An Irish wake: Last call (forever) for Ted & Jo’s

My favorite bar, Ted & Jo’s, officially closed its doors Wednesday, but there was a farewell party for staff and regulars Thursday night.

It was fun, happy, touching, emotionally draining and surreal. But, as always, it was home, for one last time.

These past few days have really felt like one long Irish wake. Everyone has been at the bar laughing, smiling, drinking and telling great stories, but as happy as everyone seemed, you just knew people were heartsick.

And for the record, there is really something wrong with this planet when Ted & Jo’s is gone but Bahama Mama’s lives on.

Among the highlights from the farewell party:

• The Port Authority bagpipes corps were there for most of the night. What a great and fitting touch. All we were missing was Ronan Tynan singing “God Bless America.” “As the storm clouds gather … “

• After all the years of going to T&J’s, I finally got to go behind the bar and pour my own pint of Guinness. It was a lot of fun. I never realized just how narrow the area behind the bar actually is. It’s definitely not meant for fat bodies.

• Speaking of Guinness, my friend and I drank the last two pints of stout ever poured at T&J’s. Talk about bittersweet.

• We (as in the T&J’s community) unfortunately lost one of our friends on 9/11. I didn’t know him as well as some of my friends did, but I always have good memories of him and it’s easy to see what a quality person he was by the effect his loss had on everyone who knew him. I spent a good deal of time talking with his sister last night and met his parents for the first time. The fact that his family has gone out of their way to stay in touch with old friends for more than six years was really touching and just shows the kind of atmosphere that existed at T&J’s.

• Gerry, the owner, gave a very emotional farewell speech that this keyboard couldn’t even remotely do justice to. It marked yet another example of why T&J’s was so much more than a bar/restaurant to just about everyone involved.

• Newly appointed town crier Pat Fitzgibbons read the lyrics to a traditional Irish song that was perfect for the occasion, “The Parting Glass.” I included the lyrics at the end of this post. I honestly don’t know how he got through it without cracking. I couldn’t have done it.

• There was a big sign behind the bar that said, simply, “Thank you Hoboken, thank you.”

• I won’t even attempt to list them, because I’m bound to leave somebody out, but between the last “official” night Wednesday and the party last night, I saw so many old friends and familiar faces who don’t make it to T&J’s as much as they used to, but who came out for one last visit. It added happiness to a sad occasion.

One of the things Gerry said last night is a perfect way to close this chapter. In speaking about the family-like atmosphere of T&J’s, I can’t remember exactly how he phrased it, but he basically said that if you were there last night, you “got it.” All of the people who have said things like, “It’s just a bar,” “There are plenty of bars in Hoboken” and “You’ll find another place to drink” just don’t get it. There will never be another place like Ted & Jo’s and, even if something similar opens, with some of the same people, it just won’t be the same.

Farewell, my favorite bar. Here are the words to “The Parting Glass”:

Oh all the money that e’er I had, I spent it in good company
And all the harm that e’er I’ve done, alas, it was to none but me
And all I’ve done for want of wit to memory now I can’t recall
So fill to me the parting glass, good night and joy be with you all

Oh all the comrades that e’er I’ve had, they are sorry for my going away
And all the sweethearts that e’er I’ve had, they would wish me one more day to stay
But since it falls unto my lot that I should rise and you should not
I’ll gently rise and I’ll softly call good night and joy be with you all

If I had money enough to spend and leisure time to sit awhile
There is a fair maid in this town that sorely has my heart beguiled
Her rosy cheeks and ruby lips I own, she has my heart enthralled
So fill to me the parting glass, good night and joy be with you all

My dearest dear, the time draws near when here no longer can I stay
There’s not a comrade I leave behind, but is grieving for my going away
But since it has so ordered been what is once past can’t be recalled
Now fill to me the parting glass, good night and joy be with you all

If I had money for to spend, If I had time to waste away
There is a fair maid in this town, I feign would while her heart away
With her rosy cheeks and dimpled chin, my heart she has beguiled awa’
So fill to me the parting glass, good night and joy be with you all

