Pee Wee Football

New Jersey is football country. Much more so than Boston. Probably not as much as Texas, but its certainly larger here than anywhere else I've ever lived before. And the difference isn't in New Jersians love of pro or college football. Nay, the difference is most noticeable in youth football. New Jersey is home to a number of high school powerhouses, and you don't have those without a strong series of feeder programs. This means youth football thrives and people take it rather seriously. Too seriously for my tastes, but I can't deny it gets the family together. I had to take a closer look.

The field next to my house is home to pee-wee football every weekend and most weeknights. That is it's only purpose, as the gates are locked and you can't get onto the field if the team isn't there. No other sports allowed. Football Only.

Sunday afternoons the massive parking lot can't contain the cars, which begin to work their way up the street, upon nearby grassy patches, and anywhere not expressly prohibited. The stands, built on both sides of the fields, fill up and the remaining fans/parents spread all the way up and down the sidelines in folding chairs. These games are pretty clearly a big deal, what with the attendance and money devoted to resources.

Besides, the fans are more interested in the outcome of a youth sporting than I've ever seen before. They care about winning and loosing, and aren't afraid to ruffle a few feathers along the way. One gentleman, sitting far away down the sidelines either for his benefit or the teams, saw fit to remind the coach with each failed offensive play that, “you've got more than one running back”, and “you can't always use speed, you've got to use POWER”. Evidently he was not pleased with the choice of personnel on the field. I wonder what he'd say to the rules I remember from little league requiring everyone to play the infield for at least one inning. It probably didn't warm his heart that the Edison Jets were blanked 21-0 that day.

The result couldn't be blamed on the coaches lack of desire, even if it the loss could be laid at his feet for other reasons. I heard the halftime speech. And calling it a speech seem generous, because it was more of a rant. As I listened in I had hoped to catch a speech the likes of one in the movie Miracle where the coach lifts up the teams hopes and confidence. Instead my ears were greeted with the coach chewing out most units on the team with lines like, 'Offensive line raise your hand. I can't see you. I don't think you're here, because I didn't see one out there. The offensive line is supposed to block, and nobody did that.” He followed that gem by turning his back and letting the assistant coaches finish the halftime talk, not that any of it did any good. Maybe teaching the youth how to block would serve better than telling them what a poor job they're doing, but then again I'm not a football coach. And he really did look like he wanted to win.

But at what cost to the kids? Late in the game the coach took a player out, chewing him out for missing a blocking assignment. The boy walked back to the bench, threw his helmet against the fence, followed by his gloves, and sat down on the brink of tears. Confidence and sportsmanship did not seem to be the guiding principals of this team.

Have I mentioned these kids were probably about 11? Which means the psycological scaring isn't even the most dangerous part of the game. Every journal article you read on youth football these days relates how much more dangerous football is for children under 12 than it already is for grownups. The effects of brain damage, concussions and the like increase dramatically for youth because the brain casing (or skull for you non-medical types) isn't fully formed yet. Why any parent would want to subject their child to this danger is beyond me.

Yet I can't help but admire the entire institution just a little. The day was beautiful and families were out in force together to support their children. When I say children, I mean both sons and daughters, as accompanying the football team was a team of 15 or so similarly aged female cheerleaders. Usually I'd be dogging and mocking cheerleaders of any sort, but I can't this time. The girls seemed to be really happy out there, with well practiced cheers and even a halftime routine involving lifts and a throw. Plus there were older cheerleaders present in the stands, supporting the younger girls. Friends, families and football – it all sounds pretty nice in that light.

Unfortunately, I can't just see it in that light. After the 11 year old game was the 12 year old, then the 13s and 14s. I didn't stay to watch, I'd seen enough. Family time is great, but ballet, soccer and trips to the museum offer family time without the possible brain damage, even if they don't assure children will be spared psychological scaring.

The Vendy's

A little behind the times, I'm here to talk about the Vendy's. What are the Vendy's you ask? The award festival devoted to New York street carts and their food. Simply put, it's foodie heaven.

Under a beautiful, clear September sky, warm yet crisp like only September can be, 18 marvelous food carts and a few hundred eager food fans gathered on Governors Island. Sold out for weeks ahead of time, the Vendy's were accessible only by ferry, as they were situated on a small speck of land just south of Manhattan which has been a fort, a rallying point for class revolution and a prison. Once inside the gates, all the food from all the carts, as well as all the beer, wine, soda and water you could drink was gratis for 4 hours of Epicurean enjoyment. I believe everyone left heavier than they came.

