Whenever someone asks me what it’s like to live in New York City I always tell them “you see the best and worst of everything, everyday.” In a city so large, you will inevitably come across every extreme— culturally, socially and economically. It’s what gives the city its unique and unrivaled character.

This past weekend I was sitting at a bar in the East Village called Doc Holliday’s with a few of my friends. They were running a 2 for 1 special at the time and one of my friends, Lou, ordered a round of Bud Lights. As is the case at any bar during a special of this nature, the 2nd beer is placed in the well to keep cold. Once Lou had finished the first of his beers, he asked the bartender for the second Bud Light. She responded by accusing him of lying, stating that he had actually originally ordered a Pabst Blue Ribbon. If you aren’t familiar with PBR, all you need to know is it’s a horribly insufficient substitute to anything, including something as lackluster as Bud Light. Lou assured her he wasn’t the type of person to lie over something as trivial as what amounted to a fifty cent difference. We told her she would find his second Bud Light in the well in front of her, where we had watched her place it earlier. Sure enough, it was there— but she said that was for somebody else. After a few minutes of an entire group of people telling her she is mistaken, she finally gives Lou what is rightfully his.

Moments later, another friend of mine approached the bar to order a round. Caught up in conversation, she was not watching when her drink and change was returned. I was at the end of the bar, beginning to take more notice of the bartender’s actions as my focus shifted between her, the Yankees game and my Jack on the rocks. The bartender walked down the bar, collecting all of the money that was laid on the bar. I thought little of it.

Very soon after, my friend, having completed her conversation, turned back to the bar to retrieve her drink and change. The beer was waiting for her, but her change was not to be found. She asked the bartender if she had any change coming, knowing that $17 should have accompanied her beer. Without hesitation, the bartender pointed at Lou and accused him of stealing her change. The absurdity of the statement caught him off guard, because the idea of stealing money from one of his best friends was obviously out of the question. The bartender continued to insist that she had placed her change on the bar, and that Lou had stolen it. Upon remarking that she must be crazy for thinking he would steal from a person he considers as close as a sister, the bartender approaches him, grabs his new beer that he just had to argue for, pours it out and screams for him to get out of the bar. Lou handled the situation well, and left without a scene. I, on the other hand, was not about to go as quietly.

Since she had been yelling, a majority of the bar was now looking in our direction to see what the commotion was over. I’m still sitting in the same position, laughing at what has just transpired. I called the bartender over to have a word with her, but was going to make sure the rest of the bar heard what I had to say. I pointed out the fact that she, only minutes earlier, accused Lou of being a liar. To anyone with pride, this is a serious accusation on its own. But, to accuse the same person of stealing moments later, from a good friend nonetheless, is simply wrong.

She gave me a half sincere excuse that she sees all sorts of scumbags and doesn’t know who to trust. I continued to press the issue, adding that it must be her dismal outlook on humanity that so easily allowed her to pigeonhole my friend as a liar from the start. She argued this fact with me for about a minute, concluding that she had placed the change on the bar and someone must have stolen it. Having given her ample opportunity to defuse the situation, I decided to let her know what I had seen. I mentioned that I had watched her place the money on the bar like she said she had. I then disclosed that I had also seen her collect all of the money off the bar, including the change, when she picked up our tips. She grew quiet. I continued, stating that she obviously noticed my friend wasn’t paying attention when her change arrived, and that she pocketed the money knowing she could easily use theft as her scapegoat. I demanded to know why she decided she was going to make false accusations to cover for her own misdoings.

“I guess I didn’t realize…”

Didn’t realize what? That someone was watching? That someone would call out the bartender as being the liar? The scumbag thief? Well, then you must have not realized that I was sitting at your bar. I welcomed her to keep the money she was willing to verbally berate and humiliate someone for and suggested that she is exactly the type of scumbag she had spoke of earlier. At this point I walked out of the bar to join my friends, knowing my point had been made.

