Hello again. Hope you didn’t get too sober while I was gone. Now that my liver is finally done crying after a particularly rough weekend in Michigan City, IN, I’m looking forward to enjoying some beer that isn’t sold in packs of 36. To (re)start things off, I want to shine a spotlight on a beer hailing from that dark, swampy groin of the nation known as New Orleans.

What’s the story?

The Abita Brewing Company was founded in 1986 in the “piney woods” just north of Lake Pontchartrain and New Orleans. The company was founded by Jim Patton and Rush Cumming, two homebrewers who wanted to turn their hobby into a career (one of these times the story has to change). Their new brewery produced a humble 1,500 barrels of beer in its first year, and since that time has expanded production to over 150,000 barrels per annum (that’s a 100-fold growth). Nowadays, Abita’s beers are somewhat of a staple in New Orleans bars, and they have even reportedly made their way into some of the Bourbon Street haunts where, amongst racks of frozen novelty-drinks and hard liquor, they are likely to remain the lone choice for beer snobs. Abita is the 15th largest craft brewery in the U.S., the 24th largest brewery of any category, and it’s beers are available in 46 states as well as Puerto Rico. Its beers are so synonymous with New Orleans that they are served at every restaurant and bar at the New Orleans-themed Port Orleans Resort at Walt Disney World.

Abita Amber is the brewery’s original beer, and it continues to be their best-selling offering. It is reportedly used in cajun recipes by local chefs, and is meant to pair well with Louisiana specialities like smoked sausages, crawfish, and spicy gumbo.

Why should I drink it?

The liquor (water used to brew beer) that goes into Abita’s beers is drawn from Abita Springs. According to folklore, this water is endowed with special healing properties. Consult the following story, courtesy of Abita’s website:

This story is of a young Spaniard named Henriques who lived in Louisiana during the late 1790s. While hunting along the shores of Lake Pontchartrain, he met a beautiful Choctaw girl and persuaded the chief to allow them to marry. After bringing her home to New Orleans, Henriques watched his wife grow pale and weak, and soon he realized that she was very ill. None of the local doctors could cure her so Henriques finally consulted the Choctaw’s medicine man. The young woman was carried to the spring and left there with only a hammock, food and a dipper to drink from the spring. When Henriques returned, to his amazement, his wife was totally well and the water’s fame as a curative began to spread.

So there you have it. Drink Abita beer, and you’ll be cured of any deadly ailments that might be troubling you. Except cirrhosis. If you have that, it will only make it worse.

What does it taste like?

Like a toasty biscuit. This is one of the more flavorful lagers I have ever tasted, and the bready, caramel flavors are actually more prominent than in many ales. The beer is overwhelmingly sweet and malty, with hardly any taste of hop bitterness. There’s also a distinct earthy musk that is pretty atypical of a lager, and it becomes more noticeable as the beer warms up. This taste is of the sort that you would expect from a cheap, mass-produced lager, and although it’s definitely not pleasant, it’s also not entirely unpleasant. The beer is definitely not what you’d call balanced; the malty sweetness is the main, dominant feature, and I get the feeling that the earthiness was more of a byproduct than an intended flavor.

Where the beer does find balance, however, is in the mouthfeel. Abita Amber is a light, sweet lager designed to pair well with spicy cajun food, but it nicely avoids the pitfall of being overly-watery. The beer seems slightly meatier than other, more popular versions of the style (Dos Equis, Sam Adams, Third Shift, etc.), and it has a nice consistency that feels good to swish around. At 4.5% ABV, it’s light, but not as much of a featherweight as beers like Yazoo Dos Perros that are simalarly meant to pair with heavy, flavorful foods. It’s definitely substantial enough to stand on its own. I really haven’t encountered many other relatively-cheap, widely-available beers that strike this balance very well, and I think it deserves more credit for this.

Should I try it?

I was torn about this one. At first glance, it’s flashy, appealing, and quite delicious, but after it warms up a bit there’s a distinct swampy funk that becomes more and more noticeable. It’s the perfect flagship beer for New Orleans, really. Just like the town from which it hails, Abita Amber is, for all its grimy shortcomings, colorful and full of character.  Sure, Louisiana might be the groin of the nation, but doesn’t the groin have all the fun, anyway? Abita: the official beer of your groin. Try it out.