If I had money for to spend, I would spend it in her company
And all the harm that I have done, I hope it’s pardoned I will be
And all I’ve done for want of it to memory I can’t recall
So fill to me the parting glass, good night and joy be with you all

A man may drink and not be drunk, a man may fight and not be slain
A man may court a pretty girl and perhaps be welcomed back again
But since it has so ordered been by a time to rise and a time to fall
Come fill to me the parting glass, good night and joy be with you all

Farewell, Ted & Jo’s Oak Bar

It’s not too often I hear, “Last call!” on a Wednesday night these days, but I have a very strong feeling that will occur next Wednesday.

My living room is closing.

I was slogging through another unfulfilling, unrewarding day in cubicle hell Wednesday when one of my best friends called with the bad news that Ted & Jo’s, our favorite bar, is closing its doors after Wednesday, March 26. The landlord apparently asked for an exorbitant rent increase, and meeting it wouldn’t have made business sense. After all, as much as I adore the place, it’s still a business.

I’ve lived in Hoboken for seven-and-a-half years and actually started going to T&J’s even before that, when I still lived in Manhattan. It’s been more than a place to eat and drink: It’s been a combination of family, home and comfort. Sure, Hoboken has loads of other bars, but I just can’t see getting the same warm feeling from any of them that I get the second I walk through the doors of T&J’s.

And I thought the closing of the deli near my office left a void. They don’t even remotely compare.

I’ve known for about 48 hours now, and I’m still stunned. The idea that I’ll never be able to tell people to just meet at T&J’s is unfathomable, as is the idea that I’ll never walk in, hang my jacket and see my pint of Guinness already being poured.

I also can’t believe I’ll never repeat this scenario: Sitting at the bar, waiting for a perpetually tardy friend of mine who said she’d be there around 9, then receiving a panicked phone call just before 10 (when the kitchen closes) and ordering a Balsamic chicken and house salad for her just under the wire, only to have her fly in at 10:25, wearing a hat that could occupy a parking spot, dump everything on one plate and scarf it down. If you know who I’m talking about, I’d say my play-by-play call was pretty accurate.

Yet one more scenario I’ll actually miss: trying to watch a game and having a certain bartender who likes to occasionally wager a dollar or two (or several) ask me to look out for the score of some obscure college basketball game. “No, I have no idea who won the Furman-Austin Peay game. What was the spread?”

Oh, what the hell? While I’m picking on the bartenders, I’ll miss the history teacher who couldn’t explain how World War I started, too!

One of the things I’ve always liked about T&J’s is that its atmosphere matured at the same rate I did. Naturally, I use the term “matured” in a very loose manner.

But when I first started going, around nine years ago, what looks like your nice, quiet establishment certainly had its wild moments, usually on Thursday nights.

Those of you who know T&J’s as quiet and sedate weren’t there for the days of escapades including bartenders wearing no pants under their aprons (didn’t do much for me, but the chicks dug it), blow-job shots (whipped cream piled high on strawberries, no hands allowed) that led to marriage proposals, red-thong night, commando night, bartenders humping the bar and Lord knows what else I was too drunk to remember.

It’s definitely a mellower establishment now. But I’m more relaxed, too. I’m past the days of needing to pound drinks and yell all night, although I still have my moments — last Saturday, for example, when I held an impromptu Iron Maiden concert accompanying the new digital jukebox.

But T&J’s has a great owner, a great staff and a great crowd of regulars. What more can you ask for in a bar?

It was home. And it will remain home, if only for the next few days.

It’s sad. My first home bar, from even before my freshman year at NYU, was The Dugout, on Third Avenue and 13th Street in Manhattan. The Dugout was an utter and complete dive, but I was 18, they didn’t card, and frozen mugs of Meister Brau were $0.75. I always thought I’d bring my kids to The Dugout for a beer. Sadly, while still a bar, The Dugout is no more. Several years ago, its absentee owner decided to sell and gave the staff — and, by extension, the loyal patrons — about 36 hours’ notice to pound our last frosted mugs.