Still in disbelief, my friends and I made our way to a bar on the other side of Tompkins Square Park. We all sat along the bar and tried to return back to our normal conversation. At one point a guy with scraggly hair, a tie-dye shirt and a backpack sat next to us. He looked like a drifter and was selling CD’s out of his backpack. Due to past incidents, I typically become weary of anyone trying to sell me something unsolicited. I decided to give this guy a chance because he seemed friendly. After some light conversation, we order him a round, our way of welcoming someone as a friend of our group. After another round we decided we were going to check out another bar and said goodbye to our friend. Upon arriving at the next bar, my friend realized she no longer had her cell phone.

Thinking back, I remember seeing her phone on the bar at the last place. That’s where it had to have been. When we returned to the previous bar the phone was gone, and so was the guy. Distraught over once again being taken advantage of, we returned to the bar empty-handed. With the wounds of two violations of trust still fresh, our conversation once again turned negative. After about 15 minutes, our scraggly-haired friend walked through the door.

“I’ve been looking all over for you guys. Your friend left her phone at the last bar. I didn’t know where you guys went so I’ve been looking in all the bars in the area. I’m glad I found you.”

And with that, my faith in humanity was completely restored. It even left me thinking about how I had almost dismissed him earlier as someone not to be trusted. In a city like New York, it’s easy, if not acceptable, to be callous towards strangers. Why? Because it is incredibly hard to tell the good from the bad. The reason our fragile melting pot of a society is able to remain in balance is because for every scumbag, there is still a good, honest person to maintain a civil discourse. More of us should be aiming to be the stranger who brightens someone’s day rather than the scumbag who ruins it.

Thank you, disheveled hippy guy. Next time I see you I owe you a beer. But it won’t be at Doc Holliday’s. Dishonest employees and $17 just cost them a group of loyal customers.

Having spent the past week piecing together nights I barely remember with photos and stories, I have come to the conclusion that Rocklahoma did actually happen, and it was the most awesome experience of my life.



After making the long trek out to Oklahoma and briefly having my luggage lost by NorthWest, we collected the White Shark from the car rental desk and were on our way to Rocklahoma! The festival grounds were about an hour outside of Tulsa on a vast piece of farmland. Not wanting to make an ordinary entrance, we decided to let our 5am arrival be known by driving around the site blasting music as I “teen wolfed” the van. People were surprisingly receptive to our entrance, raising their beers as if to say “we deem this acceptable behavior.”

Once our tent was set up, I attempted to inflate my sleeping arrangement in the back of the van only to find out that the supposed “stowaway” seats decent into the floor would be foiled by an after market steel bar blocking it’s path. After a few forceful motions and choice words, the seats were out of my way and I was fast asleep. This would be our home for the rest of the weekend:



After only a few hours of sleep, I was awoken by music blasting from our neighbor’s site. Time check: 9:30am. I crawled out from the back of the van, cracked open a Bud Light, and introduced myself. We had 3 sets of neighbors adjacent to our site. To our right was a guy from Phoenix who made the trip alone. He told us he didn’t drink, but seemed content eating a large tray of brownies he brought and riding his bicycle around. The neighbors behind us were two crazy guys from New Orleans, Mike and Chuck. Meet Chuck:



They came prepared, hauling a horse trailer full of supplies behind their already ample F350. Their site came equipped with television, bench seating, a full home theater system, and even a mini dirt bike for fun. The neighbors to our left were three girls from Missouri, one of which was 17, the other two looked to be in their 30’s. I was told that they were all roommates, and that the 17 year old had at one point dated the 30-something’s son. I was trying to do the math in my head to determine the mother-son age difference, but decided it was better to just not think about it. After helping set up their badminton net, I offered the girls a drink from our cooler. The third girl declined my offer of a frosty Bud Light, stating that she was currently 3 months pregnant. I was understandably confused, considering the fact that I had been watching her chain smoke Marlboro Red’s all morning. Little did I know this culture shock was only the beginning of our long, strange trip into the heart of Middle America.

