“ENGLAND WAKES UP TO SNOW CHAOS,” stated the Guardian. The Associated Press added: “London Crawling.” Hah! A little AP humor soothes the soul. Anyway, there was some sort of massive snow explosion outside, whilst I, under the covers in Merry Old England, was suffering from sympathetic tooth pain/Vicodin craving (known as TPVC, look it up*), and missing my friend who was somewhere suffering from real pain/Vicodin craving on account of the evil dentist Dr. Wonko.**

You’ve got to love college parties. Young bodies rubbing up against each other, free-flowing libations, the license to speak and behave in an offensive manner — they’re a hedonist’s dream. Movies from Animal House to Old School have celebrated the rite-of-passage bacchanal, and it seems nobody can get enough of the festivities: even Michael Phelps, the squeaky-clean mama’s boy who dreams in red, white and blue, was caught blazing at a University of South Carolina ripper in November (bystander statement of the century: “He was the gold medal winner of bong hits”).

Welcome back chicklets! I assume you are all enjoying the lovely Ithaca weather and the recommencement of death by Cornell University. I was going to start off this column with a list of complaints about how the weather sucks, going back to school sucks, being in Ithaca when I was supposed to be abroad this semester sucks, already being behind on work sucks and how my computer sucks. Just a right little bundle of joy, all laid down on paper for you to commiserate with. But I changed my mind. My attitude coming into this semester has been to make the best of it (weather’s cold — go snowboarding; stuck in Ithaca — make new friends; school’s tough — take fun classes) and I want this column, which is about music after all, and therefore joyful by definition, to reflect that.

Last Tuesday in Paris, I was at last psyched and actually kind of proud to be an American. After spending nearly two weeks trying hard to cloak my accent and telling all the lecherous dudes that I was vacationing from South Africa because I wanted to experience the cold (and no, I’m really not interested in grabbing a cup of coffee with you), January 20th might have been the only day during my whole abroad experience that I am allowed — and almost encouraged — to speak in full-blown American English (i.e. pronouncing all of my R’s).

As graduation edges ever nearer and the menace of the Real World approaches, it’s natural for us college types to imagine what we might be like as fully-formed adults with colon polyps and 401(k)s. Some might see a dapper executive in thousand-dollar suits and shiny loafers; others might envisage a laid-back hippie-type with granola and Birkenstocks. My own aspirations lie in a somewhat less conventional direction: when I think of what I’d like to be in 40 years, I think of Larry David.

Unfortunately, after many, many attempts to write this column, I’m forced to admit to myself that the whole is in fact better than the sum of its parts. I, in fact, might not be that funny and I hesitate to say that R might not be either. I’m sure you’d agree with our many (many) fans that together, the two of us are quite a riot, but with an ocean between us? Well, the Dynamic Duo turned Unfortunate Uno may be up for a downgrade from riot to mere hoot, or worse. Mildly amusing, perhaps. Not amusing, perhaps. But if this particular column is disappointing, relax … we’ve found salvation in Skype, so once we figure out what to do about that six hour time difference, all will be as it was.

R: I miss you, R …

(silence)

The folks over at Gannett might not like my saying it, but addiction’s not always a bad thing. Sure, heroin eats your soul and meth eats your face, but there are subtler pleasures whose tight grip on your sense of self-discipline does neither harm nor detriment. Some people garden; others copulate; but there is only one non-narcotic pastime that can truly take hold of your body and spirit. I am speaking, of course, of music.

You all know the feeling — the irresistible urge to play that song just one more time, the uncontrollable humming in class, the sense of powerlessness before your iPod’s repeat function.

At long last, the fateful day has arrived. Yours truly is 21.

Yes, this is a big moment for all of us. But before you start clogging the phone lines offering me free drinks, let’s take a moment to reflect on what this once-in-a-lifetime event really means.

Whether you know it as the theme song to The Wonder Years, or as an iconic performance at Woodstock, Joe Cocker’s rendition of “With A Little Help From Friends,” a song originally by the Beatles, gleams as one of the greatest covers of all time.

Footage of Cocker singing at Woodstock shows a man completely possessed — a man channeling a swarm of unknowable rock-and-roll deities through that magical scepter known as the electric guitar. Or, loads of LSD. Nonetheless, what makes Cocker’s rendition of this song superb is the artist’s ability to channel the excellence — and somehow transcend the status — of the original. In a weird way, Cocker understands that song better than any Beatle does. Or so it would seem by his inspired performance.

In a hopeless, melting world with a collapsing economy, in which oil is becoming more and more scarce, where you can’t get a sandwich after 2 a.m., LiLo and SamRo can’t get married and you always have three prelims, a term paper and a presentation in one week, we have found salvation. While perusing Gawker’s usual tales of fallen Wall Street tycoons and their rundown on the life and times of Paul Rudd, we discovered something magical and wonderfully elegant in its simplicity. We will now share this phenomenon with you: www.ustream.tv/channel/shiba-inu-puppy-cam.