Rating: 7.5/10

When you live in the Midwest, everything has a limited growing season. You’re unlikely to find fresh local produce at all between November and March, and even outside of that timeframe, you won’t always have many options available to you. We’re halfway through June, and I still have yet to receive anything that isn’t a leafy green with my CSA share. The cool, wet spring (otherwise known as winter that won’t quit) has meant that lettuce and kale have lasted much longer than they normally do before turning bitter. We’re also very, very close to a few glorious months of tomatoes and peppers and cucumbers and other things that will produce for several weeks, if not longer.

Some crops are a little more fleeting. I’ve been anxiously waiting for my CSA to deliver strawberries, and I’m crossing my fingers that they’ll be in my box tonight. Tomato Mountain (the aforementioned CSA) does both Tuesday and Thursday deliveries and they guaranteed that they would be ripe for Thursday customers, but not Tuesday. The strawberry season is so short that I’m sad at the possibility of missing out on a single day of them.

Fortunately, I was in my hometown over the weekend and was able to go strawberry picking with my mom to tide me over. This is how brief strawberry season is: less than three hours from Chicago, we caught the second-to-last day of the you-pick berry season. The berries that were left were smaller and sparser than they would have been if we had gone to the farm even a day earlier. Two hours north of Chicago, the berries weren’t even ripe yet.

I think that the shortness of the strawberry picking season makes them even more of a treat. It’s hard not to eat more than you put in your box to take home if you’re picking them yourself. And with strawberries, it’s perfectly okay to over-indulge because the picked berries don’t stay fresh for very long. If you don’t use them quickly, they’ll go bad and be wasted. We ate the berries we picked over the weekend in smoothies, milkshakes, salads, pies, and by the handful. There’s a limit to how much you can eat in a day, though, so eventually some of them have to be preserved for later. If you just want straight berries, freezing is the best way to keep them intact. A sweeter option, though, is to make jam. This is the recipe that we’ve used to make jam as long as I can remember, and it’s simple (two ingredients!), foolproof, and delicious. I don’t use a proper canning technique for this, so it won’t keep forever and does need to be refrigerated, but it’s so good that you shouldn’t need to worry about storing it for too long anyways.

——

Easy Strawberry Jam

2 quarts fresh strawberries

6 cups granulated sugar

1) Wash strawberries thoroughly and transfer to a large saucepan. Use a potato masher or wooden spoon to crush the berries so that they begin to release some of their juices. They do not need to be turned into a pulp – there should still be large chunks and even whole berries, depending on how big your berries are.

2) Place the saucepan over high heat on the stove and stir in sugar until thoroughly combined. Allow the mixture to come to a rapid boil.

3) Reduce heat to medium or medium high, retaining the rapid boil. Cook for 45 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the mixture reaches a gelling consistency. To test the consistency, scoop a small amount of jam onto a metal spoon and allow it to drip back into the pan, holding it well above the heat. The first few drops should be very liquid, but it should gradually turn thicker and eventually come off the spoon in a sheet.

4) Remove the jam from the heat and transfer immediately to very clean glass jars that have been run under hot water or placed in a pot of boiling water so that the glass is still very hot. Place lids on the jars and let cool before transferring to the refrigerator for storage.

Wrestlers aren’t actors. You hear this a lot when you try to explain wrestling as a performative medium, and it seems to be at odds with the biggest attack on the form, which is to say that it’s a fake sport and they’re only actors. And yet, as WWE shifts its focus to summer programs and eventually to Summerslam in mid-August, a lot of the stories they chose to kick off on last night’s Raw were less about Sheamus kicking computers for being smarter than him and more about emotional payoffs to long-running stories. And lo and behold, given a chance to flex, most of WWE’s big stars ably pulled off their big moments with resonance, proving in the process that there’s more to all this than LOUD NOISES. (That said, Ryback is still a thing, so the naysayers aren’t always wrong.)

