're products of an MTV phenomenon; a generation enthralled by glossy magazine covers and the cheapest road to fame. We spent many formative years glued in front of the television, the corners of our mouths curled into stupid grins as we watched the bronzed bodies of Spring Break make ridiculous -- yet nicely toned -- asses of themselves. We wished. We yearned. We dreamt for the day when we too could cover our genitals with whipped cream, get wasted and potentially contract an unsightly rash.
(02/03/05 5:00am)
You don't need to know where St. Tropez is to be hip. I mean, let's face it: it's going to take a lot more than that. You're uncouth, unwashed and uncultured. You couldn't tell Cannes from the crack in your ass, and you think that Biarritz is a Jewish Pastry. Well, dear gringo, it's time to come out from under that red, white and blue rock of yours ... or at least pull some sangria under it.
(01/27/05 5:00am)
Tina Fey. Seth Cohen. Lisa Loeb, Gwen Eudey. Face it: you've got a hard-on for geeks. From the black-rimmed glasses to their witty Friendster profiles, you go nutty for nerds. And like masturbating to bestiality, your dirty little secret causes you more guilt than a Jewish grandmother. But closets are made for clothes, now get over it all ready. Tell the world what kind of loser you really are. So when you're pickin' out that costume for the next Trekkie convention, just remember: lame's the new hip. Now that we have that established, allow us to offer up a few pointers to make you the chicest geek at Van Pelt.
(01/27/05 5:00am)
First off: just know we're happy that we never have to go to Monte Carlo again. We salute the maiden voyage of Noche -- the newest player on the Tabard date party block.
(01/20/05 5:00am)
January, as a month, is decidedly unhip. It's a time to focus on how to make this year better, while constantly being reminded how you fucked up the last one. By now, chances are you've broken that non-smoking resolution. We did by 12:08 a.m. on January 1st. You're lost. You're pathetic. And you've got 12 more months to make things worse. That said, allow us to propose a few helpful hints -- a list of do-able resolutions designed to make your year, well, hip.
(12/02/04 5:00am)
Phish had a farewell tour. So did Cher. But let's be honest, Grant's cooler (Nickie watches Mermaids far too often). We've helped you with wine, hangovers and happy hours for the bursar dependent. You need us even though we don't need you.
(11/18/04 5:00am)
If we weren't alcoholics already, the thought of another four years of "nucular" and pretending to be Canadian while abroad is enough to make us need a drink. Our post-class happy hour routine received a swift kick in the ass, and we've upped the ante accordingly. We don't have the endurance to hold out until happy hour anymore; now we make toasts to the decay of the free world as we know it between classes. Our flasks are monogrammed and from Pottery Barn -- where are yours?
(11/11/04 5:00am)
Yes, we know that a vodka tonic is your drink of choice: simple, mundane and completely uninspired. Like an inebriated sheep in a Prada-clad flock, you saddle up to the bar every Saturday, begging for that next uncreative cocktail. But why? Aside from the O.C. and Law & Order: SVU, life has become a boring monotony, leaving you at the tail end of an unexciting rat race. That being said, why are we still slurring our orders for subpar beverages to our respective hosts of hedonism? Hence, at the expense of upsetting the Conservative Right, we propose a revolution in boozing. Capt'n and coke? That ship, dear friends, has sailed. It's time to shake things up.
(11/04/04 5:00am)
It's happened to all of us: you start drinking on Beige, only to wake up in Budapest the next day, laying naked beside a Latvian prostitute named Katya. Hungover, confused and wondering what a skinned ferret is doing in bed with you and Miss Riga, an inevitable question begins tormenting your desperate mind: how the hell am I going to order my next beer? Yes, enthusiasts, we too have found ourselves in foreign lands, equipped only with a semi-working knowledge of English and a pocket full o' broken dreams. Just like herpes, it happens. And more often than you'd expect.
