I really miss Jersey Shore

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The other night at the restaurant one of my coworkers said to me, “Hey Rob, check out table six. It’s like Jersey Shore over there,” and I was like, “Huh? What?” and he was like, “Table six. Jersey Shore,” and I did what I always do when I don’t understand something for the second time in a row, I fake a smile, totally pretending that not only did I understand, but I really got it, and I start like nodding in approval, maybe throwing in a convincing fake laugh.

But it bugged me, not getting what he was talking about, so I took a stroll by table six and I saw them, the customers, the giant haircuts, the bronzed skin, the Ed Hardy t-shirts. And I was like, oh, Jersey Shore, GTL, cabs are here, t-shirt time, smush room, Jersey Shore. So I smiled to myself, because I got it, I got what my coworker was talking about. I always like knowing what’s going on, getting people’s jokes. But then I got really sad, because why didn’t I get that joke immediately? Are we that far removed from Jersey Shore already? Since when did Pauly D and the gang become completely irrelevant?

It feels like it was just yesterday, MTV started this new reality show that turned into a cultural phenomenon almost overnight. Everybody was talking about Snooki, about the Situation, about these seven Italian Americans sharing a small house right on the beach. The New York Times, The New Yorker, all of my favorite newspapers and magazines were printing write-ups on the show’s success, examining its impact on our culture, exploring the myriad ways in which this unique group of people liked to party and show off on TV.

They went to the gym. That was something they did. Although the Situation claimed his abs were the highlight of the group’s physical fitness, none of them were really out of shape, and Ronnie was bigger than the Incredible Hulk. They tanned. That was another thing they did. They tanned on the beach, they supplemented their natural vitamin D intake by spending time at tanning salons. They did their laundry, like every day. When they said “fresh to death,” they meant it, like I think it was kind of a threat, a way of saying, if these t-shirts aren’t fresh, we’ll kill you.

And now it’s over. It’s beyond over. The Jersey Shore sensation burnt so bright yet so fast that there’s nothing left. Which is kind of sad. Is this how life gets? You get older, things get cool, but then all of the sudden they’re not cool, and you’re stuck here on your computer, thinking about when it was cool, wondering, is it me? Am I just not getting it?

For a while I thought it was just going to be this never ending ride straight up, getting better and better each season. They went to Jersey. They went to Miami. Back to Jersey. Italy. Holy shit Italy was awesome. Remember that time Sammy punched Ronnie in the face? “Are you friends with her?” “Yes.” Punch. That wasn’t like a frustrated little slap. That was like, I’m looking for a specific answer from you, I’m also conscious of the fact that everything we say and do is being filmed, yet I cannot contain the rage boiling inside, and so I’m going to punch you in the face as hard as I can.

Man, I haven’t thought about Jersey Shore in probably close to a year now. The theme song started playing in my head, “Get crazy, get wild,” but that was it. I think I forgot the rest of the lyrics already. “If you wanna have fun we’ll do something …” was that it? Really?

Are they still technically famous? How long do you have to be out of the public eye to not be considered famous anymore? If Vinnie, or even better, if Angelina were to come into my restaurant, would anybody say anything? Would she say anything? Would she act like a celebrity? Man, that’s got to be tough, to be the focus of such intense public scrutiny, and then like two years later it’s just back to being some regular person.

They’ve got to bring it back. They should do it sooner rather than later. The whole series was never given a chance to rest and mature while it was popular. They were sent from city to city, chasing summers around the globe, unrelenting in their partying. Usually it takes like ten years for a reunion to come up, naturally, organically, but I don’t think we need that with Jersey Shore. It’s been a year, everybody forgot about them, and TV is suffering. The Jersey Shore is trying to bounce back from the hurricane, right? What better way to introduce the comeback than by getting the gang back together?

If not then, guys, does anybody want to hang out sometime? I’m down to party, you know, now that you’re not famous anymore. It’s not weird for me to ask, right? Now that you’re just regular? Let’s do it, I’ll buy some beer, I have Can Jam, that would be fun, right? Guys?