The biggest story coming out of last night’s show, other than Dolph Ziggler turning into Ralphie from A Christmas Story all over Alberto Del Rio’s Scut Farkus, was Mark Henry’s pseudo-retirement. Most assumed that this was building to a story because a) the only short-form retirement WWE’s ever allowed was when Edge’s body shut the hell down on him and b) Mark Henry is far too tenured to simply get written out on Raw without some sort of proper sendoff, especially given that the autumn years of his career have yielded his best work to date. So, last night, Henry brought Grand Rapids to its knees. Giving a more convincing retirement speech than Triple H has managed in his last 47 attempts, Henry thanked the fans, took the “Sexual Chocolate” chants in stride with a smile and told everybody that he was ready to go out strong and finally be with his family. Even John Cena, who Henry asked to stick around after giving his own, exponentially less well-acted speech, was moved to genuine tears. (I mock Cena a lot in this column, but part of its triumph came from Cena working up some tears of his own, knowing what was coming.) When Cena re-entered the ring to give a respectful hug, Henry gave Cena the World’s Strongest Slam, a moment that actually got the crowd to cheer Henry.

There are a few reasons that HENRY USED EMOTIONAL RESONANCE AND ALSO FULL BODY WEIGHT. IT’S SUPER EFFECTIVE! worked out better than anyone could’ve imagined. For one, Henry’s an excellent performer, and has long managed the physical limitations of being built like Mark Henry with a ring style that suits him and an attitude that manifests itself in subtle (by wrestling standards) ways. From his “That’s what I do!” catchphrase to his trash talk during matches, he has basic ring psychology down pat in a way many modern wrestlers don’t. He also traded brilliantly on the legitimate wrestling retirement, because audiences will always forgive the dastardly deeds of characters when it’s time for somebody to take off their boots for good. This goodwill taps perfectly into one of the central tenets of wrestling, which is that people pay to see these guys entertain them, and if they do it well enough, those people will love them eternally. Henry took that, milked it, and laid out WWE’s equivalent of Superman. To take an audience’s fevered emotions and suddenly force them into a new direction…that’s acting, right?

Though Henry cornered the market on performance , there were quite a few other good moments last night, from subtle to grandiose. There was Brock Lesnar’s tease that we’d get to hear his voice (which in no way fits his body) before laying out CM Punk. There was Paul Heyman telling Punk he loves him and hugging him, both convincing and a deft reenactment of Michael Corleone showing affection to Fredo. There was the likely end of Team Hell No, which is mercifully ending not in a feud that involves Kane singles matches, but instead in two friends realizing that they can’t work as a team and going their separate ways, amicably and sadly. On a less subdued note, there was AJ Lee going toe-to-toe with a McMahon, standing her ground and being dragged out of the ring after delivering the longest promo a non-McMahon female has been allowed in WWE in at least a decade. These are the moments wrestling fans eat up just as much as the in-ring stuff itself, at least when they’re done well. WWE’s willful lack of short-term memory often impedes this, but every once in a while everything comes together like it did last night, and it’s amazing. They may not feign mental handicaps or deliver pandering renditions of homosexuality for statues, but it’s performance all the same. And not always, but sometimes, it’s awesome.

What’s the best concert you’ve ever been to?

Adam Cowden

U2 at the United Center in 2005. If you think you’re too cool for Bono, you’re not. He will blow your fucking mind.

Cory Clifford

The five best concerts I’ve ever been to were The Black Lips each time. They have a swagger to them that makes for an insanely energetic, chant-along, drunken mess of a show. I saw them at the Logan Square Auditorium one time, and their drummer mooned everyone at the end of the set. The Black Lips create memories, man.

Jonathan Mondragon

The final These Arms Are Snakes show. It was sold out (by far the most packed I’ve ever seen Subterranean), and the selection of songs was perfect. The crowd wasn’t even a crowd. It was just a sea of heads crashing everywhere while the band summoned chaotic, groovy destruction for an hour and a half. The singer grabbed my Clash beanie, wore it for the remainder of the set and grabbed two other dudes’ beanies and stuffed them in his pants. Then they broke up 2 months later. Life is hard.

Chris Osterndorf

Geez. I’m sorry to be such a one trick pony, but if I had to pick I’d go with Kanye West on the MBDTF tour. I’ve seen a lot of great shows, but witnessing this guy at the top of his game was, on a level of pure showmanship and entertainment value, incomparable. Ok, give me a couple of weeks to listen to Yeezus, let it really sink in, and by then my Kanye fever should have worn off enough where I can talk about something else.