(10/28/04 4:00am)
Usually singing and dancing children provide cause to vomit. They weren't kidding when they said Youth was wasted on the Young -- in fact, they couldn't have been more dead-on. Childhood optimism is a vicious disease, only cured by countless hung-over mornings, mixed vigorously with years of good ol' post pubescent angst. That being said, you'd expect that a joyous, bubbly tot bouncing around a microbrewery would inspire nothing short of a riot. Wrong. Contrary to all morals and beliefs, I wanted to hug the little bastard. Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was the shrimp and jalapenos. Whatever it was, the Nodding Head Brewery did it, and did it right.
(10/28/04 4:00am)
What with Ben and Jerry's going corporate, Sex and the City gone forever and our moron of a president making a mockery of the democratic system, it seems to us that in life, the only remaining trace of reason and stability is found at the bottom of an empty glass. It's a tried-and-true fact: When you (or the United States, as it were) have hit rock bottom, a scotch on the rocks is the ticket to making the world a much nicer place.
(10/14/04 4:00am)
Yes, we're drinking champions. Yes, our livers are shriveled but strong. Yet, fellow enthusiasts, we too get hung-over. In a world of lies, deceits and non-alcoholic beers, this may come as a devastating blow: the captains of your booze cruise pray to the porcelain gods as well. We're not saying this happens often. In fact, we pride ourselves on the ability to awake bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, raising a fresh Bloody Mary as we say hello to Sunday. Sometimes though, that morning beverage is our death, and "Sunday morning" sounds like a Mac truck hitting a nitroglycerin plant. Mea Culpa.
(10/07/04 4:00am)
Ah, beer: that luscious liquid that helps Pi Kapp guys score each weekend. As much as you may want to deny it (we certainly don't), beer has played a formative role in your college career. From the freshman 15 to strides-o-pride (walk-of-shames were so last year), choice hops and fermented yeast have shaped your very being. While Cosmos and Kamikazes may be fine for Sarah Jessica Parker and the sexually questionable, there's something to be said for a flat, luke-warm glass-o-PBR. Yes, we realize the draw backs: lines of freshmen at the keg (target practice), plastic cups (perfect for crushing over heads) and, well, a drink that tastes like piss (superb for dumping on that bitch who stole your man). Regardless, we indulge. Frequently.
(09/30/04 4:00am)
In our beloved nation, there are certain occasions that are generally understood to be appropriate for throwing back a drink. Weddings, baseball games, 21st birthdays -- even a drunken Sunday morning is legit under the guise of curing a hangover. Then there's Cancun, college frat parties and any event involving the phrase "clothing optional"; situations where inebriation is not only socially acceptable, but a pre-requisite for attendance. If you're finding yourself ecstatically pumping a fist and bellowing, "YEAAAAAHHH, BAAABBBY!" while encased in regurgitated slime at a foam party, or in response to a particularly skillful kegstand, for your own sake, we certainly hope you're wasted. Otherwise, what's your excuse?
(09/30/04 4:00am)
When enumerating the finer things in life, certain items always make the list: Moet Champagne, Caviar, I Love the '90s reruns. Regardless of whether the luxury is being enjoyed in a crystal glass or being criticized by Mo Rocca, each selection has a certain je ne sais quoi that makes it, you know, totally awesome. Well my fellow bourgeoisie, get ready to chalk another indulgence on to the list - and this one may actually belong there.
(09/23/04 4:00am)
We've been there before: Your reservation at some BYO whose name you can't pronounce is in half an hour. You've yet to shower. You smell like West Philly. But most importantly, you're booze-less. So you sprint to 41st and Market and find yourself standing in front of a rather daunting wall of Chiantis, Chardonnays and a wide array of other fermented grape juices. Your initial instinct is to grab a box of Franz -- which we whole-heartedly endorse, by the way. We think it's motha-fuckin' bling to roll in with that cardboard box, or even better, ditch the packaging and just bring the bag. Thrifty. It's the new glam. If, however, you've got a penchant for luxury or believe that God didn't intend for wine to come from a box, allow us to offer some bottled alternatives. You may recall that we're egalitarian, plebeian -- and, well, cheap. That in mind, luxury is $10 or less. In other words, some of these vinos are just down-right horseshit. As always, each selection was tasted with tender loving care. A lot. And without that whole spitting thing.