Staten Island, Baby

(Cutie Calamity, truth in advertising.)

SMUT/The Challenged/The Wheezing Stumblers//The Real McCoy//9/22/03

OK, 1 more thing that was awesome about the Continental: It was right there. Totally accessible. (Yeah, I’d started writing this mentally, before the whole trip ever happened. Because I guess I just knew. . . . And, also, it doesn’t pay to procrastinate/be busy, because this whole episode sounds incredibly dumb/silly months after the fact.) I could’ve taken 1 train to get there and back, if I wasn’t antsy about going local. That’s how I got back from early sets. I could’ve gone local thru Queens, gotten the 4 or 5 at 59/Lex and down 1 stop on the 6. You never had to take a bunch of trains to a bus that ended up going on the LIE thru the nabe you started out from. You also, definitely, never had to take a freaking boat to get there.

I don’t know why I decided to go there in the 1st place. I guess this just goes to show you that I’m nuts. I’m sure you must’ve thought that about me to begin with. Well, yep, you’re right. Good guess. Yes, SMUT is good. Yes, The Challenged is good. Yes, the gig is in Staten Island. Yes, Blackout Shoppers was playing in Williamsburg. Maybe it was the hand-drawn flier from The Wheezing Stumblers, with all the logos drawn on a sheet of loose leaf paper. Maybe it was the fact that this Bay St. looked totally accessible from the ferry when I Mapquested it. Maybe it was the fact that the show was on a Friday, in late September—and not late December, January, or Feb. on a weeknight. Maybe it was the fact that you had to take a boat there. Maybe it was the fact that, in light of how few opportunities there are to do something stupid like this, maybe I just had to go for it.

Yes, I almost went to that Jersey gig with the Shoppers when their email said to meet them at the Port Authority. Turns out that they missed their stop and had to get taxis to bail themselves out and got screwed royally, so it’s a good thing I didn’t go. Yes, if World War IX ever play New Paltz, I’m there—unless they play den-of-skank Joe’s (where they actually had male revues and a shuttle to take the drunken skanks {known as the Drunk Tank or the Tart Cart} back to campus) and I made it thru my college career without ever stepping foot into that place (or the science building) and I intend to keep that streak up.

Every summer I say that this is the summer I take the ferry one weekend and go exploring. Do something different. After all, it’s free. Every summer except for this one, I said that I was going to take the tram and see what happens. It never happened.

Things went well until I hit the ferry terminal a little after 8:30. Next boat out is 8:4— No, that’s the leave St. George in the AM, weekday hours. Next boat out of NYC in the evening is 9??? The flyer said 9! What is this, boats every half hour? Fuck, even the PATH runs better’n that. Approximately 25 minutes to get there? Oy. OK, 1 extra band was supposed to be added. If I get there to find that SMUT is over, I’ll demand my money back and turn around and go home. But the flier had Wheezing Stumblers, SMUT, and The Challenged, so I assumed bands were listed in reverse order. If I miss The Challenged, so be it. I see SMUT and I go home. (Y’know, maybe that punk site should’ve given ferry info. Or I coulda looked it up. Nah, too much work for a show. I never look stuff like that up. I even considered doing a Citysearch on the place for a website with lineup info. Also work I never do. (Well, most times I never do because I know pretty much everything.) I look around the terminal and figure that I’m the only person going to Staten Island for a punk show. Well, except for the guy in the Rancid jacket and shaved sides of his head who looks familiar. Which is why, even though the Shoppers were playing the American Hardcore premiere, I felt it was important to go to Staten Island. Maybe if they see that people will come to Staten Island to see shows, they’ll book more shows, and book more bands.

I realize that doing shit like this is what gets me labeled as these bands’ biggest fan, (or, in this case, #1 SMUT slut) and the SMUT shirt was pointless, but then again I’m not going all that way to be mistaken for a Bon Jovi fan. Besides, I tell myself that I’m doing important work all in the name of music.

