Make sure it’s from Delaware or Jersey, somewhere somebody will believe. Memorize your new birthday and your new address. Don’t fucking forget the zip code. If some asshole tries to sell you a Louisiana or Alabama or Texas ID, tell him to get fucked. You need northeast. Mid-Atlantic is best. No Maine. No Virginia.

You will drink, says Yu, and he is right. He says, you will go to the Tip Top or the Firehouse. You will not go to Ginger’s unless you are a faggot. If you’re with a girl who wants to go to Ginger’s then fine, go there, but she’d better be worth that shit. At Ginger’s, the well liquor is more expensive than the best booze at the Tip Top, and any girl at Ginger’s will want dessert or wine or both. Shit adds up. Do not go there alone and do not go with dudes.

If you’re with your boys, go to the Big Red or if you’re bored or if the music is shitty because some douchebag has taken over the jukebox, go to the Firehouse. Late night, a giant slice of Firehouse pie is $1.50. It tastes good going down and just the same coming back up. You will eat—and you will throw up—a lot of Firehouse pizza. You’ll be too drunk to know if it’s good or not anyway.

Yu says, when you go out, you will wear the appropriate clothes: sneakers and a sweatshirt for the Bait Shop, the townie shithole near the mouth of the gorge where you can take the girls you don’t want to be seen with at the Tip Top. But you’ve gotta wear something nicer, a button-down and good shoes—get yourself some Kenneth Coles—to any place you wouldn’t care if you were seen with a Kappa or a DG girl. The sad barflies from the women’s college up the lake can go either way. They all love Tony’s because they have fruit flavored vodka and a dance floor and foam parties during orientation week, but if they’re busted, don’t waste your time or your money. Take ’em to the Bait Shop and make them pay for their own drinks. If they want to go to Ginger’s just tell them no. They’ll probably fuck you anyway. There’s no dick at that school. 

If you want to do Sake bombs, go to Japana. There’s not one Japanese person in there ever, and the kitchen’s full of Cubans or Puerto Ricans or whatever, and it’s generally a dump, but fuck it. Sake sake sake bomb!