It's Only A Matter of Time

I opened my eyes to a world an hour behind where it once was, and I too felt my mind an hour behind my body. What time was it? What were the implications of that time? I had no natural inclination of an idea. From what I could reason it was Sunday, morning, felt like 10, actually 9, wanted to keep sleeping, had to get home. I dragged my body off the fake leather couch (how and why I always find myself sleeping on these instead of a bed I'll never know), collected my thoughts and began to make my way to the car. November 1st, the morning after Halloween. Rough.

I took off the remains of a costume that lost its luster after drink number 11, tossed on some normal street clothes and hit the road. City driving while hung over, half asleep, and in pain can be challenging, especially when the FDR is blocked off by police barricades and you continually find yourself redirected deeper and deeper into Harlem. Nonetheless, I put on some Phoenix as loud as possible to stay awake, sang as many broken phrases of the lyrics I could muster, and made my way across the bridge. I pulled into my drive way half an hour later, 9:30 a.m., now feeling like it's almost 11 but tired enough to pass out on the kitchen floor. I elect for my bed instead, 1: because the hardwood floor is a downgrade from the leather couch, and 2: my mom might get suspicious of drug use if she found my close-to-lifeless body in front of her refrigerator when she came down to make breakfast and coffee.

As I nestled into the cold sheets, gripping my pillow for warmth like a 7 year old on his father's leg at a family party, I recapped the night and laughed at the crippling effects of alcohol on the human body. What did I drink to make me feel this terrible? I guess the real question would be, what did Billy Madison drink to make me feel this terrible? Ah, well that's a different story. Whatever Billy had, it must have been strong. I distinctly remember talking with Audrey Hepburn for awhile and perhaps the kid from E.T.? Or maybe it was E.T. himself. It was then I realized the true beauty of Halloween. It's the only night of the year you get to take on a whole new identity, however crazy it may be, and just roll with it. You lose all responsibility for your actions. I didn't follow shots of tequila with shots of vodka, then take the conditioner and shampoo bottles and clank them together as if they were fighting, Billy did. Or, I didn't make out with a blond flapper at the bar, my nerdy-professor alter ego did.

When reveling in the phenomenon that is the adult-Halloween wore off, I passed out, feeling like it was 11, actually 10, knowing there's some time commitment in my near future, thinking what it could be, not remembering, not caring, falling asleep, sleeping. I wake up to the sound of my dad opening my bedroom door. Oh the joys of living at home after 4 glorious years of freedom. "A.J. wake up, we have to go to the wedding party." The last thing I want to hear on any day off was the first thing I heard the day after Halloween, and on one of the biggest days in sports ever.
There I was, sitting at a table filled with my parent's and my sister's friends, hours before what was to be (and I believe was in fact) FOX sports' saving grace- the ultimate lineup: Giants/Eagles at 1, Favre's return to Lambeau Field at 4, Yankees/Phillies, Game 4 of the World Series at 8. Every sports fan in the country would be watching...except for me. I was locked up in a restaurant from 12 to 4 at some kind of post-wedding, post-reception wedding party, an introduction of the bride to the groom's family friends. Given my physical and mental state at the time, a warm basement couch accompanied by food and a 60" flat screen TV with the Giants and Jets games on simultaneously would have been, well absolute Heaven. But, alas I was stuck. 12 now felt like 12, with four hours more to go...four hours. It was like the time I was forced to go see Sense and Sensibility with my mom and sister when I was 10, except now I was expected to act civil and polite instead of whining.

Here are some statistics from those four hours. Number of, "I haven't seen you since you with THIS tall"'s I had to engage in conversation: 3. Number of "So, how's work"'s I had to lie to: 21. Number of points my fantasy team fell behind after Steve Slaton (or is that Satan?) was benched due to his 7th fumble of the season: 18. Overall, morale was low, especially after I got wind via ESPN mobile that Ted Ginn, Jr. returned his second kickoff for a touchdown against the Jets. 2 now felt like 1 and this party was not showing any signs of ending at on time.

