An Editor’s Journey to the GoOutJersey Launch Party

Author’s Note: On Friday, April 20th, GoOutJersey.com celebrated its official launch with a party at Rogo’s in Hoboken. As Assistant Editor of the site, I was invited. The party was a gathering of staff, contributors, and friends of the site. We chose Rogo’s because it was a spot that represents what the site is about — it’s for real Jerseyites (present company excluded), and it’s cheap.

The following is a very approximate timeline of my evening…

7:41p.m.: Having promised my editors earlier in the day that I’d be at the party by 8 p.m., I finally leave my apartment for the hour-plus trip to Hoboken.

8:06p.m.: Take cab to pick up my friend at the agreed-upon pick up spot on 48th and 9th in Manhattan.

8:09p.m.: After sitting at 48th with the meter running, pick up my friend at the new agreed-upon pick up spot on 46th and 9th.

8:15p.m.: At the Herald Square PATH Station, my friend decides that she will not be joining me in Hoboken after all, and will have the cab take her home. The cab fare is already over $17. I give her 15 bucks and head for the station. I’m off to a great start.

8:45p.m.: On a very long taxi line at the Hoboken PATH station. When a taxi finally pulls up for me, a cute girl in her mid-twenties with a lot of shopping bags tries to poach my cab – or so I thought. I felt very out of touch with Hoboken etiquette as she ignored my protest with a soft but pointed sigh and another girl got into the passenger side seat. I guess people in Jersey are okay with cab-sharing. Who knew?

9:00p.m.: I see the sign for Rogo’s, pay the driver, and run. That was an uncomfortable cab ride.

9:00p.m. (I think. I was already drunk.) : I have arrived; the party can finally begin.

The GoOutJersey launch party starts slowly but builds a steady head of steam with esteemed colleagues, friends, relatives, and well-wishers all coming by for a drink. I’ve never been to Rogo’s before, and it is much as our mysterious correspondent,
John Busco described it: down-home, simple, no-frills. Basically, a dive bar for serious drinking with clean bathrooms (though I only saw the Men’s Room. Maybe next time…), and a nice-sized room in the back with pool tables and dart boards.

As expected, there were drink specials and for the occasion, Rogo’s agreed to a five dollar cover with $1 drinks ($2 for doubles). However, they did not deliver the second floor space to us as promised. As our crowd grew, the space towards the front of the bar, narrow to begin with, became somewhat difficult to navigate. But everyone seemed to know each other, so the crowded atmosphere didn’t make anyone tense or pushy.

I bounced around from drink to drink until I found my sweet spot for the evening with Absolut and cranberry. A tad colorful for my taste (as a rule, I don’t like drinks that aren’t clear), but on this night, cranberry and vodka work too well for me.

12:00a.m.: I am stumbling around like a tomato can boxer in the final rounds. Despite or, more likely, because of my slurred speech and staggered gait, I was ordered by my editors to pass out GoOutJersey lanyards to the half dozen people at the bar who weren’t there for the launch party. Much to the amusement of our Both Sides couple, Steve and Maleka, I managed to get about 57 lanyards tangled in my hand. Steve finally took pity on me and managed to untangle a few. The tangle issues persisted as I tried to pass them out to a couple of bemused gals at the non-GoOutJersey end of the bar. (A lanyard is a stringy thing that can attach to a keychain or a security card or something. I didn’t know what the word lanyard meant until I got mine, so I thought I’d describe what it was for you.)

1:00a.m.: The ever mysterious John Busco and his roommate have decided to move on to Madison’s and I tag along. Located at the very edge of Washington Street, Madison’s appears to be a bit upscale, almost like an alternative for Hoboken natives considering a night in the city. Eighties music blasts on the speakers. I won’t go into a full review here because, let’s be honest folks, I didn’t remember that I stopped into Madison’s until yesterday and you can always
read Busco’s take on it.