The award categories were divided into 3 groups: Rookie of the Year, Desert and the Main Event. Each category had 5 nominees, with 3 extra 'guest' carts up from Philadelphia. There was a panel of expert judges, who decided who went home with the 'Vendy Cup' (yes, it's a real trophy and I can assure you it is very, very coveted by those in the industry), yet there was also a 'people's choice category on which the public voted. I'm both proud and ashamed to say I tried 16 of the 18 carts, but at least that made my vote well informed.

The Rookie Carts were, as newcomers are known to be, unpredictable. 2 of the carts were vegetarian/vegan. Shockingly, neither had a line, which isn't to say they weren't good. They were good... for vegan food, but if that isn't a backhanded compliment, then New Jersey isn't a hip place for squares. Also in category was a Taiwanese Dumpling Truck, but it didn't resonate with me. Then again, I'll admit to being a bit more snobbish about my dumplings than other laowai (or 'old outsiders' for you foreign devils). Of course there were good rookies too, like the bbq Mexican cart and Greek soulvaki truck, who won the category. These carts added nice variety, but I don't know how many will be invited back after if they have to compete with the big boys.

The main event featured 5 carts with food from five styles: Mexican, Greek, Moroccan, Venezuelan and Austrian. I'd had the Austrian style Schnitzel cart before, and I adore it. Everyone does. Schnitzel with a side of warm potato salad and a beet and feta salad? Sign me up. Yet having had them before, I felt greater need to try the other offerings. The Moroccan truck served up a chilled mixed berry soup, which was the best thing I tasted all day (and won them my vote). The Venezuelan truck had a slow-cooked pork in a fried tortilla offering, and frankly I worry about anyone whose heart doesn't go pitter-patter when the words 'slow-cooked pork' are mentioned. Then again, I'm worry about the ability of people's hearts to continue pitter-pattering when that cones up too often. The Mexican truck was either too bland or spicy for my tastes, which brings us to the Greek truck. I had passed on the King of Falafel most of the day, because Greek style street carts are a dime a dozen (or 5 bucks for a platter) in the city. By the time I tried it, all I had was a spicy, but overly unimpressive falafel. Maybe I was too full when I ate it. Maybe I ordered the wrong thing. Whatever it was, I didn't seem to agree with both the judges or the people, who both voted them champs. I guess there is no accounting for taste.

Now, the Desert category, is always to everyone's taste. With 2 ice cream offerings, a slushy offering and an asian delight. The winner, a high end slushy cart with gourmet flavorings had a line over 75 people long! The line at 'The Big Gay Ice Cream Truck' was nearly as long, but I couldn't stomach waiting for a full cone of soft serve ice cream, even if the toppings were brilliantly unique (wasabi dust or mulled strawberry compote). The Asian Dragon Beard Candy was a nice change; they pulled palm sugar until it was like a recently torn apart silk cocoon, then wrapped it around a spoonful of peanuts and coconut. Most unique taste thing I ate all day, and delicious to boot! Getting my vote for king of desserts was Guerrilla Ice Cream for one reason – they made a chocolate ice cream I loved. Not being a chocolate ice cream fan, I couldn't resist the %72 cocao with port wine flavored ice cream topped with cashews and a bruleed banana. Strangely I wasn't super-fussed by their lemongrass-ginger ice cream topped with coconut shavings and disliked the massala chai ice cream topped with candied fennel seeds. Yet the chocolate ice cream was so good it carried the day. Actually all the deserts carried the day. Then again, they usually do.

If I could have one do over it would be this – I had to go alone, but if ever there was a social event, this is it. Next year I want to bring 3 friends and a blanket. Nobody should eat a full portion of all the food they serve, it should be shared with friends, relaxing on a blanket on a beautiful day with a glass of wine or beer. The event is perfect. The food is perfect. Now I just need to bring some friends. Any volunteers?

Signs

The average Chinese person sees 10 times more advertisements than the average American. Or maybe it was the Japanese see more. Either way, as much as we think we're an ad based culture, we pale in comparison to our eastern brothers, who refuse to let vacant wall space go unsold. Maybe its because Americans are more concerned with a uniform sense of aesthetics, or we feel more strongly about where ads should and shouldn't go, or maybe we're just not as creative at coming up with ways to advertise, but the result is that our culture is less 'in-your-face' with product promotion than other cultures (believe it or not). Ne w York, however, may be the exception, or as close as we have to one. We all know that if capitalism had an address, it would be somewhere in New York, so its no wonder that the city of business is full of advertisements.