Movie Review: Star Trek: Into Darkness

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What can I say? Star Trek: Into Darkness is a great movie. Sure, I’m totally biased. I love the Star Trek franchise. One of my earliest memories is watching a Next Generation episode when I was four years old. I think I can safely say that I’ve seen every episode of every series in the canon. I’ve read countless lame Star Trek novels. If a madman pun a gun to my wife’s head and said, “Never watch Star Trek ever again, or your wife gets it,” well, sorry babe, but you having to exist with me unable to watch Star Trek, that’s not a life that you’re going to want to live. I’d be doing you a favor.

Having said all of that, I think that I’m even more qualified to judge this film, because my standards for Star Trek are so high. I used to watch brand new Star Trek, or some incarnation of it, every single week from when I was a little kid, with The Next Generation continuing into Deep Space Nine, to Voyager, and then finally to Enterprise. If the powers-that-be are going to make me wait three years for one two-and-a-half hour dose of Trek, it had better be fantastic.

And it is. It’s great. I don’t want to say anything about anything. Do what I did. Don’t read anything about the plot, nothing. If you see a commercial on TV, turn it off. If you’re out and the trailer starts playing on some screen in the background, close your eyes, put your fingers in your ears and start screaming, “I’m not listening! I’m not listening! Lalalalalalaaaa!” Just go see the movie and let the story carry you past light speed, all the way to warp nine point three.

I’m not even exaggerating. Sitting there in the theater watching everything play out, I felt like my circulatory system had been replaced with a series of warp coils, that instead of a heart everything was running on a dilithium-based matter-antimatter reaction. You know that feeling when you see something really cool or moving and you get goose bumps across your entire body? That’s what the whole film was for me. The previews ended, Into Darkness started rolling, and it was just all goose bumps, unrelenting, beginning to end. My skin actually kind of hurts still.

But it was worth it. In fact, I’d sacrifice far more than some mild dermal discomfort to enjoy such a work of brilliance. That’s cheesy, but what else can I call it? It was brilliant. The sound effects alone, how does something at once sound so modern while maintaining its distinctly retro theme? It’s the same with the scenery, the lighting, the tech. It’s how I imagine the future to look like, not like something cooked up from scratch, but a century or two of constant addition to our existing society.

And this movie isn’t just cool, it’s really cool, it’s poignant, it’s relevant. It tackles big issues, without an ounce of subtlety, of course, but that’s what Star Trek has always been about. It’s taking large societal problems and saying something about them with aliens and sci-fi. Like who can forget that original series episode where the two guys are half-black, half-white? It’s the 1960s, so here’s an alien racism themed story.

There’s nothing I can say negative about Into Darkness. My only observation would be that Zachary Quinto, in an effort to channel Mr. Spock, missed the mark slightly and wound up embodying Tuvok, the Vulcan chief of security on Voyager. Anybody with me on that one?

Also, again, go see the movie, but be prepared to sit in a theater full of guys and girls that, based on appearance alone, clearly love Star Trek. (Obviously I’m not talking about me. I was the exception. When I tell people I love Star Trek they’re like, no way Rob, how is that possible? You’re so cool!”)

Finally, and this has nothing to do with the movie, but I got really thirsty right before the previews started rolling, so I snuck out to the concession area to buy a drink. The line was long and the employees don’t get paid enough to do their job fast, so I had to watch the same disinterested routine over and over again.

“Medium soda please.”

“Would you like to buy a large soda for fifty cents extra?”

“No.”

“Six fifty.”

Hands over seven bucks.

“Would you like to donate one dollar to cancer?”

“No.”

Makes change.

“Would you like to donate these two quarters to cancer?”

“No.”

Every single customer, every single time. I have nothing against donating money, whatever. But seriously, why don’t you give a dollar to cancer, Regal Theaters? The movie was like fifteen bucks. You just charged me another seven for a bucket of sugar water. And you want my spare change? You want even more money? Stop harassing me! Call of your dogs! This is extortion!

I got a huge speeding ticket. Thanks a lot Facebook.