At about noon, Dan passed out for the first time. This would become a trend throughout the weekend as you will find out later. Our neighbor, Mike, offered to wake him up by blasting an air horn in his ear. This did the trick. Now awake, Dan walked over to Mike and Chuck’s site and climbed on top of a large oil barrel that was full of clean water. If you are familiar with oil barrels, you know the lids aren’t very sturdy, and are not intended to hold a person’s weight. It seemed inevitable that Dan would plummet to a watery demise. We prepared our cameras accordingly. Surprisingly, the lid held his weight and Dan sprung from the barrel only to be captured in one of the most classic Danimal poses to date. Note the beer in hand and mini Macanudo clenched in his teeth. (right side)



Needless to say, he didn’t stick the landing. Instead, he flipped over a lawn chair and landed directly in a huge puddle of mud. While we were in tears laughing, he changed in the tent. He emerged a few minutes later sporting a fresh pair of shorts and a stained, stretched out t-shirt. Between his haggard attire and patchy facial hair, he couldn’t have looked any more like a child molester. Fed up with our taunts, Dan proceeded to wander off to what we assumed was the bathroom, never to return.

At about 4pm we started walking towards the venue to see White Lion’s set. About a half hour into the set I noticed a bunch of security golf carts descending on someone about 100 feet to my right. I pointed this fact out to the rest of the group. Chris incredulously identified the suspect as none other than Danimal himself. We ran over to see what the problem was. Sitting in the passenger seat of the cart was Dan, swaying side to side, eyes rolled back in his head. We asked security what had happened to which a bystander replied “this guy came stumbling over here, sat in our lawn chair and started pissing his pants!” We attempted to contain our laughter (keep in mind what he is wearing), but it was no use. We sent Jen with the security guards to escort Dan back to our campsite.

Half way through Y&T’s set I decided to go back to the campsite to wake up Dan so he wouldn’t miss Quiet Riot, whose set was next. As I neared the site, I was approached by a very excited and drunk Chuck. Our conversation went like this:

Chuck: “Dude, your buddy is passed out on the ground over there.”
Me: “Oh yeah? We need to wake him up. Quiet Riot is coming on any minute.”
Chuck: “Yeah dude. He was passed out with a boner! But don’t worry, I took pictures!”
Me: “Now I am worried.”

Chuck has since emailed me these pictures, but I think they are better left out of this story. Those interested in Chuck’s artistic composition of the subject matter can go here.

After our awkward encounter I encouraged Chuck to retrieve his camera, as I was about to wake up Dan the most effective way I know: gallons of ice water to the face.



Displeased with the icy alarm clock, Dan stood up with a look of bewilderment. I attempted to explain the situation in terms he could understand.

Me: “Quiet Riot is about to come on. Let’s go!”
Dan: “Why am I all wet?”
Me: “Because you pissed your pants in the show. Security threw you out.”
(long pause)
Dan: “No I didn’t.”
Me: “Yes you did.”
(long pause, smells shirt)
Dan: “No I didn’t.”
Me: “Yes. You did.”
(long pause, leans over, smells shorts)
Dan: “No I didn’t.”
Me: (laughing)
Dan: “No I didn’t!” (goes into tent)
Me: “Changing your shorts because you DIDN’T piss yourself?”
Dan: “Shut up.”

I go and sit with the neighbors, waiting for Dan to finish changing. Chuck is driving the mini dirt bike around recklessly. After a few minutes I grow impatient and check on Dan. I open the tent and, sure enough, he is passed out— shorts around his ankles, face down on the ground. At this point I’ve invested a good amount of time into retrieving Dan and do not plan on returning to the show empty handed. After drawing a unibrow, black eye, and flames on his face in Sharpie, he regains consciousness.

Once up, I try to gather the rest of the people around the campsite to head into the show together. Chuck hears my call and turns back towards us on the dirt bike. With a good head of steam, Chuck hits a bump in the dirt road which propels him over the handlebars, head first into a giant puddle of mud. It would later turn out he broke his collarbone in the wreck, but it was hilarious at the time nonetheless. “I gotta take a shower now. I’ll meet you in there” he tells us, still laying in the puddle.

