Ice, ice, baby.

On the first Friday night in a post-Sandy world, I passed by a few drunk girls and frat dudes at the Shannon, one of the many drinking establishments near my apartment on First Street in Hoboken. Normally, I would shake my head at these people because the girls are overly Valley and annoying and the guys give me douche chills. Inevitably, they will wake me up via fistfight or J-E-T-S chant at 3 am on their way home because they can’t handle their drink. But not Friday. On Friday, these people inspired me. Somehow, they were able to find happiness in an otherwise bleak situation.

I’m going to let you in on a little secret. I’ve lived in Hoboken for over three years now and I don’t think much of it. Previously, I lived in Jersey City and loved it because it had culture and a lot of things going on. But this place? Mostly white kids who brought the suburbs with them and, while I am in fact a white kid from the suburbs, I’ve always been drawn to cities so I could be a part of the proverbial melting pot. I have a joke about Hoboken: It’s kind of like Brooklyn… for people that fear diversity. I once heard the members of A Tribe Called Quest talk about growing up around rappers and DJs, helping them become hip hop legends. If that’s the case, I have argued, then Hoboken will raise a generation of kids who are really good at brunch.

Before the storm hit, I suggested that David Simon will, as he did with Treme and Katrina, create a show about Hoboken’s recovery in the aftermath. Unlike the former, which is rich with great music and interesting characters, this show would focus on 20-somethings who have to wait on longer lines to get into lounges and fusion restaurants and maybe the folks from Cake Boss as they struggle to make a cake in the shape of a storm surge. And unfortunately, unlike Treme, people would actually watch.

Now, after Sandy, and having had spent 6 days and 14 hours without power, I am starting to rethink my position on all of this. Sure, the vapid idiots are out there. There’s the completely able guy I encountered who, after I walked up nine stories in his building to make sure he and the other tenants were not in need of water or medical attention (humble brag #1), yelled at me because I didn’t have ice. After one day. Was it so you had something to chill your martini with, stupid? Or the girl in her 20′s in the BMW who yelled at the pedestrian to get out of her way… as he was helping survey damage to a storefront. And I can’t forget the older gentleman who beeped at the car in front of him… as said car yielded to two people carrying trays of food in front of FEMA’s command station. But for those three horrendous incidents, and for all the sadness and devastation surrounding us, I have encountered so much goodness in this little town of mine it has been eye opening.

So guess we’re not going anywhere.

Last Monday night, sometime after water surged down our street and the power went out, my fiancé Aly and I knew it would be a long, strange trip and that we’d have to make the most of it. Surrounded by candlelight, we got drunk and played dice for change. Even when we noticed the building across from us was with full power, we didn’t care. Normally, we’d be catching up on DVR’d Dancing with the Stars so frankly, I was relieved. A little while later, that same building’s fire alarm went off and, with the fire department unable to maneuver the river that used to be our street so they could shut it off, it would continue to go off for roughly fifteen hours. While my neighbors and I usually don’t tolerate annoying noises in the late Hoboken night, instead we intermittently yelled out our windows to the increasingly rattled tenants, just to make sure they were okay. I later heard reports that the people in my building whose windows faced the other street played Hollywood Squares with the building across from them. Genius. Though we were doing it in very different ways, we were all doing what we had to do look out for each other, and to stay sane.

We wanted to be romantic and pretend we lived in Venice but I don’t think they have gasoline in their water.

On Tuesday, we awoke to a sobering reality: things were really bad out there. Our block was completely surrounded by water and a whole bunch of it. Trees and light poles were down. Many people, including us, were stranded. With no power and minimal cell or 3G service, we had no idea what was going on in the outside world except for what we saw outside our window. The fire alarm still sounding off, we couldn’t help the feelings of paranoia that would creep up inside of us but, the water outside the building waist-high and toxic, we were trapped. However, as we wandered the hallways, garage, and flooded lobby with our flashlights, we encountered other people in the building who were also looking for answers as well as comfort. Soon enough, we were swapping apartment numbers, in case anyone needed anything. Normally, everyone keeps to themselves and often, won’t even hold the elevator for one another, so this was groundbreaking stuff.

What the hell is behind door #2?