Amy Dittmeier

I’ve seen The Flaming Lips multiple times (I think maybe about 5 or 6 now), and they put on the best show. Nothing beats Wayne Coyne in a bubble, dancing aliens, and inspirational songs about girls fighting robots.

Trent Zuberi

Manowar at the Agora Theater in Cleveland. I waited 15 years to see them and it was the most surreal concert experience I’ve ever had.

Dominick Mayer

This is a tough one, but I have to go with Mastodon/Against Me!/Cursive/Planes Mistaken For Stars at the Riviera in May 2007. This was huge for a few reasons, chiefly among them that a) it was my first show that wasn’t at an amphitheater, b) it was my first time seeing AM!, my all-time favorite band, live and c) I skipped my senior prom to go to this show. To this day, Mastodon is one of the loudest live bands I’ve ever seen (rivaled only by Boris, but I saw them in a much smaller space), and the whole show was great. That all of the above were touring behind good to excellent albums didn’t hurt either.

All are veritable pieces in a twisted puzzle that shouldn’t have been so complicated, convoluted, and frustrating. Still, there are far more possibilities for the franchise ahead that weren’t there following 2006’s Superman Returns, and that should be enough to excite the fans. As for the passersby? Keep looking to the sky.

Dear Big Brother,

I write to you a free man, a man no longer constricted by three-hour lab sessions or final exams. I knew they mentioned how in grad school you have to work for everything. I was sort of hoping they were lying, and those were just words of motivation. They weren’t. It’s officially summer for your boy, and I can’t tell you how good it feels. I would say I promise to behave myself for the next two months, but I’d be lying. Anyway, there are lot artists who chose to release albums this summer. Why? I don’t know. Excited? You bet your ass I’m excited. But there is this one particular album from a certain someone whose release date is circled on my calendar. I even started a countdown on my iPhone; at this moment I have 6 days, 23 hours and 57 minutes.

Of course, I’m curious to see how J. Cole responds with his sophomore album. Wale also. And the homie from TDE, Schoolboy Q, with his first major label release OXYmoron. We’ve had a conversation a time or two about each of these guys. The openness of Cole’s lyrics, the swag of Wale, the gruff realness of Q. But let’s not kid ourselves here. You can’t overlook the one guy who changed my life musically with The College Dropout.

Yeezus is coming. Kanye is coming.

And the one thing that I love about Kanye is no matter the success he found with previous albums, he strives to outperform them. So even though My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy did crazy numbers, he’s trying to top that. The guy is simply amazing. His passion was noticeable to me in high school, when I overhead the story of him recording “Through the Wire” with a broken jaw suffered from a car accident. I could go on and on about what Kanye’s music has meant to me over the years, but that’s for another time. Right now it’s all about Yeezus. He performed two songs that will appear on the album on Saturday Night Live a few weeks back. I was impressed, mostly by how different his lyrics sound. A little darker, a bit realer. I remember you showing me how you could see an artist’s growth or lack thereof by carefully running through their discography. Everybody is entitled to their opinions, and that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re right, but you can’t deny Kanye’s growth as an artist.

Why do people like hearing the same shit recycled over and over? I asked you this a couple years ago, when everything I was listening to sounded like the exact same thing. I know we as humans are more comfortable with identifying with things that are familiar, it’s purely psychological. But this allowed Soulja Boi to become a thing. A modern-day tragedy. It’s refreshing to see someone being creative. Pushing the envelope and not settling for ordinary.

But this is my favorite time here in the Chi, Big Brother. People give those tired-ass fables about enjoying creating snowmen in 10-degree weather during winter in Lakeview. Or the smell of their lawn as the grass grows back in early spring over in Logan Square. Yet, there is nothing like summertime in Chicago. With new music days away, I wait with high expectations. I’d rather be let down then nothing at all. To some that might not make that much sense, but that’s just how you taught me to operate. To hold your favorite artist accountable for masterpieces or trash disguised as an LP.

