Flippin' Jerk

It’s been a year for drunken assholes in cars. A few days after New Year’s, I was walking home from work one night when a stretch limo went by with a drunken idiot hanging out the window shouting at everyone he saw, “Hey! I won the lottery! Fuck you!” Nice to see that he’s putting his hard-earned winnings to good use. Regardless of how much this douchebag won, it’ll be gone by June.

But that wasn’t nearly as annoying as what happened Thursday night. I was in my usual spot, slingin’ drinks for the peeps when I got a phone call from my upstairs neighbor, Cara. Now, in the three-plus years that Cara’s lived above me, she’s only called me at work two times: Once when there was a fire and once when there was a scary guy sitting on the steps outside. So I knew right away it wasn’t good.

“Someone hit your car,” Cara said, and so, with Lysa covering me at the bar, I ran back home with Neel as my witness and restraint. About ten fire engines and another dozen cop cars filled the are surrounding the scene.

Seems that someone driving a brand spankin’ new 2007 Mercedez Benz decided that the best way to break it in was to get hammered and go speeding through the crammed, narrow streets of Hoboken NJ, making a too-fast turn off of Bloomfield and onto 10th St, at which point he “saw a bright white light,” slammed into a parked Saab, flipped up on his side and skidded into my Jeep (as well as the car parked behind me).

The damage to the Saab was substantial. The entire driver’s side was pretty much wiped out, and the rear bumper was pushed into the tire. I was comparatively lucky. He somehow only put a giant dent in my rear passenger side panel. He barely missed breaking the tail light and the window and bumper are unscathed. Still, as I watched the guy fail his sobriety test, I did fantasize about clocking him as the cops put the cuffs on him.

The funniest (okay, funny) part of the incident came when the cops asked me to move my car so they could flip the Benz back onto its wheels. I shouted (yes, SHOUTED) at the police, “I DON’T WANNA LOSE MY PARKING SPACE!! IT’S AFTER MIDNIGHT IN HOBOKEN!!!” I relented, but stuck around long enough to reclaim it after the tow truck took das Deutsches wagon away. See? I told you people how premium parking is in this tiny hamlet!!

The irony is, just one day earlier, as I was driving to Target (a local shopping emporium), I was reveling in the fact that I’ve had my car for two and a half years in the most congested, overpopulated parking town in the country and nothing’s happened to it. In fact, one of the reasons I chose a Liberty is that its design makes it fairly resistant to the kinds of dings that occur in a town where double parking and pressed bumpers are commonplace.

So Friday, I called my insurance company, went to the police station for a copy of the report and now the game of “who’ll pay” begins. Oh, and the “funny” postscript: Turns out the guy works for Mercedes. The car he smashed (and oh, is it smashed) belongs to the company.

So, I’m sure they’re thrilled.

PXMD

My annual Post-Christmas Depression has set in, but with a slightly different feel this year. Usually it occurs because the holiday has failed to live up to my always-unrealistic expectations. This year, however, Christmas was merrier and brighter than it’s been in many years. Almost everything went well. The Video Party was a big success, my shopping for gifts went smoothly (and more importantly, was appreciated), there were some really special times spent with really special people. My trek back to PA was remarkably free of any anxiety or agitation (not one fight with the nuke!). I got to see some friends I haven’t seen in a long time (although the ones I missed were sorely missed). The ever-declining Fulton Bar was replaced with the far more enjoyable Quips Pub and there was a too-brief encounter with the Winger Wine Cellar. We got some great new stories that will be told for years (“I’m 69 but I feel 18 because I got Jesus in me~!”). My cousin Gretchen’s absence was palpable, but it was great to have Gary there. I got to see, hear and smell the 1800 starting up for the first time in decades. The fireplace raged despite the too-warm weather. The kind woman at the CVS gave me $20 off the memory card I suddenly needed on the 25th. I received a gift of the heirloom Christmas glasses! The rest of my pile of swag entices me to ignore work and just read, watch and listen for days and days. In fact, the entire holiday, the only real drag was the fact that Global Warming makes it seem as if the concept of a White Christmas is really going to be an anachronism found only in old recordings.

So why so glum?

Because this year I could FEEL the impending inevitability of time. A number of losses among extended family and friends this past year (yet another of which I just found out about while writing this entry!) hammered this home. And as I’ve said before, with no families of our own, my brother and I cling to our (countless) beloved holiday traditions tenaciously. But the day will come when they are going to be forced to change, and Christmas will never be the same. That’s the natural order of things, but I honestly don’t know if we’ll be able to deal with it. When friends of mine talk about NOT going home for the holidays or make comments about how it’s not a big deal in their family (or, worst of all, express outright cynicism towards Xmas), I’m frankly dumbfounded. I can’t imagine NOT having the enormous celebration of family and friendship (Jesus ain’t always the reason for the season) that we have every December.

I tend to be pretty self-absorbed (says the guy writing a blog, presuming people give a crap about his thoughts and tales). I can be petty and whiny and materialistic and impatient. But amidst that, I think I do have a sense of perspective. Over the past several years, the main thing I’ve learned is to not take what I do have for granted. Which made this Christmas both wonderful and heartbreaking.