Later that night, we paid a visit to Taline and Lara, two sisters we met earlier that day who live two floors above us. It started out as an invitation to play Trivial Pursuit but morphed into a phone charging session in our car. And that’s how The Great Garage Party came to be. As we stood outside the car as our phones got some juice, neighbors started approaching us asking if there was any way we could help them out. One girl, who had been turned away by another cell-charging neighbor, had been unable to reach her mom since the power went out nearly 24 hours earlier. With some battery power, she’d be able to. A guy who was on a first date with a girl from the sixth floor since Sunday morning happened to have an adapter on him (which, in a way, is even more presumptuous than bringing condoms on a first date). Still, now our charging party was even bigger. We sat around our garage in beach chairs, drinking beer, wine, and in Aly’s case, dirty martinis. With a mix of music and news in the background we talked about life, swapped stories, and just got to know each other. There was even an invitation to a Christmas party.

On Wednesday, the water went down enough where it was at least safe enough to leave the building. This was when things started to get a little more real. Whereas the three days prior we were able to act like kids (who drink) on a snow day, Wednesday was the day where we had to be the adults (who still drink), facing reality. As Aly and I walked up First Street, we saw the devastation. Flooding, downed trees and light poles, cars that were swept into random places and businesses that might not ever be the same.

Where we like to have breakfast. Next time they forget to give me a coffee refill I think I’ll let it slide.

We did not see one drunk girl but instead people that were soaking in what Sandy had done. There was a lot of sadness and confusion, something I hadn’t seen before in this town. By the time we got to City Hall that’s when we saw the National Guard. Previously, I had only seen the National Guard in the news and movies about viruses so when you get the live experience, it feels a little different.

I had to help. Walking into that dark government building the chaos was evident. Whether you were a resident or a member of the National Guard, someone looking to help or someone in dire need of it, this was central command. I joined a group of volunteers who were heading to some of the high rises near the river that were without water or power.  We walked up many, many flights of stairs to just bang on doors, checking on people’s medical and H20 needs (where I encountered the “Ice Man” mentioned earlier). Right before we got there, a woman had to be escorted into a hospital in the city because her water broke and the hospital in Hoboken was out of commission.  For some reason, every time I think of that story, Lightning Crashes by Live serves as the soundtrack. Maybe it’s the ying yang of it all. While something tragic had happened, everyone but Mr. Ice, from those suffering to those helping, was pulling together to get through it. Just days earlier, I at best felt indifference towards my town but now, I could feel myself start to have a connection with it.

Believe it or not, this was gourmet.

By Thursday morning, whatever charm there was in eating Spam in the candlelight had worn off and the walks through the neighborhood were emotionally getting harder. There’s a small pharmacy across from our building  that got hit really hard and, when I saw the owner had finally got in to try and put the pieces back together, I went down to help (humble brag #2). As we scooped toxic sludge out of the bathroom, Jafir told me his vision for a true mom and pop operation, where he knew the face of every customer, how he had been hit hard by Irene the year before and that he just wanted to get up and running soon to help the neighborhood get back to normal. Clearly, I had helped the right guy.  When it was time to leave, Jafir gave me a huge hug. Always a sucker for bromance, I couldn’t even remember my bad feelings about Hoboken and, in fact, I was more than ever feeling a part of it.

All that aside, Aly and I needed to escape so, we went to my mom’s house in Central Jersey.Tearing out of town, it was as if we were fleeing armageddon. Once we got there, it felt like the scene in Cast Away when Tom Hanks gets rescued and he just takes hot showers and eats like a king (instead of crab legs we had a 10lb ham and rice). Still even with the food, the comfort of being taken care of and being able to watch TV, I couldn’t help but miss home a little.

On Friday, with reports of power coming back to parts of Hoboken, we decided to roll the dice and head home. As with nearly every other bet I have ever placed, we lost this one as well. We pulled into our garage at 4pm in total darkness.

Waking up Saturday morning in a 30 degree apartment on my first day of a new job was not a fun way to start a new chapter in my life. As I washed myself with  the assistance of if a sponge and a bucket, the thought of being intimidated by new co-workers seemed trivial.

Late Monday morning, more than 48 hours later and seven days after the ordeal began, we finally got our power back. Those last two days, when we were really on the verge of losing it, Aly and I were in a way saved by the kindness of two friends and one stranger. Our friends, Ryan and Jess got their power back on Saturday. Thanks to them, we had a place to shower, enjoy good food and wine and, with their son LJ as an excuse, watch old episodes of The Muppet Show. Earlier that day, Aly wound up in a conversation with a total stranger and, when her new friend found out we were without power or hot water, immediately offered us a place to shower and recharge.