Last summer was one of a different nature. You looked at me funny when I was big on EDM. You couldn’t even pronounce Skrillex’s name correctly. I’m not done growing, Big Bro. That was a just an example of me showing that I’m always willing to try different things. And that’s something that will never change. However, this summer will end with a finale like no other. Remember how much I regretted not going to see the Wu a few years back? I’ve been able to see Method Man, Raekwon and Ghostface on separate occasions, but never as the whole Wu-Tang Clan. That all changes in August at the North Coast Music Festival. If you’re looking for me, I’ll be the shirtless fool in the front of the stage with my hands formed in the sign of a W. I know it will be a memory me and you will forever share.

From your little brother,

Mike

On last night’s episode of TNA Impact, resident legend Sting made a rather powerful announcement. He proclaimed that since he was left laying at the hands of Aces & Eights at the end of the Slammiversary pay-per-view, it was time for him to find his own “family.” As he continued, it started to become clearer that he was proposing a faction to combat the evildoers, but one could not imagine just which faction he had in mind. Out of the proverbial left field came the words “Main Event Mafia.” After which he further emphasized the fact that it would be hosting a NEW lineup.

For those unfamiliar with the MEM, this was a faction formed in TNA in 2008 unlike any other up until that point. The group consisted of Sting, Kurt Angle, Booker T, Kevin Nash and Scott Steiner (Samoa Joe and Taz would later join) coming together to form a heel faction made up of only former World Heavyweight Champions. The group conducted business very mafia-like and ran with the underlying theme of them fighting the young members of roster over perceived disrespect before going into further feuds. The group ran roughshod over the roster and dominated the show until 2010, when they disbanded.

Today’s MEM is going to be different because they’re going to be coming in as a face group to fight the Aces & Eights. For a brief second, upon Sting’s announcement, I worried whether the group would be relevant for today’s TNA fan. Those worries were soon calmed when the crowd in Georgia popped the way it did. People still remember, and people are excited for it to come back, this writer included! But the question is, who is going to be a part of it? Will the criteria still be former World Champions only? Until we know for sure, I’m going to offer my picks for the four members (aside from Sting) who I think should be a part of the group.

Kurt Angle: The obvious choice, as he was part of the original lineup and is still a very active member of the roster. Him being a part of the group would give it that reunion feel, but would kind of go against Sting’s proclamation of it being a “new” group. However, the instant credibility through Angle’s association helps establish the group for a new crop of fans that never saw the original.

Jeff Jarrett: A wildcard choice. He hasn’t been on TNA television in years (although very active in Mexico through TNA’s partnership with AAA), but is the founder of the company and always touted as the man who started it all. Who better to combat the group trying to destroy the company than the guy who created it? The story writes itself on this one.

Matt Morgan: The big man has been a victim of start and stop booking for a while now, but is more than ready for a main event push and has been for years. His match with Sting to determine the Slammiversary main event, where he lost the match due to passing out in the Scorpion Deathlock rather than submitting, kept him strong in defeat and effectively furthered his story. I feel his being a part of a faction such as this not only provides that youth aspect, but gives him a springboard to break off and have his own run at a later time.

Crimson: Another wild card of sorts, as he just made his return to television after being off for an entire year and honing his craft further in developmental. And though he lost his return match, he looked good and more seasoned. I feel that his presence can provide that youth aspect for the group and not only keep it fresh, but also give them that one guy that can match up very well against the predominantly young Aces & Eights members. Not to mention it would be a hell of a kick start to this second round of his TNA career.

So now we wait. Sting has thrown the challenge out there, and the formation process begins. Just looking at this list makes me hopeful, and whoever is chosen, this announcement has all the makings of a successful program building to Bound for Glory in October.

Your move Stinger, lets see who you got.

(Questions, comments, feedback? Please feel free to contact me at trentzuberi@gmail.com)

Michael Roffman

I’ve only got a few more episodes of House of Cards left to digest. I’m loving it so far, even if Kevin Spacey gets away with pretty much everything, and there doesn’t seem to be any source of dire conflict a la Breaking Bad, and the plot lines feel a tad cyclical. Still, the performances are all top notch, specifically Corey Stoll, who’s the most likable face of the bunch. I’d like to think the seco—OH MY GOD, THE REPLACEMENTS ARE REUNITING FOR RIOT FEST!!!!!!!!!!!

Marissa Morales

Kanye West’s site.