Phoenix neighbor, Dan and I proceed back towards the show together. Our walking group grows with every person who approaches me asking if Dan knows about the drawings on his face. I assure them he doesn’t. When we finally make it back to our seats, the sight of Dan, now with a barbarian serving of turkey on a bone, leaves everyone laughing hysterically (see: two images up, left).

At this point you may have forgotten that there were bands playing throughout all of this. Slaughter, Quiet Riot and Ratt all had great sets. Poison, one of the few bands still playing with all of the original members, headlined Friday night. Although I was slipping in and out of consciousness throughout the set, I managed to catch all of my favorite songs and strategically miss yet another rendition of “Every Rose Has It’s Thorn”.



The highlight of the set was guitarist C.C. Deville’s seven minute solo. After 3 straight minutes of mind blowing guitar shredding, much of which was borrowed from Eddie Van Halen’s ‘Eruption’ solo, C.C. started singing. The song, titled “I hate every bone in your body but mine”, has all of the thinly veiled sexual innuendo, poor singing and rocking guitar riffs you would expect from a Poison song. The set ended with the weekend anthem “Nothing But a Good Time”, and I made it back to the campsite just in time to pass out in our neighbor’s folding chair. Day One was a resounding success.

The next morning started the same way as the previous. The stereo blasted the soundtrack to our weekend while we sipped beers in the scorching Oklahoma sun. Life was good. We opted to skip most of the afternoon sets by Firehouse, Warrant (minus Jani Lane) and Skid Row (minus Sebastian Bach) to hang out at the campsite because it was such a nice day— and the beer was free. We got to the venue just in time for Winger’s set, most of which I don’t recall. At this point our group was going strong after almost 12 straight hours of downing Bud Light’s. Our inebriation peaked during Dokken’s set, which rocked so hard that all of the muscles in my body required to execute a fist pump are still sore. Don Dokken, hair plugs or not, sounded as good as he did 20 years ago. Wait, he had hair plugs back then too? Work with me, Don.

As “It’s Not Love” came to an end, our beer intake had reached a feverish pace. Beer vendors could no longer keep up with our demand. Two of the girls selling beer developed a mutually beneficial business plan: take turns refilling their beer trays while we drank them as fast as they could be provided. We now had a tray of beer at our side at all times. The beer fountain is where details start to get a little fuzzy, but it sure looks like it was a good time.



Sunday morning. The stereo is blasting the same Metal Skool CD we have been listening to on repeat for 2 days now. We decide to head into the show earlier than usual today in hopes of remembering the final set by festival headliner Twisted Sister.

As the afternoon progressed, host Eddie Trunk would come on stage in between sets to pump the crowd up for Twisted Sister warning “Dee Snyder is backstage and hes been doing push-ups for 2 hours. When he gets out here he’s going to beat the shit out of everyone in the first 3 rows then kill 2 of you.” This was good for a laugh, but you can’t help but wonder what a guy who looks like this is capable of.

Twisted Sister hit the stage at about 9pm with way more energy then any group of 40 year olds should have. Dee Snyder put my voice box, which was already on it’s last legs, over the edge by demanding the crowd to chant “Rock!” until he deemed it loud enough to continue. Once they finished the second song of their encore, capping an incredible set, I thought the weekend’s festivities had come to a close. Thankfully, I was horribly incorrect in my assessment.

Eddie Trunk returned to the stage to inform everyone that there would be a slap contest and oil wrestling in the back tent. I figured it would be cool, but I had no idea that it would be ridiculously awesome. The girls that participated in the slap contest were no small girls, hitting each other with enough force to make me cringe. At one point they asked for a female representative of Oklahoma University and Oklahoma State University to square off for bragging rights. I don’t even remember which one it was, but one girl got slapped so hard that she was literally knocked to the ground. As she laid on the ground crying, the contest’s organizer ran up to her to give her the free Miller Lite she earned by participating. Congratulations, you can use this to ice your jaw. Then drink it to forget how stupid it was to volunteer in the first place. The oil wrestling was exactly what you would expect, but since we had early flights, we had to cut out prematurely.