4:45, that's when the party ended. As the sun dipped below the New Jersey tree line the earliest it had all year, I broke free from my family-shackles, went home, showered (again) in an attempt to subject my body to something pleasurable as opposed to the past 20-some-odd hours of pain, and headed over to my girlfriend's house for dinner away from my family. Though she doesn't have HD TV, her mom is head-and-shoulders above mine in terms of cooking, so although reheated pizza has its place in my heart and diet, filet of sol in a cream sauce with potatoes and broccoli followed by fresh strawberries and ice cream, all away from anyone present at that dreaded party, sounded pretty good. And it was.

By the time 8:20 rolled around, Favre had defeated his old team again, my fantasy team had fallen behind by 54 points (thanks again Slaton), and I had a full, warm stomach, happily awaiting the first pitch of game 4. I'm certainly not a Yankees fan, but as any good politician knows, the best way to unite people is to create a common enemy, so bound by my pure hatred for the Philadelphia Phillies, I watched with pleasure as the other New York team took care of business. One more win and the city of Philadelphia can forget about its hopes of dynasty. That’s a win for the Mets no matter how bad our season was.

11:30 felt like 3 a.m. as I closed my eyes on the first day of November. Another October had come and gone, another Halloween success was over. The days are shorter now for another few months, and although that can be a tough pill to swallow, the longer nights always seem to offer a feeling of mischievous fun. I look forward to the end of fall, the last few falling yellow leaves, Thanksgiving and the NFL playoffs. I put my head down, defeated by time once again but assured in the fact that it keeps on ticking.

Somehow my alarm this morning didn’t seem to feel any later. 6:55 is still simply too early.

Two Times, Too Many?

Well, it's here. Homecoming. My homecoming. The real one. And on the eve of what should be my grand weekend, I'm feeling a little bit like my favorite ESPN columnist, Bill Simmons, when he went to Vegas with his fantasy football buddies for their league's 20th year celebration: old.

I'm tired. My original plan of loading my October weekends with substitution homecomings may now be coming back to haunt me. I mean, it's not like "back in the day" when my time during the week was consumed by 15 to 20 sober hours of work, tops, the rest spent prepping for the weekend with practice games of beer pong, mooseknuckle, flip cup and other various cardiovascular fitness activities. I work now, and the working man's body, although very much sober, is weak. Think about it, 40 hours a week I sit in front of a computer, staring at the screen thinking, "What happened?" The most exercise I do during the day is probably laughing at the "I loved College" Asher Roth spoof that my friend sent me the other day.

But, to quote my idol Bill Simmons, "[will this] stop [my friends and I from] putting on a throwback 48-hour show of...drinking, smoking, ball-busting, eating and (fill in every other verb that ends with "ing" except for the ones that would get us divorced)? Of course not." OK, so we're not that old that we need to worry about divorce, but some of us have girlfriends that would probably want those "ing's" left out of the list as well.

Tomorrow night at 9 my friends and I will embark on a mission to overcome the awkward second homecoming since our graduation. Are we too old to go back and still feel cool? Probably. Are we going anyway? Obviously. But as was push the envelope of what's socially acceptable in terms of the college comeback, I have to wonder, when will we finally be over the whole thing?

Maybe when I'm settled into a job, one that I'm truly happy with, where I'm writing and actually using the skills I learned while in school, will I begin to put to rest my memories of fondness towards college. But then again, maybe not. I've never heard anybody say, "Man, remember those middle years of our careers, when we were 35 and working for someone else, living on our own, with serious girlfriends/potential wives, hitting the hay at 9 pm, waking up at 6 (chipper and refreshed)...man those were really the best times ever!" Something tells me, for the most part, these middle memories humble in comparison to the glory days of college.

But alas, they're coming, and although the college years are closer to where I stand now on the time-line of life, unfortunately, the 30-somethings are (iceberg!) dead ahead.

So where does this leave my friends and me as we wait at the gates like worn out thoroughbreds about to sprint another tired lap- our awkward return, our mustered attempt to relive a life we enjoyed together...for the second time? Well, who knows? I don't have the answers. I'm just "in it to win it" as they say, praying I don't tweak an ankle along the way and, well, you saw the Kentucky Derby, you know what happens to injured race horses.