I don’t understand it. And I’m not going to pretend to. I just really really love what it is.

Ben Kessell

With all the E3 buzz about the Xbox one being the eye of Sauron and the PS4 being nonexistent, I’d like to point out two things that ARE real and are not drums in the deep. A Warhammer 40,000 online combat game was announced with the promise of literally thousands of players on the same battlefield at once. Then the first-round beta test of Final Fantasy 14 was opened with a similar promise and “roots” gameplay and style. Lofty goals for niche market delivery and both wont be seen for another year or two. Good thing I like playing the long bet.

Trent Zuberi

It’s been a very Ramones week for me, so this right here is my soundtrack for the past week. Greatest band ever.

Dominick Mayer

But seriously, The Replacements in Chicago at Riot Fest.

So I know I’ve talked about Justin Bieber before, and that I really just wish that he’d become something better than he seems to be in the media and everywhere else. To talk exclusively again about him would probably annoy anyone reading, as well as throw me into a frenzy because I’d be talking about fucking Bieber again. There was news about him, however, that gave me more questions.

If you haven’t heard, know first that I heard this from Fox News in passing, so it was probably blown out of proportion. (Disclaimer: I don’t usually watch Fox News, so don’t get all judge-y on me. It was on in the background.) Anyway, the singer was caught up in a bit of trouble with the paparazzi when he took the camera from a “professional photographer.” There was much pleading, as can be heard on the recording of the incident, for the brute that is Justin Bieber to give back the camera. Think of the tall bully who takes someone’s toy at school, and the little stereotypical nerdy kid pleading for it and jumping for the toy in the bully’s hand, though it’s out of his reach. It sounded a lot like that. And Bieber played the part of the bully well, because although he ended up giving back the camera, he made sure to take the “SIM card” first, all to more pleading from the hero of the story, the noble cameraman.

Now, I bet you’re thinking, “But Quinn, cameras don’t have SIM cards, only phones do. Cameras have memory cards.” You’re absolutely right, but the 19-year-old child of the internet apparently doesn’t know that, proving correct all assumptions that Bieber really can’t do anything else except perform music and get caught speeding and smoking weed. There was a police report about how Bieber’s bodyguard beat up the photographer, and he also made a statement saying that Bieber is now an adult and should act like one.

That last bit had me rolling on the floor. Did a guy who stalks people, takes photos of them and invades their personal space just tell a 19-year-old to act like an adult? Yep, that just happened. Of course, it was the judgment of a professional photographer, so who am I to question him? Oh, right, professional photographers would be asking Bieber to pose or asking to take the damn picture in the first place. If a paparazzo is a professional, then let’s open the definition of professional a little more. To anyone with a regular sex life, let’s just call you a professional in that, just like porn stars. To anyone who plays a lot of video games, welcome to the realm of professional power gaming. Also, I drive to work and to other places, so I guess that makes me a professional driver, just like most drivers on the road. (I even got a certificate for a four-hour driving class I took, so I have printed credentials. Granted, it was for a ticket I got, but that was just a part of my training as a professional.) Sure, I get that he’s probably working for a tabloid magazine or some website that makes its money off of celebrity nipple slips and pictures of women without make-up with horrible comments attached, but if all it takes is a job like that to make you a professional, then I guess I’ll be swimming against the current forever.

And it’s with this comment, and a bit in the currently pending lawsuit that claimed emotional trauma, that has me actually on Bieber’s side and openly wishing that this paparazzo gets the case thrown out of court and he never gets his memory card back. Emotional trauma? How about all the people that you stalk to get the shitty pictures that you’ll later use against them? That’s not emotional trauma at all. How did we, as human beings, get so good at pointing the finger at celebrities that make dumb mistakes, but condone and encourage the people who hide in bushes and cars trying to catch these people at their lowest. Sure, when people are being horrible just to get attention, they should be knocked down, and when people are making educated bad decisions within their control (just Google Amanda Bynes for an example), they should be looked at more critically. Paparazzi are groups of people almost considered heroes by some, and whenever something bad happens to them, the victim card is thrown up everywhere. Look, if I was hit in the face for getting in someone else’s business over and over, not a single person would blink an eye. I’ve seen fights started for less. Sure, it’s a freedom thing. Paparazzi are free to take the pictures, but for some reason, when a celebrity takes their freedom the same way as any other person might, and hits or lashes out against a person for messing with them, they are instantly made out as villains.