Midtown beats you over the head with advertisements. I remember from my earliest trips to New York being amazed at the glitz, the glamor and the ubiquity of dazzling, flashing billboards. Times Square is the root of a vine of billboards, stretching down every street and avenue in the area. Every surface reminds you to buy, drink, and watch.

Mostly watch. I've been surprised by how many of the billboards are for entertainment. The area above the Broadway Ticket office is covered with signs for every show with a curtain, usually promising a 'foot stomping good time', 'an unforgeable experience' or a show 'not quite as good as the movie'. Then over there are a collection of ABC screens, which makes sense because it is their flagship location for Good Morning America. Then there are signs for NBC. For the baseball post season on TBS, for HBO's Dexter, for Nurse Betty, for channels I haven't even heard of. What is it about Times Square that makes for such good TV advertising?

Near my office are two massive billboards which in the past 4 months have shown nothing but TV and movie advertisements, yet have rotated every 3 weeks or so. That isn't even the impressive part. What's most amazing is that they take down the advertisement a week before the movie is actually released. They don't wait until the movie is out to move on to the next big thing, they're already pushing the next big thing before they even had a big thing in the first place. The spot hosted ads for The Sorcerer Apprentice, Charlie St. Cloud, Scott Pilgrim, Devil, and most recently The Event, which I need to give some credit to for actually still being up when the show premiered, unlike the other names on the list.

The Event advertising has been memorable in other ways. Last week as I walked through the square, I noticed a man in a white shirt and black tie on a soap box shouting warnings of the end of the world, or so I thought. As I got closer, I realized he was simply warning everyone of 'The Event, on Monday Night.' I felt cheated, that New York now needed to pay people to act crazy, rather than utilize its ample supply of naturally crazy citizens. In the end NBC had the last laugh, I watched the first half of the show Monday, before realizing I just didn't care. Score that one for the advertisers. Thank goodness they're not 10 times more powerful than they already are.

A Glimpse

I don't live in New York. I work there, and I try to see what I can, but I don't live in New York, not even in spirit. A fact most plainly exemplified by the reactions of New Yorkers upon learning where I live: either their eyes open wide and their mouths form donuts in shock at how far away I live, or they continue to look dumbfounded, unsure where Edison, NJ even is. This past weekend, I caught a glimpse of how the other half, the true New Yorkers live, and it has allowed me to dream.

Coming in Saturday just after lunch, I met some college friends visiting the city for the weekend. We rented bikes and coasted along the Hudson, riding from 56th st all the way to The Battery. We passed cruise ships and air craft carriers, party piers and parks. To our left whizzed landmark after landmark. First the Empire State Building, next the Chelsea Highline, then the World Trade Center sight. Finally Lady Liberty came into view, and if we'd continued, we'd have seen the Brooklyn Bridge. Quite a nice day, but hardly the part that makes me jealous.
We returned to a friends apartment on the upper east side, blocks from the subway, but miles closer than I am. From there we walked around the corner to a BBQ shop for dinner, which is rumored to be owned by Justin Timberlake himself (he wasn't there, so I couldn't ask him). Completing our dinner, we hoped in a cap, whipped through Central Park to Hell's Kitchen, and another friends apartment, for drinks and a visit to a hip basement bar nearby. I eventually retreated to the safety and comfort of my own bed in the suburbs, but couldn't help feel jealous of people who could walk to and from work without needing a 60 gallon pack.

First thing the next morning I was back on the train into the city, meeting other friends for brunch by Union Square. On the walk from Penn Station to the restaurant, I stumbled upon a great Tea Store, a delicious looking Fried Chicken Joint, a hip Plate and Glassware store, a public exhibition of sculptures by leading architects, and the colorful characters of the lower fashion district. Although I had to return home after brunch, others went to a beer garden in Queens. A Beer garden in New York, is there anything this city doesn't have? And that's just what I found in a few hours before lunch!

Yet the largest draw is likely the people. Everyone dreams of visiting New York. People from other countries come here, my Irish cousins came here, my Spanish exchange student in High School came here, my girlfriends classmates from Australia came here. New York is where the action is. It's happening, its where people want to be.

New Jersey is not. Nobody wants to go to Jersey. If it wasn't for my lovely girlfriend and my comfortable apartment (both of which could someday move to the city) I wouldn't want to go to Jersey. Thankfully my girlfriends company (coupled with Netflix and a Wii) make life good. Just not as exciting as New York. So for now, I'll have to make do with the glimpses that I get,

Trains

Commuting Sucks. It has since Joseph returned to Bethlehem, since Frodo brought the Ring back to Mordor, since Dick van Dyke swept Chimneys. And it still does. But that is not to say that all commutes are equally bad. Based on length of time, distance and method, some commutes at times seem a gift! Though my commute is an untantilizing hour and a half long – its better than it could be!