A Day in Dixie

Another weekend has come and gone, and yet another story to tell. My second replacement homecoming event took place in Charlottesville, Virginia. It involved a white dress, smiling friends and family, and an exchange of rings. That's right, a wedding. Ah the Holy union of young love, sealed beneath the arching boughs of two ancient Virginia oaks. What better reason to suit up in seersucker as if it were college game day, take it slow, and soak in some southern comfort?

What ensued was nothing too short of my expectations. After we got through the whole "I do," "I do" part, the mass of 300 people (a modest size for any proper Southern wedding) began to herd towards the cocktail pavilion, a small stone-laden out cove carved into the country hill. The wedding took place at James Monroe's house, a 17th century estate nestled in the hills of the Blue Ridge mountains. It was incredible. A real Southern gem. You could feel the power of the Southern elite while standing on top of the cascading hilltop, overlooking the "land of cotton," in total control of your surroundings. It must have been nice for all that to be a sustained reality...

Drink of the evening: Bourbon, what else? Especially since there weren't any other options. Bourbon was served for the men, vodka and wine for the ladies. There were no restrictions, of course, seeing as we live in a Northern-governed, post-women's rights movement era, but let's just say I wouldn't be caught dead with anything that was wasn't a stiff shade of brown in my clear cup.

Is it bad that as I stood around in my fancy clothes, chatting with the other guests in a newly acquired Southern accent and soft demeanor, I wondered what it would be like to be a plantation owner in the 17th century? I mean aside from the whole slavery thing, and possibly killing other humans, it seems like a pretty sweet deal. No overhead. No payroll. 100% profit. Incredible. It's probably about the closest thing to being royalty we Americans can conceive, so I rationalized that as justification for feeling almighty in conversation- a rolled up procession sheet, my scepter, a glass of whiskey, my orb. I am a Southern king...from New Jersey.

We stood, and ate, and drank- a sea of white faces discussing the phenomenon of the Southern business model. "How did these guys ever pull it off," we wondered. These inquiries were quickly washed away by more bourbon and more wine as we floated up the knoll to the reception area, and the party continued.

The next order of business after even more food and still more drinks, was mingling with the Southern belles. Mingle I did, or tried, but most of the Southern belles weren't ringing. Let me just say this: I'm no longer sold on the allure of the Southern girl. Blond hair, sweet manners, proper speech. I didn't find any of these assets to outweigh the utter bore most of them were. On the whole, they had little to say and offered even less to do, as they spent most of their time huddled around table 12 in the back corner of the room. Maybe they could smell the toxic New York air pouring from my clothes. I don't know, and I don't care.

So when the one bridesmaid came over to chat towards the end of the night, she got the cold shoulder. Denied for the mindless, yet far more entertaining banter of a Northern brunette I've known since I was about 10. United States: 1, Confederacy: 0. Nice try dollface, but my New York capitalist sense of reason has taught me to take the path of least resistance. I know where that lilting conversation is headed. A friendly handshake or an introduction to a UVA boyfriend? No thanks.

Overall, I'd say my Virginia homecoming was a positive experience. The scenery and overwhelming feeling of encouraged entitlement made up for the death of my notion that Southern women are like Stepford wives with great accents. I'm sure there are some fun ones out there, but the search continues. Maybe I need to head further South. After all, Virginia does still get cold in the winter, making it curiously Northern by my standards. Next up on the homecoming trips list: Birmingham, Alabama where I and two friends will road trip to Tuscaloosa to see the Crimson Tide take on the LSU Tigers in football. It's time to venture into the real south, the deep south, where the Civil War (I'm sorry, the war of Northern agression) is still an on-going battle. This should be fun. Ramma' Jamma' Yellow Hammer.

Giving Credit Where Credit is Due

Here's a familiar scene. I open my eyes to a picture of bliss strewn about the floor in front of me. The self-assembled wooden Ikea coffee table is filled with empty beer bottles. Two XBOX 360 remotes like huge boulders anchored in the ocean shallows, create small gaps amidst the sea of glass. An old sock that looks strangely like one of my own, lays next to a flannel shirt, definitely not mine, on the floor. Drinking shoes (yes, the timbs made it) weigh my feet down like two cinder blocks as I peel my face off the leather arm of the couch in an attempt to get the day started. It's 8:30 am Sunday morning. Time to get to the Pats' tailgate.