Sure, it’s a free world, and paparazzi can take a picture, but there has to be a line somewhere. I hope the bodyguard gets punished for taking it to violence, because I in no way want to condone violence, but I also don’t think that this guy should get his memory card back. I’m sure a big-time professional photographer like him can afford a new one. I can afford one and I’m just another one of those currently unemployed, Bachelor’s degree-having, non-professional people.

The meta-tinkering starts early, with Jay Baruchel flying into Hollywood to spend a weekend with longtime buddy Seth Rogen. (If the two leads playing themselves irritates you, consider seeing Man of Steel instead. This won’t be the film for you.) After spending a day getting high and playing video games, Rogen brings a reluctant Baruchel to a party at James Franco’s house. The star-studded debauchery is cut short when the Hollywood hills catch fire and a massive sinkhole opens in the front yard, swallowing much of the cast and whittling the survivors down to Rogen, Baruchel, Franco, Craig Robinson, Jonah Hill and an unhinged Danny McBride, who passed out in Franco’s bathtub and missed out on the end of the world. 90 minutes of referential gags, jaw-dropping vulgarity and surprising levels of graphic violence ensue.

Much of the film is structured as a hangout comedy based on an earlier short film that Rogen and co-writer/director Evan Goldberg shot. They also collaborated on the screenplays for Pineapple Express and Superbad, and like those films, This Is The End makes up for its unwieldy moments and occasionally undisciplined editing with a volley of jokes so hilarious and dealt at such breakneck speeds that you’ll barely notice. The minute you do, Hill will introduce himself to God as “Jonah Hill…from Moneyball” or McBride will trash-talk the failure of Your Highness, and the film sucks you back in just as quickly as it pushes you away. For the first time in years, here’s a movie so audaciously, relentlessly funny that you’ll be hard-pressed not to seek out friends and tell them they have to see this.

It’s also a measure of how assured Rogen and Goldberg are as a filmmaking team that a film built around watching celebrities interact with each other becomes a goldmine of character development. At the core of the film is the same bromance dynamic that Rogen and Goldberg and their contemporaries have long worked with, this time between Rogen as a burgeoning A-list movie star and Baruchel as the scrappy comedian who worries that his friend is abandoning him for the trappings of fame. The MVP here, though, is Hill, who savages his public image as portly comedian-turned-svelte Oscar nominee, and plays himself as an unbearably smug L.A. hipster with a latent mean streak. Everybody in the film gets at least one big character moment, especially McBride, who manages to expand on the sociopathy of his work on Eastbound & Down; his showdown with Franco over water rations makes for the film’s most guffaw-ready moment.

That Flyboys joke is also a testament to This Is The End’s biggest strength, which is how intelligent a movie this is for being so gleefully dumb as a whole. Few mainstream movies have ever demanded the level of pop cultural literacy that this one does, which may be off-putting to some and border on a circle jerk for others, but reveals itself as sharp satire of the current state of Hollywood, in which audiences have mistaken star personae for the real-life people. In order to appreciate the film, you have to know who these people are as seen by the Internet, and so Franco becomes that guy from Spider-Man who’s gotten into queer cinema and Baruchel is the guy nobody’s heard of/voice in How To Train Your Dragon.

The film’s intelligence also extends to how Biblical it’s willing to get after a time, to such a degree that it may well stir up some controversy and alienate some audiences. This is a good thing, though. When tensions start to rise in the house and the drugs and booze run out, This Is The End moves into meditating on why its stars were left behind when the end times came. Most are perplexed; as Franco notes at one point, “We bring joy into people’s lives!” Wisely, the film knows that this isn’t nearly enough. And if the ending gets a little preachy and a lot overcooked, it also ultimately turns the movie into a parable about how being famous doesn’t inherently make you a good person, but being a good friend does. For all the CGI, the big stars and the bigger laughs, This Is The End lands closest to Superbad, where the adventures are never as important as the people you bring along. That’s a pretty quaint notion to offer up in such a cynical time in the moviegoing year.