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I read this thing online one time, I think it was somebody’s Facebook status, it wasn’t a real status, it was a meme, some picture with text written on top of it, like who knows who came up with it, whoever “liked” or “shared” it on their timeline, it showed up on my newsfeed. It was a picture of a cop, and it said, “If you’re speeding and you see a cop hiding on the side of the road, and it’s too late to slow down, try waving at the officer. He’s more likely not to pull you over.”

So sure enough, I’m driving, months later, not thinking about cops at all, not about cops, not even about driving really, which is dangerous, because my mind wanders when it should be alert, my mind wanders and my foot gets tired and the next thing I know, yup, I’m speeding. And wouldn’t you know it, there’s a cop, a New York State Trooper, hiding out in this little clearing in between trees. He’s got his cop sunglasses on, his giant highway cop hat.

I let off the gas because I don’t want to just do a ridiculous slamming of the brakes. Let’s see if I can’t make this look natural. But I’m going like twenty, twenty-five miles over the speed limit, and as I pass him, yeah I’m not giving it any more gas, but I’m still flying, and I look to my left and this trooper, he’s looking right at me, directly at me, like turning his head as I pass and we make eye contact, he maintains eye contact, and he’s got the radar gun out, and that’s following me too, and I look back to my speedometer, and maybe it’s thirty miles over the speed limit.

So I remember that Facebook thing and I act, quickly, I go to wave to him, but I don’t have the time really to think it through, like what kind of a wave am I going to give him? I’m not going to be like, “Hi! Hello!” all overly enthusiastic. But I don’t want it to be, “Yo. Sup,” either. I shoot for the middle and I wind up doing this weird almost half-salute two-fingered wave. Immediately as I’m doing it I’m thinking, Jesus, what the hell kind of a wave is this?

And the cop must have been thinking the same thing because as soon as I pass, he tears right out of his hiding spot and hits his lights. Getting pulled over is the worst. Sometimes they’ll ride behind you for a little bit, they’ll make you sweat, following you, tailing you for miles, lulling you almost into a false sense of security, like, don’t worry buddy, I’m not going to hit the lights. I’m just going to follow really closely, very, very closely, right on your ass and, guess what? I actually am going to hit the lights. Pull over.

But like I said, this is an immediate hitting of the lights, and so I just know I’m in for it. I’m in the left lane, so I think, do I have to get over to the right lane, pull over to the right shoulder? I put on my right turn signal and wait to change lanes. The cop gets even closer and his car makes a loud siren noise. So I figure, OK, left shoulder it is. I flip on the left turn signal, but the cop does the same thing. So I just slow down, like, OK, I’ll stop right here, but he gets on his loudspeaker and starts saying something at me, but you know how those speakers are, I can’t understand a thing, and I’m still going like fifty.

So I just pull into the left shoulder and stop. The trooper gets out and comes to my window. Every time this happens I always think about how on TV, in the movies, the driver says, line-for-line, “What seems to be the problem officer?” I always consider saying it, but how many people actually say that to a cop in real life? Does it happen like way too much? Maybe it’s a cop’s pet peeve, pulling somebody over, somebody who knows they were speeding, and they roll down the window and they’re like, “Huh? Problem?”

So I don’t say anything. And he just looks at me for a minute and then finally he’s like, “You want to play games? Are you fucking high?” and I’m like, shit, thanks a lot Facebook, and so I try to tell him, “No, officer, sorry it’s just that, I read this thing on Facebook about waving to a cop as you pass by. I’m sorry.”

And he just goes, “License and registration,” so I take out my wallet, I take out my license, I also take out this PBA card, like if you know a cop in real life, they give you this card to show to other cops, maybe they’ll be a little more sympathetic. He sees me go for the PBA card in my wallet, he reaches into the car, takes it, throws it into the woods, far, like he was one of those trick card thrower that you see on TV, like that card’s gone, and he repeats, “License. And. Registration.”

And he gave me a big ticket. Fucking Facebook.