It’s stories like those that, combined with the fact that we can take showers at home again, are making me kind of crush on Hoboken, the place I still call home, just now not so reluctantly. For every annoying drunk person or person cares about nothing but having ice, there are a ton of people looking out for each other. We have a long way to go. There’s the  clean up, homes in dire need of repair and businesses that have to start all over. But for those of us going through a tough time, it’s nice to know that somewhere, there’s a neighbor who has your back.

I think ” cool walking” is a concept that has been pushed on us by pop culture for quite some time, at least since Happy Days. We knew The Fonz was cool the moment he walked into the room, with his cool and confident strut. Or check out any pimp from any blaxpoitation film from the ’70s and you’ll notice his walk. Or ’80s teen films like Teen Witch and Teen Wolf, that featured the antagonists walking into school dances, the eyes of the entire student body on them. You think they walked in like herbs? No sir, they walked  in like cool guys.

As for me, I’m still working on my cool guy walk, though it’s come a long way. I used to walk self-consciously, afraid someone would scrutinize the way I carried myself. Now, I say “bring it on, I think my strut is nice.” I might not have a cane and a pimp swagger, I might not tuck my head down with my hands in the pockets of my leather jacket, but it’s nice.

Anyone else pumped for the new season of Louie (June 28th, FX)? I am. And that’s why I wrote this little piece for Splitsider.com, highlighting some of the shows locations. Check it!

Like a lot of songs, I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For has changed in meaning for me over the years. Sometimes, you can listen or watch or read something 1,000 times but on the 1,001st, you pick on something completely fresh. I had this very experience while watching this video on VH1 Classic about a year ago. As you might recall, it features all four members of U2 walking through the streets of Las Vegas. Which I guess is fine. But towards the end of the video, Bono can be seen jumping all over someone’s expensive sports car. That’s when it hit me: such behavior wasn’t cool, it wasn’t rock-n-roll, it was just rude. I don’t care who you are, I would find it unfavorable if you were sliding all over my nice car. Plus, it’s Las Vegas, the desert, and you’re wearing dark jeans. The last thing I need is your Irish swamp rubbing up on the hood of my vehicle.

Any Law and Order fan knows that show is just as known for snappy one-liners from the late, great Jerry Orbach as it is for being a show about solving murders. In a substantial state of loopiness, I started dreaming up one-liners that I am certain could have made the show. This is why I have not landed a gig writing for a show; I waste my time writing for dead people on shows that don’t exist. Anywho, enjoy…

Victim…

worked at a golf course- “Looks like he had too many holes in one.”

is found in full bondage gear- “Someone should’ve told him leather doesn’t breathe well.”

is found dead at a cigar shop- “I guess no one ever told him smoking will kill ya.”

is Jennifer Grey- “Looks someone finally put Baby in the corner.”

is Patrick Swayze- “Looks like you shouldn’t have put Jerry Orbach in the corner.”

I got up last Sunday and made myself a pot of coffee, just as I do every weekend. Then, I turned Meet the Press, just as I do every weekend. And there was Joe Biden, being Joe Biden, just like he does on most weekends. And then he came out for gay marriage. I suppose the way David Gregory harped on the Vice President’s response struck a chord but otherwise, I thought this day to be any other Sunday. I had no idea that in just a few short days, history would be made. A president, OUR president, Barack Obama, would come out for gay marriage. And I am proud.

To be honest, call me a simpleton but I still can’t comprehend why it’s even a big deal that two men or two women would marry. I’ve looked at it from every angle. Religion? Okay so some say it says in the Bible that  marriage is between a man and a woman but a) I thought that was just an interpretation b) aren’t we all God’s children and c) so what? I am always confused when people use religion as an argument for policy in this country because I thought there was something called separation of church and state. And government? The conservative right HATES when the Government gets too involved in our lives and tells us what to do. Except when it comes to gay rights and abortion, of course. That’s like me telling my girl that we are to never stray outside of our relationship, unless I have an opportunity to have sex with Kim Kardashian, because her ass is awesome (though after five years I think I am finally no longer interested in keeping up with her). I know self-interest is a big part of politics but it confuses me that people who are so against the involvement of their government will make an exception for one thing because they find it icky.