Rewind 24 hours. I've just woken up with a terrible, or should I say "wicked bad" hang over. My head is pounding. The drive that started with a few Irish coffees while sitting shotgun of my buddy's Pontiac, moved quickly (as 3 1/2 hours tends to do while drinking Irish coffees) into a night of what can only be described as absurd overindulgence. Upon arrival in Boston we went straight to [insert Irish last name here]'s Pub, where the men were men and the women were too. And, thus, the buckets of beer were only $10! Needless to say we rode the euphoric high of seeing old friends, reaching our weekend destination, and a little bit of whiskey to the vertical limits of a prolonged adrenaline rush.

This alone would explain the throbbing head, but after some investigative work I see there's more to this picture. I look down and see some blood on the elbow of my thermal undershirt. I inspect my actual elbow and see it's scraped open and gravel infested. It is then I realize that my head is pounding not only from the booze, but also from the sizable lump on the back of it, most likely caused by falling onto pavement. Pavement + fall = pain + gravel in the wound. I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but I went to college. The pain quickly turns to inspiration when I realize I'm actually not that hung over. There's hope yet that this, my only Saturday in Boston, will rise above the temptation of peaceful sleep and will lead me to Harpoonfest.

After a hot breakfast at a local dive we wasted no time making our way down to the Harpoon brewery for their Oktoberfest party, Harpoonfest. $20 got us in the door and a "free" beer. An additional $20 bought 4 more tickets for beers. The price wasn't foreign to a healthy Manhattan drinker like myself, although it was brought up as a negative factor of the festival by some of the Boston locals. The redeeming quality for the "outlandish" price: the alcohol content of Harpoon beers (nearly always around 5%). Our four tickets, plus a few we picked up off of some lowly stragglers no longer willing to entertain the idea of another Hefeweizen, predictably ended with a circle of clanking glasses and celebratory wasteful pours to the late, great Boston god: Teddy Williams.

Saturday night was better summed up Sunday morning in a Hangover-like photo reel recapping the events. Shots (or is that just one shot?) of Patron, some unknown dark, iced concoctions in pint-sized glasses, card games, me in a blue flannel shirt which I still don't believe is mine but nonetheless, and finally some late night bagels with assorted condiments.

Overall, Boston went above and beyond my expectations. South Boston especially felt like a home away from home. Or more like a college away from college. Could I do it every weekend? Probably not. Do I respect the men and women that do do it every weekend? Absolutely. Boston is like a young drinker's paradise: lots of bars, not much else to do, the drinking starts so early you forget that 2 am is absurdly early to close a bar...It works. I'm not saying it's a last great place or anything, but it works. So to all those I visited this past weekend, this one's for you.

Teddy Williams

Getting My October Fix

Ah to be young again. To be able to pick up and go on a whim. Skip class on Thursday and head down to your friend's school for some more of the same: partying, collegiate sporting events, sleeping (around, if you're lucky), and other such leisure activities, just with different people and different colored beer-pong tables at the party. Every October, when the various college homecoming weekends begin to kick off, I find myself getting nostalgic. How I long for the moldy carpeting and exposed pipes of my old fraternity house. Forget the lavish decadence of New York nightlife. It's October. Give me kegs-and-eggs in the morning and a theme party at night.

If only it were so every weekend.

I may be over the proverbial (college) hill, but this year, my second year as a post-grad in homecoming season, I'm taking a stand. I'm getting creative. Merely going to my own homecoming wont be enough. So I've planned a few trips to satiate my needs.

First up: Boston

This weekend I, and my road-soldier ex-roommate, hit the road after a long, grueling week and head north to "the smallest big-name city in the country." I'm not a Yankee fan, so the city of Boston doesn't make me cringe with deep-seeded rivalry, but I will say I disapprove of their unworthy sense of arrogance. Especially since their bars close at 2. What's the deal with that? Even bars in Jersey don't close at 2. Come on Boston, time to step it up. (Maybe this is for a different posting when I get back).

With that said, there is a stellar crew of dark-beer-chugging, NHL '10 playing, wake-you-up-from-your-Sunday-coma-with-a-bloody-Mary-type people up there I'm excited to knock a few back with while sharing college glory-stories. And to top it off, it's the Harpoon Brewery's version of Oktoberfest (Harpoonfest) this weekend- a perfect substitute as my homecoming pregame. How does this sound: Harpoon beers, German food, massive crowds of day-drinkers all huddled under one giant tent? Ah, just like college (or is that Heaven?).