I also always thought I’d bring my kids to games in my seats at Yankee Stadium, which I’ve had since 1997. But that’s not going to happen unless I adopt some really quickly, and I don’t think my cats or my roommate would be too thrilled with that, nor have I discussed it with my girlfriend. This is the last year for my beloved ballpark, and God only knows what kind of prohibitive price increases are in store when the new Yankee Stadium opens next season. Frankly, I’ll be stunned if I get to keep my tickets. And even if I do, it won’t be the same as box 611. Hell, even if the new Stadium has a box 611 and I end up sitting there, it won’t be the same as box 611.

And now, yet another place I always thought my kids would experience with me is days from being just a memory — well, a plethora of great memories, but still.

It’s obviously more than just a bar to me. I met my girlfriend there. I’ve made several friends through the years who I’d never have met if it wasn’t for T&J’s. It’s been our headquarters for meeting potential new people for our beach house. Everyone’s birthday celebration ends up at T&J’s at some point. It was my headquarters for several Hoboken St. Patrick’s Day celebrations (and far too many Irish Car Bombs). It was the place many of us went to seek solace, refuge, news, comfort and companionship after 9/11 (rest in peace, George).

It was home. And not being able to go home next weekend, or the weekend after that, and so on, truly sucks.

It was a great run. Thanks for everything, Gerry.

Driving Miss Hazy

Battling a congestion attack from hell and a raging hangover, I spent all day Sunday — 10 a.m.-5:20 p.m. — in a conference room for a defensive-driving class. Some people take these to knock points off their license, but for those with clean records, like yours truly, it represents a decent savings on car insurance.

I’m not sure it was worth it.

The first mistake I made was letting my bargain-hunter aunt talk me into taking a class she found for $10, rather than the $50 one I’d taken twice before. As the old saying goes, you get what you pay for.

Why was the class $10? It was run by AARP. Yes, I know, I just turned 40, but you can keep your wise-assed jokes to yourself.

In the interest of full disclosure, here is where I have to admit: I have absolutely no patience for old people. I know that sounds cruel and mean, but it’s not as bad as it seems. I never let the old people know how much they’re driving me up the wall when they do things like take 25 minutes to order food or make a day trip out of walking down the subway stairs. I hear you saying, “You’ll be old someday, too,” and I realize this is true. But I can’t help it. New Yorkers aren’t predisposed to have patience. It is what it is.

So being in a room full of them all day, sick and hung over, was a bad, bad combination.

The class was scheduled for 10 a.m.-6 p.m., but it never takes up the allotted time. We could have been out of that room by 4 p.m. if it wasn’t for some of the stupid questions and discussions.

There was one woman who couldn’t understand the difference between “right of way” and “right,” as in right or left.

A segment about backing up somehow evolved into a 10-minute discussion about going to the mall and looking for open spots that were parallel to each other, so you can pull right in forward and not have to either back in or out, but naturally, those are hard to find near the stores, so you have to decide if you want to walk far or not.

Kill me now. Seriously, just pull the trigger.

And just to push me completely over the edge, just as the instructor was about to wrap up this day from hell, two women had to ask inane, moronic questions about insurance. I guess waiting for the class to end, then asking the instructor privately, was too advanced of a concept to grasp.

I want those seven hours and 20 minutes of my life back. Seriously.

Quick update on pothole of doom

I just called the mechanic to check on what’s left of my car. He said it’s ready, but asked if I could give him an hour to prepare the bill.

One hour to prepare a bill? My inner voice is saying, “Be afraid … be VERY afraid.”

No good can possibly come of this.

UPDATE: $530.85. Shoot me now.

Pothole of doom

For my 40th birthday, I was lucky enough to be honored with an incredibly well-planned surprise party and some far-too-generous gifts.

For my 40th birthday, I also got a present from the city of Hoboken and its road-maintenance crew (or lack thereof): a meeting with a pothole that has now cost me nearly $900, and counting.