Someone asked me this week why I was, “so up gay marriage’s ass” (poor choice of words). While I suppose that is true, the bigger truth is that I am just up civil rights’ ass. I was bullied as a kid. I guess that combined with liberal parents made me hate to see people suffer, on any level.  What if things were turned around? What if the majority in this country were gay, what if that was the “normal” and “right” thing? What if straight kids had to grow up pretending to be something they’re not, just for survival. Being forced to memorize the words to the entire Rent soundtrack just so no one would catch on that all they really want to do is watch football and chase skirts? How would those against gay marriage feel then?

So thank you President Obama and really, thank you Vice President Biden. This is fucking huge.

When I heard the news of Beastie Boy Adam Yauch aka MCA’s death on Friday, like so many others, my world temporarily stopped. A Beastie? A man who once fought for our right to party? Rock and roll and hip hop are supposed to be a fountain of youth  and their stars are supposed to be invincible so, even when we know people like Clarence Clemons, Whitney Houston, and MCA have health or addiction issues, their passings are usually somewhat of a surprise. We knew MCA was diagnosed with cancer but thought things were getting better. Nobody expected this.

We’re going to miss MCA because he was one of the great ones. I was one of just millions of white kids from the suburbs who were introduced to this new culture called hip hop by the Beasties. My first thought of these three NYC rappers was “dangerous.” I was eight years old and I saw these three kids in the (You Gotta) Fight For Your Right to Party video just demonstrating pure anarchy. The next year, I was hanging out at Mike Dwyer’s house when he pulled out his cassette collection, which consisted of albums from Maiden, AC/DC and any other band most parents might consider inappropriate for a nine-year-old (this is same guy who brought Playboy to our 3rd grade class like it was Highlights and smoked Marlboro Reds as a preteen so owning The Number of the Beast was the least of it). But right there towards the front was License to Ill. I still remember being mesmerized by the cover with the airplane on it. And then we put the album on and, growing up on strictly classic rock, I had never heard anything even close it before. I specifically remember hearing She’s Crafty and, though the sample of Zeppelin’s The Ocean was familiar to me, everything about it, the rhymes, the beat behind it, their brashness, was so fresh. By the time I heard Brass Monkey and No Sleep ‘Til Brooklyn I was hooked.

I, for one, am upset I will never get to see the Beasties live in concert again because of all the shows I’ve been to in my day, the one time I saw them in 1998 was the epitome of being young, dumb, and full of idiocy.Visiting my friend Dan for the day in Philly, as I stepped off the train in Suburban Station, he informed that the Beasties were in town and that we would be attending their concert. Did he have tickets? No, but that didn’t matter. I miss those times. There was no plan and even if we had one, it probably would have been a terrible one. But it didn’t matter. We were on our way to see three MC’s and one DJ.

First, though, we had to get beer for tailgating. But there was a problem (and no it wasn’t that we were underage). We had no car. So while it was nice to buy beer, carrying it around in a Styrofoam cooler in broad daylight all over Philly was not. And while tailgating is fun, doing so when you’re just two idiots without a car has a certain element of sadness to it. But it didn’t matter. Once arriving at the arena parking lot, we staked our claim to a nice piece of curb in the corner. I think one girl said hello to us out of pity so the night wasn’t living up to it’s promise. Until we came up with the genius idea of dropping acid, of course.

As a line cook at the local Denny’s, Dan knew a lot about drugs. Though I had bleached blonde hair (which looked natural with my Italian features and dark arm hair) and piercings, I knew next to nothing. But in the spirit of the “just go with it” theme of the rest of the day, I agreed. Whereas I had no idea how to score LSD outside of a concert or who to score it from, my partner in crime did. And who sells such a drug? In our case, some dude in his late 30s, whose mullet and porno mustache matched the spirit of his 1970s Monte Carlo. How did we find this guy? How did we know he had acid? How did we know we wouldn’t die? To this day, I don’t know. I also don’t know why, when this man asked me if I wanted some angel dust (I know he had some because he had probably at least half a bag of it sprinkled into his stache), on the house, I turned it down. On one hand, it was probably the only sense I showed all day. On the other, it was probably the only opportunity I’ll ever get to smoke PCP inside of a Monte Carlo with a guy who has Angel Dust in his mustache. But what can you do. Instead, we paid for the tabs of acid, put them on our tongues, and began our long, strange trip.

