Tag Archives: Hoboken Progress column

Jun 14 2010
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La Splenda Vita

Did I Really Just Cheer For Philadelphia?

From the June 18th addition of Hoboken Progress…

Here’s a fact that is probably surprising to no one: I was never an athlete. I was always of the art class and dance persuasion. Simply put, when a ball comes at me, I prefer to run away.

As far as sports goes, I suppose you would call me easily impressionable. While I am tied to NYC teams, watching sports has always been more of a social event for me. Sunday football is a great excuse to have a few beers and greasy food and pretend that it’s still Saturday with friends.

So, how is it that for the past nine months, I’ve betrayed my NYC roots to root for a Philadelphia team? Bait, my friends, bait of the big blue-eyed, 6’4’’ tall kind. Simply put, the boyfriend is a Flyers fan.

I feel as though I may come off as a sort of “fair-weather” sports fan—but it’s not about just following who’s winning, or me just being a follower. I don’t see this as the case. There are million reasons how teams hook fans. For me, it was an incredibly cute guy who switched on the hockey games in my living room.

Empire State? Marco? Polo??

I will admit, that in my past dating lives, I’ve shown an improved interest in the Mets or the Giants. But, those were easy. Those were New York. I’ve never crossed over the Delaware River before, or have left the turf for a rink.

Something is different here. Whether it’s the game itself that’s a novelty to me, or that it feels secretly rebellious to root against New York, after a while I found that I wasn’t just watching to be supportive of the “real” fan—I got into it. After an episode of silently willing at the television screen for the Flyers to win, I realized that I actually cared if the Flyers won or lost. Now, at the end of my first official season as a hockey spectator, I can name at least 10 Flyers players, am tagged on Facebook wearing a Flyers jersey, and I am now able to throw around terms like “Power Play” and “Shoot from the point!”

When the Flyers were down by two games in the final series against the Chicago Blackhawks, my dad, aware of my newfound hobby, commented that the Flyers better not go 0-3. In my response email, I explained how hopeful I was, using the term “home team advantage” and further illustrating my belief of a win by explaining how the team was once down by two games in another series and still pulled ahead. “I can’t believe you know that” he emailed back. Neither did I.

I don’t think Hoboken will ever forgive me for this one—but if there are a few bars in the “mile square” that allow Eagles fans to wear their team colors, surely I will be able to find a local Flyers outlet. If not, sitting in my living room with the boyfriend is fine for me.

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Jun 04 2010
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My Life in Hoboken

An Unexpected Scene

One of the few things that irks me about the city today is that there are no “scenes,” at least, the way in which I’ve heard about them when my parents were my age in New York. Since information travels much differently than it did, say in the ‘60s and ‘70s, people no longer devote evenings to an art or music venue to just hang around and see new talent. Today, it seems as if everyone seeks to get in and out due to tight schedules.

I’ll blame my frustration with this loss of a culture on my father’s vinyl collection. Growing up with the display of records as the main focus of our family room, just as a fireplace may be for other families, for years I heard stories about how my father’s hearing was blown out from a Grand Funk Railroad show, or how sick it was to see a new band called the Clash perform in the East Village. Having been born in the ‘80s, not quite understanding that these records were from another era, I remember asking my dad if the Beatles’ “Help” Album was a new release when I was six years old.

As a daughter of the digital age, I sometimes feel as though I don’t always have a deep appreciation for the streamlined, fast-paced times that we live in.

I suffer from what’s called “we always want what we don’t have” syndrome. As if the replica rotary phone, typewriter in my room, or my current obsession with finding a pair of saddle shoes doesn’t represent my yearning for a nostalgia that’s not even my own, I’m severely jealous of my dad’s memories for all the rock shows he saw back in the day.

So, imagine my delight/surprise that I can now give my dad a run for his money after my commute on the PATH this morning, since I witnessed a LIVE performance of Abbey Road. The performer’s name may not have been John, Paul, George, or even Ringo, but he wore socks with sandals and was rockin’ it out at 9:30 AM.

Sitting directly across from me, I got the full spectrum. I didn’t even pretend not to stare, even though my sunglasses helped. It was a one-man show, with an umbrella tapping against the rail as percussion to his “hushed” yet perfectly audible vocals. I was witness to this from “Here Comes the Sun” to “Polythene Pam.”

Although my ears may not ring from this free show, nor did I discover any new or raw talent, sometimes I feel that the PATH has become a scene for me, simply because it has given me so many stories, most of which I’ve written about here. Because of this man’s lack of self-awareness and love for Abbey Road, I have yet another first-hand, ridiculous account that I can share with my family one day, as just another installation in my tales of commuting under the Hudson on a little train called the PATH.

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May 17 2010
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My Life in Hoboken

Stay Alert…Be Aware…

From the May 21st issue of Hoboken’s Progress:

The other morning, I committed a rookie mistake when it comes to commuting—I got on the wrong PATH train.

