Gone Down to Jers

This one time I took the bus up to New York to meet Tommy for his friend Jess's birthday. And then when I finally got there we immediately got onto her birthday party bus and set off for Atlantic City, because I was late and Jersey is always looking for a party. And of course by party bus, I mean a retrofitted Winnebago. With a non-functional mini-stereo cord. First stop: the Jersey City Best Buy.

By the time that was taken care of our 40s were gone, I'd already gone to the bathroom once, and Tommy had started demanding Ron-ron juice. Luckily somebody had brought the Four, and in the elusive lemonade coloring too. 

What was waiting for us in AC? Providence—"The premier nightlife spot in Atlantic City." In The Quarter. Little did I know that a bar in a mall in Atlantic City wouldn't let me in because I was wearing sneakers. It could have been worse, I could've been wearing an oversized shirt too. At some point there was a plan to sneak Tommy's shoes back out of the place for me. I don't think I was a big fan of that plan because I disappeared into the back hallways instead.

The good news is that I found a back door into Providence, past the bouncers. The bad news is the 2nd entrance desk, which I hadn't planned for. And the security guy who yelled out, "He's got sneakers on, get him outta here!" That sent me back into the nether regions, and eventually to the roof. Looking back on it, ending up on the roof of The Tropicana Resort & Casino isn't all that surprising. You always want to attain the high ground in these types of situations. Plus, I really like roofs. Look at all these terrible pictures I took while I was up there!

Don't think this is over yet though. Upon my descent I ran into Tommy again. Just sittin'. Not looking for me, just hanging out by the fountain. Then he gives me his phone and walks away. He may have been going to the bathroom, I'm not sure. I am sure that that was the last time I saw him or anyone else from our party. And that I had his phone, so I couldn't call him. 

Eventually I gave up waiting, and went looking. All I found was this on a men's room stall. The best case scenario is that someone had really muddy shoes. In the bathroom of an indoor mall. There are also other scenarios.

Here's what happened next. I spent 30-40 minutes walking around this place, Jersey on all sides, before realizing I was alone, it was 4:00 o'clock in the morning, and the party bus was long gone. You might not think it at first, but Atlantic City really isn't that bad of a place to get left behind by a party bus. I mean the emotions are hard to take, but at least there's a train station. And a $10 train to Philadelphia. So really, it's sort of right up my alley. Or at least inside my wheel well. 

At 8:00 this morning I walked from the train station to Newhall street, ate a sandwich, plugged in Tommy's phone, and went to bed. Look at that light.

Wanna know something funny? The Winnebago broke down on the way home. The heat stopped working, the state troopers were called, and the McDonald's Burger King's milkshake machine wasn't working. Also, it turns out I got home first. So, suck it Schwenn.

Hi, Joanna!

Late last night I was laying on the couch thinking about ways to scare Martin¹ when this episode of "I Dream of Jeannie" came on. The pertinent moment occurs at minute 1:58.




I did some research. Turns out she's from Newark, NJ, just like Whitney Houston. In an unrelated topic, I wish I hadn't read about this.

¹ operation Porcelain Egg is about to begin.

The Ying; The Yang.

Tonight while we were both drinking alone, Skoczen reminded me that Jersey occupies a place in my heart. A dark place, but still a place. Without it there, there would only be a hole. So, Jersey, I'm sorry. I hate you, but I still need you. And Trenton, you keep on making.

Field Crumpets

Yesterday Stanford, Ansley and I played Field Crumpets. I originally described this game as similar to polo with whiffle bats, and without horses. After playing it though I think it's actually closer to field hockey, except without the little plaid skirts. Also there's a relative dearth of young Northeastern WASP-ettes.

Anyway, we were invited to play field crumpets by Dalibor, a computer science grad student from the Czech Republic. Of course that means he was actually born in Czechoslovakia, a fact that is not relevant to this story at all. Still, wouldn't it be strange if the place you were born suddenly became something else? Like what if New Jersey decided that it really didn't fit in with the rest of America (Huzzah!) and decoupled itself? In contrast to what happened when the South tried this, I figure a lot of people would actually be OK with it. Of course old New Jersery would probably want to rename itself to make sure it had a clean break and a chance at a fresh start. I figure the most likely choice would be to try to highlight its only redeeming quality (Shorelandia?) since there's really not much of a Lenni Lenape population there anymore. So, say you were unlucky enough to have been born in West Trenton, or Vineland, or (I'm sorry for even saying it) Pennsauken? Wouldn't that be strange? (see #4 here for an additional wrinkle to this scenario)

Anyway, field crumpets with the comp. sci. peeps (and Meghan from Spanish). The blue team consists of myself, Martin, Meghan, 'John', and someone other guy whose name I can't remember. John was foreign and when he introduced himself to those of us who don't know him we weren't sure what he said. He then said to just call him John. How about you just say your name so we can hear you and we'll call you that? Across the field we faced the red team: Tommy, Tristan, Molly(?), and Dalibor, who, being something of a Field Crumpet ringer, was relegated to the team with fewer players.