My first piece of IKEA furniture

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I always sit down to write at my kitchen table. I’m having one of those days where I can’t think of anything to write about, and so I’m just kind of staring straight ahead, past my computer, at the wall. I have this piece of IKEA furniture, it’s a big unit, I don’t even know what to call it really, but it’s like five pieces of wood horizontally by five pieces of wood vertically. So the end result is this standalone piece, with sixteen square shelves. Does that make sense?

It was the first adult piece of furniture that my wife and I bought when we moved in together after college. I felt like such a big shot, such an adult, driving to IKEA, spending over a hundred dollars on something that I don’t even know how to describe, hauling it home, assembling it, figuring out where to put it and what to keep on its shelves.

I used to have this really small two-door Hyundai Accent. My wife used to call it Porky; she came up with this because its short and stout shape reminded her of a little pig. Also she loved how much it drove me nuts to hear that nickname in reference to my car. This IKEA unit, even disassembled, had absolutely no chance of fitting in my car, and only after making the purchase and wheeling it out to the parking lot did we both realize that neither one of us had the foresight to consider how we’d actually get this thing home.

But what were we going to do, return it? Come on, I was an adult now. I’d figure this out. It’s a good thing that IKEA gave out free rope so you could tie everything to your car. I laid the flat boxes on top of Porky, rolled down the windows, and started tying. I don’t know about you, but whenever I need to make a really strong not, I just start improvising. I’ve always found the strongest knots to be the ones where you don’t have any plan at all. You just start looping and pulling and twisting. Any structural integrity defects are cancelled out by the fact that I’ve knotted and reknotted like fifty times. There’s no way that rope is going to come loose unless I cut it.

All the while my wife, my girlfriend at the time, she was like, “I don’t know Rob, we should call my dad. I’m not sure about this at all,” and I was just like, “Be quiet. I don’t need anybody’s help. I’m a man now. I just co-bought a piece of IKEA furniture. I’ll do this myself.” Yeah I was a man. I was cohabitating with my girlfriend. So what if I was too scared to tell my parents that we moved in together? So what if I had them drop me off several blocks away from our apartment in a lame attempt to trick them into believing that we were still maintaining separate residences?

“There we go,” I said out loud, putting the finishing touches on my knot, giving the boxes a couple of pushes to simulate any bumps we might hit on the road, “We’re good.” And then I tried to open the car door, and it wouldn’t open, because I didn’t think about the fact that I had strung the boxes on top of the car, looping through both open windows, effectively tying both of the doors shut.

“That’s OK,” I tried to act all casual, “we just have to climb in through the windows.” And before she had a minute to protest, I picked up my future wife and shoved her through the passenger side window. I can’t believe we made it home without a major incident. Those parking lot simulation bumps weren’t even close to matching the bumps on the road. Every time we made a turn, I had to keep my arm out of the window, providing some support to prevent the boxes from sliding right off. I’m telling you, that rope should have snapped.

We left that apartment after a year, disassembled the furniture, moved into a new apartment, reassembled it, disassembled it again when we left for the Peace Corps, and put it back together in our current residence, where I barely give it any thought as I stare right at while I’m writing every single day. Most everything else that we own is some sort of a hand-me-down. The couches and bedroom set were given to us by my aunt. The kitchen table is from my parents. The TV stand is from my wife’s cousin, the coffee table we found on the street. But this cubby-hole shelf thing, that’s ours. We bought it. We’ve hung on to it, haven’t lost any its thousands of screws every time we’ve took it apart and put it back together.

People knock IKEA furniture. It’s cheap, yeah, but this piece has definitely made up for the couple of hundred bucks we dropped on it six years ago. Right now the bottom shelf serves as a liquor cabinet, the upper shelves are where we store all of our dried kitchen goods. On the top level we have all of our photo books, our wedding album, the now-dried bouquet that my wife carried as she walked down the aisle. It’s such a generic piece of contemporary living, and I rarely if ever consider it as it stands up against the wall. But when I do notice it, when it occasionally pops out of the invisible background of my life, I still get that feeling, those first steps into adulthood. And I can’t imagine my home without it.