And now comes the Hell that is New Year’s. Stay tuned.

Names Withheld (but easy to figure out)

Santa came early this year. Last night at the bar, I got to fulfill one of my bartender fantasies (as mentioned in this posting)… I got to tell an underage celebrity that she couldn’t have a drink. I’m not going to say which one, but she’s a TV “star” on one of those shows with all the pretty young people having difficulties while wearing bathing suits (and she was mentioned hypothetically in that very post).

She was there with an absolutely awful band from L.A. who personify everything wrong with L.A. bands… completely obsessed with image, artlessly aping classic rock riffs and bringing nothing new to the table. The lead singer even took off his shirt (trust me, it wasn't hot). They blew, but not as much as the following band, a concoction fronted by some guy from Rock Star Supernova, a show which I had heard of, but never seen. Apparently it’s American Idol with “rock” pretense, but this guy seemed every bit as vacuous as any Idol contestant.

It’s always interesting to see the crowd that comes out for a band that sprang from the Tee-Vee. One of the craziest nights at the bar ever was when the band Flickerstick from the VH1 reality show Bands on the Run played. People were acting as if the Beatles resurrected and were playing the tiny room. Girls were snapping photos, cheeseballs in gold preened, thinking they were in the presence of cool and one sycophant was even heard to say that she couldn’t eat her dinner because she was so nervous being so “close to a rock star.”

Um, I’m not sure about this one, but I think one of the pre-requisites for being a rock star is to have an album out, which at that point, Flickerstick did not (They do now, though… their debut can be found used on Amazon for $1.81).

The point is, people who are awed by non-bands like this are people who do what TV tells them to. They don’t (or maybe even can’t) put any effort into developing their own tastes, music means nothing to them, at least in comparison to the tinny sheen of fame that TV applies better than anything else.

Anyway, back to the girl. Word spread through the club that she was there, although I wouldn’t have recognized her if she weren't pointed out to me. I will say that she wasn’t obnoxious at all, and even kept a cap on her wee head, somewhat hiding from the crowd. But she was also drinking a beer, and it suddenly dawned on me that I’ve seen her mentioned on the list of underage Hollywood clubbers. I got confirmation from Lauren (who knows about such things) and just waited.

She finished her beer and came up to the bar to order another. Taking a breath and relishing the moment, I asked for her ID. She paused for a second, stammered that she didn’t have one and pointed out that she’d already gotten a beer.

Not from me she didn’t, and I told her that I couldn’t serve her, at which point she kinda stomped away, perhaps cursing the backwards mentality of the wilds of New Jersey.

I was not trying to be (and hopefully didn’t come across as) a jerk. I was just doing my job. The law states, you gots to be 21, not 21 or on The OC. She no doubt called me an asshole and probably got another drink from someone else at the club at some point, but that’s okay. I am an asshole; I did get some sense of satisfaction in bringing a spot of perspective to the pampered state of celebrity. A teensy tiny infinitesimal temporary spot, but hey, you take what you can get.

Bronze Beauties Christmas Comics Blowout

Time to put the Bronze Beauties to bed, as an overhaul of TGGS in the offing for early 2007, so I thought I’d go out with a holiday themed blowout installment.

My oft-mentioned love of this time of year follows through to all media. Christmas movies, music, TV shows, short stories by Dickens and Sedaris, vintage design and yep, comic books. The four collections below left impressions on me almost as indelible as the markers with which I colored some of their inside covers. Whoops. The Archie digest in particular contains such great stories and art from the 50s and 60s that the book has become as perennial to me as IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFE or Mom's sand tarts. The DC and Marvel collections (both in that great huge tabloid size that positively screamed “YOU MUST OWN ME!!!!” from the newsstands in the ‘70s) were the first of what became tradition for the publishers. When the well of worthy holiday themed tales from the past started to run dry in the next decade, both of the Big Two started putting out Xmas comics of new material, which were welcome, but didn’t (and by definition, couldn’t) bring forth that same sense of nostalgia that old stories from a simpler time when Superman and Santa Claus could co-exist in the same story without ruining the “believability” of the character. Sheesh.

From the top, DC LIMITED COLLECTORS’ EDITION #C-34 (1975), art by Nick Cardy; ARCHIE COMICS DIGEST #3 (1973), art by Stan Goldberg; MARVEL TREASURY SPECIAL #1 (1974), art by John Buscema; and DENNIS THE MENACE BONUS MAGAZINE #123 (1973), art by an unknown Hank Ketcham ghost.

And I thank you for your indulgence. Again.

It's not sexy. No.

So, last week, I realized that I love Halloween in theory… but loathe it in practice. The problem is, 90% of all costumes just show how completely dull and original most people are. Working in a bar, I saw way too many “sexy” cats/nurses/nuns, etc. (I even saw a sexy PLUMBER), too many dudes just wearing stuff they found in their closet that didn’t match and waaaay too many girls wearing ‘80s clothes. I honestly don’t think I saw one decent costume the entire weekend at the bar. Granted, my place of employ is not a typical Party Bar, we didn’t have any special Halloween promotion or anything, but I doubt too much smart masquerading was going on in my mile square.