When I first came to New Jersey, my commute was by bus. Depending on your take, you could say commuting by bus is like (a) a box of chocolates or (b) russian roulette – you never know what you're going to get. Some days the commute is swift, and quick, other days a well placed fender bender can back traffic up for miles. Admittedly on the bus, I didn't really care because I was seated, warm, etc. It's just annoying to not know when you would actually get to work, and how late you'd be. I believe most people would agree consistency is a good thing with a commute, which makes the bus far from ideal. Yet I will give credit where its due; the bus could be faster than the train, and I am personally enamored with the Port Authority Bus Terminal, but thats a different post. Thats as much credit as I'm willing to give. The train is way better.
Every morning I wake up, walk to the train, which takes me into the city before completing my commute to the office. We live a leisurely 10 minute stroll from the train station, or a diligent 8 minute walk, or a desperate 5 minute sprint. The goal is to arrive at the station at exactly the same time as the train. There are 3 trains which come within 10 minutes of each other each morning. I aim for the second because its less crowded (the early birds catch the first one, the sleepy heads catch the last). Once we've arrived in New York, everyone stumbles out, and I walk the last 20 blocks to my office. Aside from my obsessive interest in the second train, it isn't actually that unique of a routine.

My interest in the empty second train is not rooted in the fact that I'm anti-social in the morning, which my girlfriend will attest I most certainly am, but in the process of seat selection. I'm extremely particular in the mornings, and not so much in the afternoons. In my mind, the golden seats are the seats on the left side of the front car where there is wall, instead of window. There are only 3 seats that fit this description on any train, so you can see why I prefer the empty train. The advantages are numerous – the front car is closest to the stairs at Penn Station in New York, the left side faces north west, so the sun doesn't shine in my eyes, and the wall-less seats offer better head support for sleeping. See, that's what it's all about. If I've got 50 extra minutes to sleep on the train, suddenly the commute starts to look like a gift! I drag my tired butt out of bed early just to be sure I make that train. It's the height future gratification, cutting bed sleep short for extra train sleep!

In many ways, surviving a commute is about mindset. I try to see the positives, like the extra sleep, the chance to read or write a blog on the ride home in the evenings, the monthly pass which lets me ride in on the weekends for free. Plus now I know when I'm getting into the office. So really, my commute is a gift! I can hear you shaking your head sadly and asking, “but what if you just lived closer and had more time to sleep in your own bed and be at home in the evenings?” And I say I'd rather my cheering section be an optimist – just like Samwise and the Marys.

Ghanan Sellers

Though many-a-traveler seeks to blend in to the scene and appear a local, rarely are tourists success in this task judged as effectively as in Times Square. Seeking to capitalize on the tourists drawn to the shiny heart of the city, not one, but two rival open-air double-decker tour buses have stationed salespeople to cover every possible entry and exit to the square. Surprisingly seasoned, these salespeople are exceedingly efficient at picking out the tourists from the locals. They are, in a sense, professional tourist spotters.

Though initially irritating, these salespeople make up an integral layer of the city in my mind now. Hailing largely from African countries (predominantly Ghana, which I learned during the World Cup), these jobs support what must be a rather extensive immigrant population. They're as much a part of the New York story as any other immigrant class. Plus, once I'd learned who they profiled (and how to avoid it), the realization that they were just trying to make a living like everyone else led me to a peaceful, even jealous, understanding of these men and women who stand around Times Square and pester tourists all day.

As salespeople, they're success hinges on pitching their bus company to those most likely to purchase it, which means tourists. So what do they look for? I've heard tourists from all over the world, from Australians to Oklahomans, exclaim with surprise, “do we really look like tourists?”. And the simple answer is almost always yes. The first tip-off is clothing. At 9am there are 2 types of people in the square, businessmen and women scuttling off to work, and tourists. The businessfolk wear suits, or shirts and slacks at the least. The tourists wear anything else, so just because you're not wearing shorts, sneakers and an Ohio State Jersey, doesn't mean you don't look like a tourist. It's a winless battle for out-of-towners, largely because if you're in Times Square and not going to an office, especially at 9am, you must be a tourist.