Boss, I’d like a raise

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A few weeks ago I was getting so fed up at work, I was like, man, I can’t do this anymore, I’ve got to get out. But how do you just leave a job? How do you get out when you don’t have anywhere else to go? So I sat on it for a while, my frustration, my bitterness, everything growing steadily until I couldn’t, like I really couldn’t do it anymore.

So I figured, well, maybe I’ll act like I’m going somewhere else. Maybe if I started going through the motions, then everything would just fall in line, all universal, like the universe, like all of those new age self-help books that I see people reading, about unlocking the secrets of the universe, you’ve got to, like, you’ve got to act on it, and then you’ll get it, right?

So I was like, boss, I need a raise. And he was like, no way, waiters don’t get raises, company policy. And so I was like, fine, well, maybe I’ll find a different company. And he didn’t even look up from his papers, and the tone of his voice didn’t change at all, but I could tell he was annoyed, he was like, fine, go ahead man, good luck out there.

And then I left his office and I was like, shit, that’s not what I was going for, a raise? No, I want out. But then I got in there and, you know how it is when you have to talk to your boss. It doesn’t matter what you had planned out, you get in there, he’s not looking up from his papers, you have to knock on his door even though he’s just sitting there, you see him through the glass just sitting there, like I don’t get what a knock’s going to do differently than if I just open it up.

But still, it’s like, hey Rob, you mind knocking next time? And so I knocked. But was that too gently? Did he hear me? Maybe I should knock again. And I did, and he was like, all right, I’m coming, I can hear you, hold your horses there partner, and he was clearly annoyed.

And then I was like, hey boss, can I ask you something? And he didn’t say anything, so what do I do? I asked about a raise. That wasn’t what I wanted to say, but he was already nodding in disapproval, and I was just thinking, get out now, but I didn’t, I said the whole maybe I’ll find somewhere else to work bit.

So then after work that day I asked my buddy Pete to call up the boss, pretend you’re somebody else Pete, somebody from a different job. Call him to ask about me as a potential employee. And so my boss answered, I was sitting right there, right next to Pete, and he was like, hello? Yes, this is Pete, I mean … Peter. It was already off to a weird start. And he was like, yes, I’m calling about Rob … Robert. For a job. Yes. OK. Nope. Got it. Terrific.

And I said, Pete, what happened? And he was like, nothing. He didn’t say anything. He was just like, yeah, Rob had been mentioning he’d been looking for work. Do you like him? Do you have any questions? And that was it.

Fuck, Pete. Come on, you’re supposed to play some hardball. You’re supposed to be making it, like for my boss, so he’s like, shit, I didn’t think Rob was really going to go, maybe I should give him a raise, screw company policy. Maybe he is serious about leaving. Now I was like, shit, what am I going to do? Do I say anything to my boss?

But my boss didn’t say anything to me. Not for a week. Not for another week. So finally I knocked on his door again. I waited after I knocked, like a minute. Two minutes. I raise my hand to knock again and he was like, all right, come in. I said, hey boss, thanks for putting in the good word for me. And he just kind of nodded.

But you see boss, I think I’m going to stay. I’m a part of the team, right boss? So, yeah, I think I should stay right here. Nothing. So boss, maybe like a little raise? And he was like, I told you already Rob, that’s just not going to happen. And I was like, well, could I maybe have like something? Like a free lunch? A free Coke? And he just nodded, nope, and then held up his hands, like, sorry buddy. But I don’t think he was sorry.

And it’s crazy because I didn’t even want a raise. I didn’t want anything. I just want out. I don’t know why I thought I’d talk to my boss. I should be talking to other bosses, other potential bosses. Not my idiot friend Pete. But come on, not even a free Coke? One free glass bottle of Mexican Coke? That’s total bullshit, because I see the boss giving a free Coke to the grill guy like every other day, definitely every Friday, and he doesn’t even say anything to him, he just kind of tosses it to him, and while it’s still in the air, while it’s perfectly in between both of them, almost suspended at the top of the arc of the throw, they look at each other, they have a little nod and a wink, a really subtle keep up the good work man, we’re all really proud of what you’re doing. Enjoy this ice-cold Coke man, on us, on me, we’re fucking tight you and me, drink up.