For those who know Hoboken — and if you know Hoboken, you know this pothole — the offending crater can be found by taking Observer Highway out of town toward the Exxon station, the New Jersey Turnpike and 1/9. It’s underneath the railroad bridge, just after you make the left turn. For those who don’t know Hoboken, feel free to tell me to shut the fuck up.

I hit the pothole hard — and I DO mean HARD — the afternoon of Feb. 23. The impact was unlike anything I’d felt in a long time. One of my front tires was completely flat in seconds, more than likely after one or two revolutions.

After a little over $300 and some work that I needed done anyway — two new tires, rotating and balancing, oil change — I had a car again.

That lasted about two weeks.

During the far-from-strenuous eight-mile drive back from the Izod Center last night — Nets 104, Cleveland 99, HOLLA! — I realized that the needle on the oil-temperature gauge was WELL past the red line. Nervous as all hell, I took the rest of the trip home at a very easy pace. About two blocks from my apartment, smoke started coming out from under the hood, but I was able to cruise the last two blocks, park in my spot and wait a full 10 minutes after turning the car off for the exhaust fans to turn off, as well.

What’s the bottom line? A new radiator, a new radiator cap, two new hoses and a little more than $500 on my Visa card — exactly what I did NOT need right now.

My head hurts, possibly even more than my checking-account balance.

Best ad placement EVER

I don’t know if this was a case of brilliant marketing and insight, or a case of dumb luck, but however this happened, I tip my hat.

Obviously, the lead story in the New York Post was about now ex-New York Gov. Eliot Spitzer and the $80,000 or so he contributed to the economy — the economy of the evening, anyway.

Displayed very prominently on the bottom, left-hand corner of page two (the host page for the lead story) was a picture of a bright red high-heeled shoe, made by 5F and sold at Bergdorf Goodman for $325.

I mean, could you ASK for better placement?

While it’s true that page two is prime real estate no matter what’s going on, the picture of that shoe stood out prominently in a story about a prostitution ring and a disgraced politician.

So, to the people responsible for placing the ad: If it was intentional, I salute you, and if it was dumb luck, can I join you on a trip to Atlantic City or Vegas?

Eliot Spitzer … where do I start?

A fucking steamroller, indeed.

Did (soon-to-be-former) New York Gov. Eliot Spitzer forget what year this is? I mean, seriously.

The days of the Secret Service sneaking Marilyn Monroe into JFK’s hotel room are long gone. Even when the object of the politician’s affections is already in the building, the odds of getting caught are still way too high. Ask Bill Clinton.

And it’s not just politicians. The days of married athletes being open about sleeping around are long gone, too. The press used to ignore the exploits of Babe Ruth and Mickey Mantle. Ask Alex Rodriguez if that policy’s still in effect.

In the year 2008, a cell phone with a camera makes you a journalist. Whether you think this is a good thing or not, it’s fact.

Back to our friend, Eliot: You’re the governor of New York State, and you call and order up a prostitute? Are you kidding me?

And not just any prostitute: Client-9 (NO relation to 9nine9), as Mr. Steamroller was referred to, has expensive taste. The establishment he conducted the transaction with, the Emperors Club, apparently has some talent on its roster that goes for $5,500 per hour.

I really try to keep my blog clean, save for the occasional F-bomb. But my mind is red-lining while trying to figure out exactly what you get for $5,500 per hour. I’ll stop now before I get myself in trouble.

I feel bad for Spitzer’s wife, although the thought that she’ll probably never have to work another day in her life definitely cushions the blow (pun intended). But their three daughters — I can’t even begin to think about what they’ll go through. They are the tragic figures in this story.

Spitzer said he acted “in a way that violates my obligations to my family, that violates my or any sense of right and wrong.”

Gee … ya THINK?

Daylight Savings Time

The difference in my mood when I leave work and it’s still daylight out, versus when I leave work and it’s already dark, is pretty substantial.