We got back to the campsite, packed up our things, chugged the last of our beers and hit the road. By the time Jen had completed the hour drive back to Tulsa in the middle of the night, we had all passed out in the van. What a wild weekend.



 

Here are a few more pictures, just for good measure:



The whole group hanging around the campsite (L to R: Dan, Kelly, Chris, Jen, Rosie, Me).

 



Me, in all of my glory, atop Keg Mountain outside of the V.I.P. tent.

 



Yet another Dan pass out.

 



While I have to give them credit for being industrious enough to create extra places for “Men #1 Only”, there is still something unsettling about using a bathroom whose walls are comprised of a see-through mesh tarp and sticks.

 



And finally, a view of the stage from the lawn.

So long, Oklahoma. See you next year.

Wednesday night I attended Game 4 of the Sabres/Islanders series at Nassau Veterans Memorial Coliseum on Long Island. This was the first time I’ve been to a postseason game at an opponent’s arena, where the numbers are not in your favor and the wrong colors turn you into a target.



Let me start by saying that I’ve watched Pee-Wee games at arenas bigger than the so-called Coliseum. My seat had literally six inches of legroom, crushing my lanky frame between the seatbacks and forcing my knees directly against my bladder.
After a few Bud Lights I needed to find a men’s room. Once I made it to the concourse, I fought my way through the unending wall of men that was encircling the arena. This couldn’t be the bathroom line, could it? Apparently it could. This place officially sucks.

Insufficient amenities aside, it was the Islander fans that caused me the most frustration. Cheering amongst the legions of Sabres fans at HSBC Arena in Buffalo is an exciting experience, filled with high-fives and borderline delusional optimism. Heckling opposing players and fans comes second to supporting the team we all love. Conversely, cheering against thousands of “fans” with no knowledge of the rules of hockey or even their own team is absolutely infuriating. When I wasn’t being called “upstate trailer trash” or some of their more vulgar taunts, I had to listen to them boo their own captain, Alexei Yashin. And they call themselves fans?

During their arena-led “Let’s Go Islanders” chants, fans were encouraged to twirl arena-supplied towels bearing their team’s logo. While I cannot deny their exceptional ability to clean my face of nacho cheese or absorb moisture in a urinal, I am confused by their name— “Rally Towel”. Does the word ‘rally’ not insinuate the need for a comeback effort? These fans were obviously confused and misguided. Considering this was likely their first hockey game of the season, if not ever, I suppose it’s understandable.



When the Sabres played the Islanders during the regular season, the Coliseum drew a staggering 8,000 some odd spectators to an arena that reaches capacity at twice that number. Meanwhile, HSBC Arena (which holds a few thousand more people, incidentally) has had every game of the season sold out since before the first puck dropped this October. Is there really any question as to which club has a true fan following?

Considering the ignorance of the Islander fans to their team and the sport itself, it’s no wonder they resort to childish name-calling or throwing full beers on the ice in lieu of just cheering for their team. This isn’t to say we haven’t thrown our fair share of things in Buffalo, but even upstate trailer trash knows you don’t throw a full beer— especially if you paid $6.50 for it.

The game itself was very intense, with pretty goals, big hits and solid goaltending on both ends. With about a minute left in the game, Jason Pominville found the back of the net to put the Sabres up 4-2 and seal the victory. As I celebrated the game-clinching goal, a middle-aged man sitting in front of me threatened to kick my ass in front of his young son. As I commended the father for being such a terrific role model, his son give me the finger to which I could only reply “you learned from the best, kid”.