Some people drop acid and see far out visions. I dropped acid and saw my HS friends Lauren and Ashley. While it’s always nice to see friends, one would prefer not to do so when experimenting with a mind-altering substance. Still, everything worked out alright. The acid kicked in and while I didn’t see much in the way of visuals, I did dance my ass off with an assertive club girl in camo pants. A Tribe Called Quest, the opener, was amazing and the Beasties put on one of the finest shows I have ever seen, drugged up or not.

That night could have wound up a lot worse than it did. Minus not accepting PCP from the mullet man, I made some terrible, terrible life decisions. But I think when you’re young, you kind of need to do that; you have to sometimes act like an idiot in order to get smart. I am just glad the Beastie Boys helped guide me through it. RIP MCA. Thanks for the rhymes and thanks for the life lessons.

 Anyone who knows me or has read enough of my writing knows I am a lifelong obsessed Bruce Springsteen fan. On the heels of the release of his 17th studio album, it’s nice to see all of the excitement in the air as he does promotions ranging from opening the Grammy’s to Bruce week on Jimmy Fallon. Well it’s mostly nice.

Last week, Spin posted on their website Bruce Springsteen’s 13 Most Alt-Leaning Songs. Is it awesome? Of course. Is Bruce deserving of alt cred? Yes. But what I find troubling is that the cool people are now telling us that Bruce is cool. I mean they’re right. He is cool. And people who were at least teenagers from around 1974-1975 through about 1989 have known this. But those of us who went to high school in the ’90s who were devoted to The Boss were not always a large group. Trust me, sporting a World Tour ’92-’93 shirt was not going to serve as an ice breaker with the hot girl in Spanish class. I suppose she might have said that her father liked Bruce but she almost certainly would have noted that he was super lame. And it wasn’t just the hot girls. Or even the guys. It was the teachers too. In my guitar class, once you achieved a certain level of aptitude the instructor would teach you Stairway to Heaven. This was around the same time Wayne’s World came out and yet the man wouldn’t come up with an alternate. When I said that I’d rather learn Bruce’s Atlantic City, he was baffled. Why would someone my age in 1993 want to learn a Springsteen song. The man was middle-aged, over the hill, burnt-out, and without The E Street Band. But I knew better. Maybe his new band didn’t have Clarence, but they were still pretty good. And I refused to believe that the man had written his last great song.

I was right. Less than a year later, Springsteen won a Grammy and an Oscar for Streets of Philadelphia. And then he had a brief reunion with E Street when he released his Greatest Hits album the following year. Then he released the prolific The Ghost of Tom Joad. Momentum was picking up and once he made the reunion official in 1999, Bruce was back on top. And now, everywhere you look, people are Brooocing.

So shouldn’t I feel happy that I was right all this time? I mean after all, now people of all ages are enjoying the music that has been such a big part of the soundtrack of my life for 30 years. But it’s not like investing. It’s not like I am getting a big payout for blasting Prove It All Night in 1993 instead of Snow’s Informer (though perhaps I should). And I certainly can’t be considered a visionary. He had already been a star for 10 years before I was old enough to know who he was. For me, being a fan of Bruce Springsteen is sort of like being a Yankee fan in the Tri-State area in 1986. For a time, everyone went over to the Mets to enjoy their success but, once the good times shifted back to where they belonged, everyone followed suit.

So where does that leave me? Same place I’ve always been; at the show. Next to people in tight jeans and ironic tee shirts, as well as people who give the devil horns during Dancing in the Dark (I think I know what I am going to write about next time).

I went to the gym today and, even in my “it’s way too early for this” haze, when I was on the treadmill, I sensed evil behind me. I turned around and there it was. On the screen behind me was Satan herself, Nancy Grace. Oddly enough, though the television was on mute, her voice was as annoying as it ever was.

There is nothing wrong with a strong woman. In fact, I am surrounded by them. But there’s a difference between strength and obnoxiousness. My mom had it right when she told me today that Nancy Grace is the female, Southern version of New Jersey governor Chris Christie. Opinionated and in your face. And opinionated is okay too! But it’s beyond the wrong way and her way. When Grace speaks, there’s her way, which is the right way, and you’re an idiot if you differ even slightly. And the only reason why she was on TV was because she said some about Whitney Houston that was, surprise surprise, speculative and over the top. Unless it’s in regards to a white trash possible daughter murderer from Florida, why is Grace saying anything at all?