I’m not a fan of costume parties. Part of it is that I don’t like to dress to call attention to myself (my entire wardrobe is lacking in any bright colors). But in the context of a costume party, I’m not sure what’s worse… showing up with no costume or in lame costume.

But a costume doesn’t have to be elaborate... just clever. Subtle costumes that can take a while to figure out are often the best ones at the party, and almost always preferable to something just picked up at Party City.

Last year, I was peer-pressured into wearing a costume to work, something I was not happy about. So I went simple. I got a gray old lady wig, a glow in the dark plastic butcher knife and wore a crisp white button down with them (a sacrifice, as any bartender will tell you). I was supposed to be Norman Bates in mid-transvestite mode. A few people got it, some others didn’t. But it worked for me.

This year, I was invited to a party at my pal Haven’s and didn’t want to be the only wet blanket sans costume. But I still wasn’t keen on going overboard. So I made a red bow tie out of cardboard, wore a white shirt with a vest and my reading glasses and plastered a handful of band-aids on my face and hands. It’s an old reference, to be sure, so to help people out, I also made a press pass and even put “WKRP” on it. It was not the best costume at the party (but it was not the worst, either).

The lovely and vivacious Iloire had the best costume, a home-made Margot Tenenbaum, complete with “Four Plays” book and wooden finger. Gary’s simple, yet hilarious Rocky Balboa costume served him well throughout the week and Haven’s Annie was disturbingly perfect.




And not a sexy cat nor pregnant nun to be seen. Sheesh.

Bronze Beauties Election Week Special: Jackie Jokers

I read my fair share of Harvey Comics in the 70s: Casper, Hot Stuff, Spooky, the various Littles (Dot, Audrey, Lotta, et al), Sad Sack and Richie Rich were as pivotal to my early reading as superhero comics were. But maybe my favorite Harvey Comic was the bizarre, short-lived Jackie Jokers, a book about a vaudeville-style young comedian (no, it was not a period piece). Jackie was part of a successful showbiz family (including uncles and cousins), but somehow he lived in the typical Harvey suburbia instead of Los Angeles or New York City. But the weirdest thing about Jackie Jokers was that, despite being drawn as a little kid like Richie Rich, his exploits were decidedly adult, and many stories revolved around him trying to land grown-up roles in films. Also, his relationship with his girlfriend Candy seemed a bit less innocent than, say, Casper and Wendy’s.

Anyway. Jackie Jokers only lasted 4 issues in 1973, but Jackie teamed with the richest kid in the world for a far more successful 48-issue run in Richie Rich and Jackie Jokers. But that book wasn’t nearly as off-kilter as Jackie’s solo comic (aided primarily by outstanding art by Ernie Colón at the peak of his abilities). I mean, come on…. How many other comic book characters shared a COVER with Richard Nixon?!??!

Here's the cover to Jackie Jokers #2, May 1973, by Ernie Colón.

Hello, New Jersey!!!

So, I worked the Beck show at the Landmark Loew’s Jersey City on Saturday night. I didn’t get to see any of the show (which is fine, I’m ambivalent about Beck), but I could hear it from the cavernous lobby where we had set up our makeshift bar (no, not an open bar, as one particularly stupid girl asked). And I got to hear something that I hear a lot working the bar at a rock club in the great state of New Jersey…

Beck came out to do his first encore to the strains of Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer.” Oh, Beck! I can truly see why people call you a genius!! You’re playing in New Jersey! How brilliantly hilarious to bust out some Bon Jovi! Ha ha ha! Nobody’s ever thought of that before!!!!

Actually, it’s as lame and as old as yelling “Free Bird!” I have heard dozens, if not hundreds of bands either perform a live chorus or take the stage to a recording of (a) Bon Jovi or (b) Bruce Springsteen (actually, there’s just as much Frank Sinatra, but I think that’s exclusively a Hoboken occurrence while Bon and the Boss “tributes” are statewide).

Does this happen in other states? Do touring bands playing in Tennessee feel obligated to sing a little “Jailhouse Rock?” Does every other troubadour strumming in California trill some Beach Boys? Is an ironic cover of the CHEERS theme de rigeur for combos passing through Massachusetts? I doubt it.

But Jersey has such a strong iconography that it’s almost impossible for visitors to just let it pass. And that’s fine. Those of us who reside in the perhaps ironically tagged “Garden State” are not only immune to the jabs, we embrace them. New Jersey is one of the only states that engenders a sense of identity that’s bigger than civic. As far as I’ve seen, only two states’ outlines have become common tattoos: New Jersey and Texas.

But while Texans display a sense of arrogance about their giant (if backwater) state that is practically begging for recession from the union (please), Jerseyites wear the badge almost defensively. Yeah, I’m from Jersey, what about it, douchebag? But don’t think it’s irony; most of us love this stinky state, corruption, bureaucracy, pollution, dirty beaches, closeted ex-governors, bad musical icons, mobsters and all. Mock all you want. We… don’t… care.

But bands, how about doing a Smithereens cover next time through?