Don't get me wrong, life after school is great. Nothing beats the freedom of having your own money to spend. But when that cold October air comes seeping through my bedroom window, it's like my biological alarm clock starts ringing....

BUZZZZZ

Alarm clock: "Dude"

Me: "Yah"

Alarm clock: "Dude"

Me: "Really? Already?"

Alarm clock: "Dude"

The Dude abides. I know it's time to lace up the drinking boots (a roughed-up pair of high-top timbs most likely) and hit the road. There's nothing like getting out of the city that has become your new campus, and exploring the wonders of someone else's, right? No strings, no worries, just a weekend wholesome fun. Mark me down for one.

HarpoonFest

http://www.harpoonbrewery.com/index.cfm/pid/28569/page/Octoberfest-Boston

Renaissance: Buffalo

New York licenses: check
New York state of mind: check

New York City: 346 miles east...

Buffalo may be a healthy six hour drive away from the city, but its ambitious residents aren't discouraged when it comes to art...

OK I admit, before I got there I was skeptical too. But after perusing around the city and meeting some of the laid-back (likely stoner) store owners on Elmwood, my attitude towards Buffalo has changed. One store in particular pulled at my heartstrings, and wallet. Two purchases later I found myself repping a "Buffalo Roots" t-shirt and helplessly linking Terrell Owens with the word "Hope." The power of marketing rears its charming head at me once again. Go figure. Buffalo, a city forgotten, but not gone.

The store: CITYLOVE, a clothing store not named for New York's largest and most affluent city, but Buffalo, the crown jewel of the western Empire (State). Its products are the city's own walking advertisements. Its media: t-shirts sported by all those Buffalo natives who aren't ashamed of their blue-collar heritage. It's time to get rid of that worn and played out Che Guevara shirt and join a new revolution. CITYLOVE is on the front lines, using prints from local artists to promote its cause- saving Buffalo.

CITYLOVE's urban feel and optimistic attitude has earned it a spot atop the young social scene in Buffalo. And why not? It's a cool idea. Whether you're from the B-Lo or not, you've got to enjoy a place that has turned the humble mindset of a city into a marketable product.

Shirts range in design from humorous punch lines like "I Love Dick...Jauron," to more subtle inked etchings of a steadfast bison with small print on the back, advising wearers to "still B proud." The unique style and idea hold a small-town charm found nowhere else.

Buffalo. Who would've thought?

CITYLOVE

http://www.citylovebuffalo.com/

Hang 10...in Manhattan?

Concrete, concrete everywhere and not a spot to surf.

For many years you've been marooned on this barren island called Manhattan, stranded without a palm tree or decent wave in sight. Not to worry all you surfing city dwellers, your prayers have been answered. Your life-vessel has just pulled in downtown.

The port: 31 Crosby Street. The ship: Saturdays.

Walking into the store the rumbling traffic noise outside fades away, drowned out by laid-back jembe beats and mellow lighting. The walls are lined with photos of perfect waves (are you ready to ride giants?) and nostalgic surfers. Boards stand like Easter Island moai, propped up on the left wall of the foyer. And just in case you were thinking about going no further, a beach-ready wooden bar, complete with staple blond at the reigns, invites you in with an espresso or a black-cherry soda.

Just beyond the bar, the main room of the store is adorned with all the gear you'll need to complete your "business formal = (wet)suit" look. Throw back board shorts with 60's style colors and cuts, mixed with soft flannel shirts and thin woolen cardigans hang effortlessly from the walls next to vintage surfing books and classic Playboy magazines (browsing optional).

And if you're not quite ready to shop, or just didn't shove enough bills in the old wayfarers' case, head to the ship's rear deck (an outdoor sitting area) perfect for chilling out, reading through one of the store's books, or listening to some live guitar.

Fear not, fellow Manhattan stranded beach-bums, our time to escape has come. Saturdays is open any day of the week to get your fix of the life less complicated.

I think you're ready.

Saturdays NYC

official site

www.saturdaysnyc.com/