The other difference between tourists and non tourists in Times Square is how they interact with their environment. Tourists often have a lost, overwhelmed look about them. They linger longer, without deadline or agenda, free to take in all the blinking signs, characters, landmarks, and buildings which assault the senses on Broadway between 42nd and 48th streets. Most blatantly of all, tourists look up at the buildings. They actually look up and study the buildings. I confess, I do too, they're wondrous and amazing structures which, though they seem sturdy and established as mountains or canyons, didn't exist 100 years ago.

And really, if you can't be labeled a tourist in Times Square, where can you be? Being called out as a tourist isn't all bad. Besides, lots of tourists sign up for these buses and seem to genuinely enjoy them, so everyone wins. Just remember 'locals' wear business attire and don't look at the buildings. I however, encourage everyone to spend time studying the skyscrapers and dazzling signs of Times Square. But if the salespeople catch you looking up at them, and you're not in a suit, you're getting a sales pitch.

Coney Island

Though it's star is faded and it's best days are behind it, Coney Island's legend of thrill rides and cut-loose fun drew me. I've seen the archival footage of the old rides. I've watched the 4th of July hot dog eating competition on TV. The place is as American as apple pie, baseball and... well hot dogs. I had to see it.

What struck me first was what I'd somehow expected least: the vastness of the beach. The stories of the Coney Island Boardwalk surely hint that there must be surf there, yet I wasn't prepared for the sheer size of the beach. Easily 75 yards wide at high tide, the beach stretches a good mile or more down the seashore. The day we visited the masses congregated along the waters edge, which left the beach feeling empty due to the wide empty stretch from the boardwalk to the people, but then quite dense once the towels, umbrellas and coolers were reached. Given the startling lack of shade, and the summer heat, I can't blame everyone for wanting to be in the water.

The best part of this beach, however, is the people watching. Rare is the city with a true beach on its subway lines, or at least a city so big and vibrant as New York. This leaves the sand and boardwalk littered with all shapes, sizes and nationalities of people. You can see hipsters sporting jeans, vests and fedoras laying next to a large hairy New York Italian next to a young Asian couple out sight seeing. Poor and more well off, they're all there, which makes sitting on a bench in the shade even more rewarding.

Of course the beach is great, Coney Islands great boardwalk rides are what made it famous. Retooled with modern games and rides, the waterside parks are still a good time, even if the luster has wained with America's access to rides has increased with mega theme parks like 6 Flags, Bush Gardens and Cedar Point (my favorite). Set up more like a summer carnival than a theme park, the rides are all pay-as-you-ride, so if walking around watching others ride is your thing, it won't cost you a dime, but what's the fun in that? Riding one seemed like a requirement for visiting, and why ride anything but the granddaddy of them all: the rickety wooden roller coaster.

Named the Cyclone, and having been operating for over 75 years, the roller coaster is the oldest ride on the boardwalk still in use, easily the most terrifying. Though less high than modern coasters, even modern wooden ones, the allure of riding such a historic structure seems. Strapped in and climbing to the top of the first hill, there is a sweeping realization that this isn't a slow ride, as the chain clicks double time up the hill, and the sweeping view must be enjoyed because its gone in a blink. At the peak most of the cart puts their hands up for that first hill, then the beating starts. Plunging and twisting down the first hill, the wood, the lack of shoulder support, the gap between knees and the restraining bar give a feeling of falling unlike that on other coasters. Crashing to the bottom of the first hill, then up and around the second, every muscle strains to keep to keep body within the cart, and not somewhere among the broken, abandoned sunglasses below. A few brave souls keep their hands up for the second hill, but by the third hill survival is foremost on everyones minds, and hands stay down, gripping to the safety bar, muttering last minute prayers, begging the roller coaster spare their lives. In a flash, the ride is done, though en route the duration seemed startlingly prolonged. Nothing like unbridled terror to make time slow down. My knees were wobbly afterwards. I loved it.

Really, I quite liked Coney Island. Were it not so far my home, I'd return more often. Sure you could nitpick its negatives: no shade, the 'landmark' discontinued old rides boarder on eyesores for want of paint, the food stores price gouge like you were at a ballpark. The biggest negative surprise is the lack of seaside restaurants and bars to enjoy a cool, shady drink. Yet, the prestige, the outrageous mixing of people, the rides, the atmosphere and the classic food make up for everything (for those scoring at home, we enjoyed hot dogs, corn dogs and a funnel cake). There most certainly are better, more entertaining places to visit in New York, but how bad can a trip to Coney Island be if it's like a day at the beach?