Listing places I’d rather be besides my office would take up too much server space. It’s much easier to list places that make me appreciate the office: prison, the dentist, the hospital, a techno club, Hell, Iraq, Afghanistan and Boston. I probably left out a few, but you get the picture.

Yet today, despite a fairly draining day, when I left the office and saw the sun, it definitely helped my mood. My mood was still foul, but it was probably downgraded to yellow-alert foul from red-alert foul. I’m not sure there’s a color in the spectrum to describe last week’s level of foul.

A lot of people complained when they moved Daylight Savings Time to an earlier date. I embrace it. To whoever was responsible for the decision, thank you.

NBA officiating: And they call wrestling fake?

The referees in the National Basketball Association have become a complete joke, and this has nothing to do with the Tim Donaghy gambling scandal.

Favoritism toward the more popular players and teams has always, unfortunately, been a part of the game, but it’s getting worse and worse.

In the interest of full disclosure, I’ve had season tickets to the New Jersey Nets since the early 1990s. The Nets have never been a popular team, and Jason Kidd, traded to the Dallas Mavericks a couple of weeks ago, was really the only marquee player the franchise has had since the days of the ABA, the red-white-and-blue basketball, huge afros, the New York Nets and Dr. J, Julius Erving.

So am I bitter? Yes.

But think about it: Did Michael Jordan really need the benefit of the doubt on every single call to drop 50 on any given night? The great players don’t need the extra help. They can dominate the game on their own.

All I ask (and I know this is sheer fantasy) is for them to ignore the jerseys and uniform numbers and just call the game. If a foul is committed, call the foul. If there’s no contact, swallow the whistle.

If a player with five fouls clobbers someone in the lane, don’t ignore it or call the foul on a nearby player just to keep the offender in the game. A foul is a foul, period. Make the call based on what actually happened.

The defense I hear most often: “People pay good money to see Player X play. We can’t have Player X fouling out.” Well then, tell Player X not to maim people in the lane six times, and he can finish the game.

The money doled out by fans is also used as another sorry-assed excuse for why superstars get every single call, including many complete non-fouls that should never have been called at all. “People scalped tickets for $1,000 to see Michael Jordan play.” Maybe so, but did they pay $1,000 to see him soar through the lane between two people and slam one home, or to see him standing at the free-throw line?

And why should the home team get the benefit on calls? Home-court advantage refers to having the fans on your side, looking into a familiar shooting background and being comfortable in your environment. Home-court advantage should not mean getting the benefit of the doubt on every call and being on the right side of ticky-tack foul calls.

Am I asking that much? Call what you see, regardless of who’s involved, and let the players decide the game.

With some of the calls I’ve seen this season, Tim Donaghy being gone isn’t really making much of a difference.

Pet peeve on pet names

While working from home and listening to the snores and yawns of my two cats, Trouble and 8-Ball, I had to laugh at one of my pet peeves: people who use boring, unoriginal, “human names” for their pets.

There are exceptions, naturally. If the pet bears an uncanny resemblance to a person, I can live with it. I wanted to name 8-Ball either Jemima or Oprah, but I got screamed at too much. I hate politically correct people.

Or if you’re honoring someone by naming the pet after them, I can accept that.

Sometimes an animal just looks like a certain name. I know a dog that just looks like a George, so I have no problem with his name being George.

Show dogs crack me up, though. I mean, can someone explain how they came up with Charles Winston Fox Kramer IV for a Bassett Hound?

I don’t know her personally — hell, I don’t even know her name — but a fellow Hoboken resident and the writer of a blog I enjoy reading, Across the Hudson, follows the KISS (keep it simple, stupid) theory to its most optimum. Her dog’s name? Mutt. I love it. The dog is just plain adorable, too.

It’s not that hard to come up with a fun name. Why is Trouble named Trouble? Because every time I turned around, she was causing it. Why is 8-Ball named 8-Ball? Because she’s round and black. I could have named them Constance and Felicity, but why?

They’re pets, people. Have some fun!