Close to 2:00a.m.: The mysterious one and his roommate have decided to call it a night, an easy decision because they live only a block away. I’m not so lucky. Besides, I have a second wind and a desire to stay out. They inform me that our esteemed managing editor, Ali Hanford, is at the Malibu Diner, located only two blocks away. Despite explicit directions and a glowing neon sign, I still manage to get lost. When I finally arrive, I do two laps around the diner before I find Ali and a big group of her friends, or as I like to call them: Han-friends. And across the diner is contributing editor, Nicole Little, face down on a table with another crew from the party. I know, I’m starting to name drop here, so I’ll stop. The diner was fine. I ate a delicious French Dip, while engaging in work-chat and interrogating the girl to my right about Wicca - or so I’m told.

Quite a good bit after 2:00a.m., probably close to 3, we’ll say 3:00a.m.: Realizing that I am very far from the PATH station, I stop stealing disco fries (if you’re a fan of the site, you know what they are!) from the plates of my fellow diners and order Ali to commission someone to drive me to the station. A good-natured chap whose name escapes me agreed to help me out. Ali and another friend of hers join us for the drive down the emptying Washington Street.

3:15a.m.-ish: I stagger from the car to the PATH station with only 50 cents left on my Metro Card. I’m aware of this. I only need to add a dollar on to the machine and I’m back to the land of yellow cabs and even more expensive apartments. The PATH machines think they are too good for my money, so rather than insult them with my crumpled dollar bills, I do something I haven’t done since I was a freshman in high school. I jump the turnstiles. It feels good. My drunken stagger now has a touch of swagger to it, a stwagger, if you will. Nevertheless, the train is pulling out as I descend the stairs. An hour wait ensues - the longest hour of my life. I have only my cell phone to entertain me. I go through old text messages. I am up to a riveting exchange with my brother from mid-July 2006 about which one of us should order the movie tickets when another train pulls up.

Somewhere in the neighborhood of 4:30a.m.: Back in Manhattan, finally. I miss Hoboken already, but there’s no time to be sentimental. I need a cab. I walk many blocks south of Herald Square and get one. Despair immediately hits me - no money. I tell the guy I need to hit a Citibank (even trashed at 4:30 in the morning I frown upon those ATM fees). He pulls up to one on the side street of a very sketchy block. I run in, and go to work on the ATM, turning my head every quarter second or so to see if the guy is still there. Just as I’m leaving the bank, as if to toy with me, he starts to slowly pull away. I thought it was a bad joke, so I didn’t break my stride. But as soon as the guy sees a green light, he floors it. I run out into the middle of the street and scream “NOOOOOOOO!” It’s like bad cinema. I had been driven even further away from my home sweet home. And now I wasn’t quite sure where I was. I prayed that the street signs still had numbers on them (an indication that I was above 14th Street; I live on 96th).

Pretty much 5a.m.: Birds are chirping, which is never a good sign. I walk dejectedly. I remember the under-appreciated Scorsese film from the mid-eighties about the guy who can’t manage to make it home from work - After Hours? Finally, after a half hour of walking in a direction I do not recall, my savior comes in the form of a bright yellow Chevy Sedan.

5:30a.m.: I ascend the staircase to my apartment. I live on the second floor of a 35 -story, four-building, post-college dorm-like monstrosity on the Upper East Side, so I usually eschew the elevator if at least one of my legs is working properly. But it seems that the ghosts of New Jersey have left me a little gift. A gentleman in jeans and a tank top is sleeping curled up against my front door. I gently wake him and inquire as to the nature of his visit. He mumbles something about waiting for his friend and points towards our neighbor’s apartment. A sense of relief washes over me. I imagine a scenario where his friend is inside with one of my neighbors at this hour, probably reading poetry or debating Marx or something like that. Nevertheless, it dawns on me to ask why he wouldn’t be invited inside to sit in the living room. But the last flash of sobriety washes over me and instead I ask the dude to remove his carcass from my door so I can squeeze into the apartment.

I lay down to sleep atop a pile of un-distributed lanyards. Tomorrow morning, I will wake up with a beautiful array of lanyard imprints on my face.

— by Alex Simon
Alex, our only NYC resident, joins us on the west side of the Hudson whenever he remembers how to use the PATH. Which is when he's sober. Which ain't often.

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