It seemed like a perfectly good idea at the time. One of the biggest drunkfests of the year for the Irish and wannabe-Irish alike is the St. Patrick’s Day Parade in Hoboken. I’m Irish. I like booze. I was free Saturday. I was willing to put aside the fact that people in New Jersey clearly don’t know how to read a calendar. I regretted this.
It was a beautiful day in Manhattan – sunny and 60 degrees. The weather motivated me and a few friends to jump on the PATH with visions of Guinness jigging in our heads. Things pretty much went downhill from there.
You can see Hoboken from Manhattan. Yet when we got to the street level from the PATH, we were shocked by the cold. It was about 15 degrees colder in Hoboken, and it was cloudy to boot. This was not a good start.
The city of Hoboken was pretty much a police state by the time we arrived. The SWAT team was stationed out on the street, ready to collect drunkards and toss them in the tank. Cops were writing tickets for open containers left and right, much to the amusement of our sober selves, who laughed at one cop’s exchange with a drunk:
Drunk Girl: How much is this ticket going to cost?
Cop: A lot.
Drunk Girl: How much is that?
Cop: Uh, a million, billion dollars.
Little did we know that we were about to be bilked ourselves.
As we started to walk further into town, we realized that essentially, McFaddens had left Midtown Manhattan to vomit all over Hoboken. McFaddens is full of drunken fresh-out-of-college fratboys and their slutty female counterparts. Hoboken did not have a single visitor over the age of 23, unless they were carrying a police badge or bagpipes.
McFaddens has an inexplicably long line with obnoxious drunks on cell phones at all hours of the night. Every bar in Hoboken had a line that was at least 30 people deep. I saw one line that stretched down an entire block. There is no way that any bar in Hoboken is worth that much of a wait.
McFaddens charges a cover to get into a bar that has nothing special to offer, and everything pretty much sucks ass. Virtually every bar in Hoboken was charging a cover on Saturday. Not one that we passed in our hour of walking was charging less than $20. In fact, one bar was charging a $40 cover.
Me: $40? What does that get you?
Guy Smoking Outside the Bar: Uh, it gets you in.
Me: Is there, like, a band playing or anything?
Guy Smoking Outside the Bar: Nah, bro.
Me: Do we get open bar or something?
Guy Smoking Outside the Bar: Nope.
Me: Cheap beer?
Guy Smoking Outside the Bar: Nah.
Me: Then, uh, why did you come here?
These poor, gullible kids. I think next year, I should buy a couple 12 packs, hold them over my head, and run past the long lines shouting, “FOLLOW ME TO FREEDOM!” I would then run into the PATH station and go back to Manhattan. On second thought, this might not be a good idea – people who are willing to pay $40 to get into a bar in Hoboken should just stay in New Jersey.
Not willing to fork over that much money to go to a shitty bar in Jersey, we decided to turn around and go home, dejected and sober. But not before seeing two drunk girls in a gutter climbing over each other to try to get up, getting sideswiped by a drunk guy who was seemingly running away from the authorities, and seeing a fratguy puke onto the side of a building. Over the course of our two hours in Hoboken, the sidewalks had turned from a sea of green to a sea of vomit. After seeing all that, all I wanted to do was poke my own eyes out.
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