I can only blame myself, but instead, I’ll blame my body. Muscle memory is an interesting phenomenon. Like athletes and virtuosos manipulate their bodies to carry out skilled movements without even thinking, the same goes for how my body has learned to function in the mornings before work.

I, for one, am not a morning person. There are not enough words in the English language to describe how violently my body rejects the early hours. And so, I rely heavily on the fact that my body somehow manages to remember the movements required for brushing its teeth, getting dressed, and grabbing its apartment keys without the guidance of an alert brain.

But, even so, this method isn’t foolproof. Case in point, one morning after my body shuffled into the kitchen, it somehow filled a coffee filter with five scoops of coffee, poured five cups of water into the machine, and then switched “On.” It sounds productive, but my hands didn’t place the pot back under the machine. The counter got a healthy dose of caffeine. I got a headache.

Despite similar incidents, it still came as a shock to me when I saw Pavonia-Newport as the first stop,

the train I meant to get on...

rather than Christopher St. on my way to work the other morning. The worst part about it is that I feel as if my body and/or mind was trying to tell me that I sat down on a WTC train instead of a 33rd St. one, but I was still too half-asleep to really understand or listen. After clearing the turnstiles and seeing empty seats on the train that arrived on the middle track, I nabbed one. Why I was in such a rush, I’m not sure, since a lot of seats were oddly open for this time of the morning.

That was red flag number one. Red flag number two: I saw another 33rd St. train pull up on the track next to me that began to fill up faster than the one I was on. Squinting at the 33rd St. train, I thought, “Huh. Well, it’s nothing that reading New Moon can’t fix,” as I looked down to become engulfed in my story about werewolves, while my brain kicked the dirt, frustrated at my half-asleep body.

Before I know it, I’m in Jersey City. Not a total crisis—but still—I felt really stupid. Trying to cover how alarmed I was (I was finally awake), I walked off the train casually, nonchalantly looked around to see which track the 33rd St. train stops at, and subtly, walked up and down the stairs to get to the correct platform, and then stood looking bored, as if Pavonia-Newport was my regular station. I came this close to whistling.

Now, more than ever, those signs in the PATH that read, “Stay Alert, Be Aware…” remind me how it’s probably best to switch off my auto-pilot mode, at least after leaving my apartment.

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May 13 2010
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La Splenda Vita

Excitement and Impatience in Hoboken

From the May 14th Edition of Hoboken’s Progress:

I know it’s not the best idea to self-diagnose yourself, but I can’t help it. With so many WebMd type of websites out there, even answer sites like Yahoo! Answers seems like they have responses for every question imaginable. Type in a question like, “why does my foot hurt,” and you will arrive at a plethora of conditions just waiting to be discovered.

I believe that I suffer from an overactive fascination with exploring all things in this area. I believe it’s seasonal, as this condition affects my attention, especially during the warmer months.

Signs of the warmer months to come in Hobo...

Symptoms include: dog-earring every Time Out New York and New York Magazine that I read, bookmarking New York and Hoboken blogs on my computer, and leaving about 15 tabs and windows open on my computer, loading with interesting activities I’ve found to do, from museum exhibits to movies in the park. All this is happening, usually while at work. If I get one second that isn’t weighed down with a deadline, I compulsively Google for things to do outside in the sunshine, then match my desired agenda with my calendar.

You have no idea how many times I’ve refreshed links that will eventually reveal the “Movies Under the Stars” schedule for the summer on Pier A in Hoboken, or the HBO film series they play in Bryant Park.

Another side effect of this condition is an incredible lack of patience, due to acute excitement.

I’ve become so spoiled. There is so much to do in this area, I get overwhelmed picking and choosing what I want to do on days that I happen to find myself with a free afternoon.

Last Sunday I was lucky—my free Sunday filled quickly with the Hoboken Arts and Music Festival. It was perfect timing for a day to explore locally with friends.

Other times, I’m not so lucky. As of right now, I find myself faced with gorgeous weather, matched with a late dinner reservation in the city. My mind is now swimming with ideas for how to fill up my time until dinner.

Another side effect is indecisiveness.

Perhaps the boyfriend and I could check out Gallery Week, which runs from neighborhood to neighborhood from Chelsea to the Lower East Side, or maybe we could explore the new Limelight Marketplace, an old Episcopal church, now filled with 60 retail shops, including a Grimaldi’s outpost, on 20th St. and 6th Avenue.

Or, maybe we could hop back over the Hudson and enjoy the Riverwalk in Hoboken, and get a drink and sit outside, since the outside dining offerings we have here are infinitely cozier and intimate than the city’s, since it’s much quieter out here.

Though my attention may be limited and imagination heightened due to the sheer amount of opportunity for fun things to do, I would not have it anyway, since another side effect of my condition is happiness that there is never a dull moment.

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