Despite being played with plastic bats and a child's Sponge Bob rubber ball, FCs is actually a fairly fast paced game. Or at least it is when Tommy, Martin, and I are playing. We (maybe just me) may have brought a little more competitive spirit to the game than was expected by the geek squad we were playing with. This resulted in me finding myself on the ground after making some diving lunge for the ball fairly often, as well as a healthy number of collisions. My face in particular had 2 very physical moments. The first was a brief but direct introduction to the end of Dolibor's bat (to be fair my face was very close to the ball at the time) and the second was a chance meeting with Tommy's shoulder. I really wish this latter one had been filmed since it resulted in my recoiling backwards and falling to the ground. My only regret of the afternoon was my difficulty in scoring on Dolibor. Three things make me feel better about this: 1. he's European and obviously knows his way around a soccer goal too, 2. I did get a few past him (though only on the side of the field that was easier to score on), and 3. it turns out the red team was cheating by leaving him in the goal for so long.

Unfortunately the 3rd, and tie breaking, game of the afternoon was cut short due to a deflated crumpet that had vaulting itself onto a fence post. Which reminds me of a great line from In To The Wild.

more at twiigs.com...

Where the Yellow Pus Flows

Today was a day of mixed blessings. This morning I came to the realization that I have fat kid arms. This is a result of the gnarly poison ivy I have on my arms right now (and knees and ankles). I've moved past the isolated red bumps and now the arms are a swollen mess of red blotches and pustules. I have been wearing long sleeves this week to keep this delightful sight out of view, and so nobody accuses me of passing them syphilis. For anyone who is interested I would not recommend bushwacking your way through a thicket on the Jersey Shore. Even if your older brother dares you to. If you do you will end up with arm cankles. Like I do. And they are arguably the worst variety of cankles.

Later in the day a FedEx package arrived. This was the good part of my day. Last weekend my cell plotzed, and in a big way. Luckily it wasn't my fault and Verizon sent out a new one. Unluckily it was Labor Day weekend and it didn't get mailed until yesterday. But, now I not only have a cell phone again, I have a new cell phone. I now must pause for a vigorous rubbing of the arms. Mazel Tov.

Friday Night Frights

What's a Friday night without waking up the next morning to a girl sleeping on your couch wearing your argyle sweater? Well, if she's from Jersey you're just glad she's not in your bed. Also, you start to worry about where your wallet is. Turns out I had lost my wallet, but the cause of that was no Soprano-ette in training. Rather, it was Leslie, who decided to take my wallet out of my pocket at some point during the night and then proceed to give it to some guy I hardly know. Funny. Not funny as in "Ha, that's funny", but more funny as in "Leslie I hate you." This situation was compounded by the fact that we were leaving for Chicago in an hour and the kid that had my wallet was in Reedsburg, WI. Nice.

Jersey Devils

After reading this post at The Moderatilist I have a couple of comments that should be considered before said thesis is submitted to the U of P.

1. Either a great truth or a great falsity has been hit upon here. Either way, it is not a moderate observation. Of course I have not reached a state of Moderate enlightenment as others have and do not claim to be an interpreter of the tenets of The Moderatilist Movement, but it would seem that catechismatic claims of such import can be made only moderately often. It has been so noted.

2. If Wendy is indeed from the Dirty Jerz, your life is now in danger. Having gone through the extreme measures required to hide her origins, I would guess taking your life would be of little consequence to her already pint sized Jersey morals. I have learned this from Jon Bon Jovi, The Sopranos, and the City of Trenton.

3. If you are wrong and Wendy is not from NJ, your life is now in danger. In my experience her loathing of "The Garden" knows no bounds. I once took her there by accident and I'm pretty sure I owe my life to the fact that she was too distracted by the shiny hot pants of the Camden crack whore brigade to inflict bodily harm.

4. A point of order: I don't think that New Jersey actually issues birth certificates. I've done a bit of research on this (see Barnebey 1989, 1997, and 2002) and as far as I can tell the vast majority of native Jerseyans are actually spawned from the interior of the Pine Barrens. They then, still in a small poorly formed embryonic state, must make their way to a she-jerseyite willing to suckle them. Amazingly, even at this primitive stage in their development they are instinctively aware of the harsh realities that define America's Armpit. Knowing that there is no future for them in central Jersey they must either crawl north to the NYC suburbs or south to the Phila. suburbs, depending on the angle of the sun at the time of emergence, in order to survive. The few natives who do not exhibit signs of a Pine Barren provenance appear to have been formed through a process of asexual mitosis instigated by the close proximity of several nuclear waste depositories. Regardless, the state not only finds it impossible to satisfactorily document all of these "births" but has also faced stiff resistance from the religious right in it's efforts to recognize this unholy form of progenesis and does not issue birth certificates.

5. None of this applies to Secaucus. It is the Hansel surrounded by the Derek Zoolander of New Jersey. And it is so hot right now.

6. For the record, I know what the J stands for. Like the final piece of a puzzle, only with it does all become clear.

7. Newark, New Jersey is also the birth place of Cissy Houston, with whom I have an eternal grudge.