As I exited the arena, another middle-aged man began taunting me saying that my team has never won any Stanley Cups. Is that really the best insult you could come up with? That fact alone is what makes us cheer so loud to begin with. Considering the last time the Islanders won a Cup was the year I was born, I was not impressed. As easy as it would have been to tear apart these idiots for being such pathetic, classless poor sports— I didn’t have to. I let the scoreboard do all of my talking. I hope all of those verbal threats the Islander’s fans threw my way offer them some consolation during a long off-season once we finish them off tonight in Game 5. (UPDATE: my prediction was correct thanks to an absolutely unbelievable save by Ryan Miller with 12 seconds left)

As long as I’m so deep into the topic of hockey, I would also like to take a moment to address all of the people who like to discredit hockey as a sport. Just because it doesn’t carry the mainstream acceptance of some other sports doesn’t mean it’s participants are any less talented or athletic. I challenge you to skate across a sheet of ice in an attempt to knock a small piece of rubber into a heavily guarded net using nothing but a stick. Add in the fact that every opposing player is looking to take your head off and all of a sudden Shaquille O’Neal putting a ball through an unprotected hole only a few inches out of his standing reach doesn’t seem so damn impressive now does it?

Allow me to further my argument with some examples of a player’s actions and their consequences across the major sports leagues:

Basketball: laugh at the ref— get thrown out of the game.
Baseball: balk at a runner— give him the base.
Football: take off your helmet— 15-yard penalty.
Soccer: no joke needed.
Hockey: knock someone unconscious— sit out for 5 minutes or less.

I think I’ve made my points. Go Sabres and long live hockey!

Every year, on the first weekend in May, about 50 college friends and I converge on Pond Eddy, NY for our annual Canoe Trip. This is a weekend where men can be men and your daily lives and responsibilities can be forgotten until Monday. The theme of the weekend: drunken recklessness. Mandatory items include multiple 30 packs of your favorite beer, plenty of meat for grilling, assorted fireworks and anything else you wouldn’t mind being broken, burned, waterlogged or otherwise destroyed. Clean clothes, hygienic products and sleeping arrangements are all considered optional. Girlfriends, wives and any means of contacting the outside world are strictly forbidden.

A great example of these unwritten rules being enforced with ‘Canoe Trip Justice’ occurred last year. One absent-minded attendee forgot the first rule of Canoe Trip and arrived sporting a metrosexual white turtleneck sweater. Last I checked we were in the middle of the woods, not a lounge in SoHo. So, he was given an ultimatum: burn the sweater or— well that was really the only choice he was given (real men don’t negotiate). He, of course, complied by tossing the insult to manliness into the roaring fire and cracking open a beer. Shirtless and drinking within minutes of arrival, this man was ready for Canoe Trip.

As the fabled weekend quickly approaches, my friends and I often share stories and fond memories from years past. The stories are so abundant that hours can pass as we each share our favorite hazy recollections. Due to the nature of the event, bringing expensive devices such as cameras to document the events is a rarity. Fortunately enough, one story will forever be documented thanks to the handy camerawork of one attendee.

Allow me to preface this story with some important background information. The firework-of-choice in recent years has been the ‘Whistling Charlie’. Unlike your usual firework display, ‘Charlie’ offers none of the typical explosions of color in the night sky. Rather, it emits a 90 second long, ear piercing whistling sound accompanied by clouds of billowing smoke. These have gained popularity due to their unarguable ability to wake up those unfortunate enough to have passed out around the campfire. As is the case at any get together, a premature pass-out is strongly frowned upon, carrying the consequence of humiliation, and possibly second-degree burns. Last year, Danimal was the unfortunate recipient of ‘Charlie’.

The following video is titled ‘Danimal Meets Whistling Charlie’:

Although the commotion awoke me from my own slumber in a nearby tent, the high-pitched sound is about as uncommon as birds chirping at Canoe Trip, so I thought nothing of it. Kelly (the person lighting ‘Charlie’) filled me in on the scenario the next morning. His paraphrased story goes like this:

In common fashion, Danimal passed out in the open, begging for the misfortune that followed. Kelly positioned the flaming wakeup call directly under Danimal’s chair, assuring a successful wakeup. As the smoke began to overwhelm Danimal’s drunken senses, he awoke and looked at Kelly like a deer caught in headlights. Still severely intoxicated, Danimal leapt from his smoky sanctuary and proceeded to immediately lose his balance and fall directly into the still-burning campfire. To this day I still curse that green chair for blocking the shot.

Amazingly enough, no Danimal’s were injured in the filming of this video.