It was kinda windy and I wanted to spend the whole trip outside because I’m never on the ferry, but the wind got to me. 25 minutes? I saw where the boat was headed, and it doesn’t take no 25 minutes to get there. We slowed pretty much to a stop at 9:15, but it took 10 mins. to get the boat positioned and the drawbridge lowered. Then when they opened the gate to let us off the boat, it was like the start of the marathon and I thought I was going to be trampled. OK. Now. This Bay St. I figured its like Railroad Avenues in Long Island—it’s always right there across from the RR station and every town has one. I head out the terminal, checking the area map, and there’s Bay St.! Not too far away! I see bus stops and the signs announcing the routes and bus #s say “via Bay St.” See, I was right. Maybe I should take the bus to Bay St. even though I had no idea where it went and at least I know I’ll be headed in the right direction. But how hard could this be to find? It’s got to be right there, by the bay. (By the bay, by the beautiful bay.)

I crossed the street, past the court bldg., and walked. On the map, Bay St. is on the right, so I head right. Uh, nope. No Bay St. Not even a side street was it. I asked a couple hanging outside a bar that was not The Real McCoy. One vote for “This is Bay Street,” one “I don’t know.” “This is Bay St,” the guy informs me. The street I was on, which did not say Bay St., turns into Bay St. 76 Bay Street? Walk 70 blocks and I’ll hit it.

What?

But I was assured that if I kept walking in the direction I was headed, I’ll get there. 76 Bay St. doesn’t mean walk 70 blocks, I point out, but since these people seemed oblivious to that error and I had no choice, I started off in that direction, thinking I’d get there sooner or later, most likely sooner. The store numbers are getting lower, I tell them, but I am told to keep going and this street turns into Bay St. I walk on, telling myself to just go the fuck home, and I pass a police station. I am told to go in the opposite direction and make a right, which is where Bay St. starts. The street I’m on turns into Bay. So I thank them and head back to where I started from, and see a big sign: Bay St., keep right. Arrow. Well, duh. So I hang a right and keep going and nothing says Bay St. All these side streets, none are Bay St. There’s a side street bar, and I think that’s even the name of it. Why couldn’t they be playing there? I keep going right. Buildings are shut for the night and I should go home. I ask again. Make some lefts to the street I started from (I can’t even remember the name, that’s how stupid this was. St. George Terrace, I think it was) and keep going and it veers right and that’s Bay St. So I go back and follow the street to the end, past the courthouse, follow it as it curves right, and there’s the beginning of Bay St.

SMUT is going on first and therefore no bands have gone on yet so I didn’t miss The Challenged, they tell me when I see them outside smoking and loitering in general when I get there after 9:30. They were surprised I came all that way and all, and I was surprised they thought I’m normal. The Real McCoy is a nice place, and I guess because of international waters and all, the whole “No smoking in bars” thing was not in effect. Someone had Fairytale of New York and Irish Rover on repeat on the juke. The “stage” is this small, raised area alongside booths and had couches and is sectioned off by railings, so there was no room for moshing or anything—or even many band members because the band/equipment part is blocked off by a strip of tube lighting on the floor close to the mic stands to the point that everyone kept kicking it up and I thought someone was going to trip. So I just stood there in the shirt of the band I was there to see, but, again, at least I won’t be mistaken for an Ashlee Simpson fan. Of course they have some good, cool new songs and I’m picturing a crowd and a pit tearing it up, but there’s no room there. The guy at the ferry terminal in the Rancid jacket is the bass player for The Challenged. I’d thought about going up to him and saying hi since we were obviously going in the same direction and could we walk together, but I’m shy. I was rapidly starting to get bleary as The Wheezing Stumblers played. As we leave, I notice that SMUT only had 2 scratches down for them and although I don’t want to point this out because it might make them feel bad, one of those scratches is mine.

At some point it was decided that I was leaving with them, Christine informs me. I told them to just drop me off at the boat on their way out, that that would be easiest. Or drop me & Christine off, and we’ll go back to Queens together. Since she said I was going with them, I assumed we were going to be let off at the boat. Turns out they were going to drop Christine off in Astoria, and since I had to be up early to be at my mom’s later that day, I was to take the E at Steinway and Ripley was going back w/Erinn and her boyfriend, John, who drove. Noodle, their new drummer, and guitarist Dave took off separately. We start off a bit lost and then get stuck in traffic and I found out just how SMUT got their name, as Erinn shouted obscenities at passing cars and gives the finger to lighten the mood. How Christine slept thru all this, I have no idea. At one point Erinn spotted a woman giving the guy driving their car a hand job while stuck in traffic. “Porndar,” Erinn explains. It was classic, we all stopped to look and you could tell that that was exactly what was going on by the way the woman was positioned in the seat, kinda leaning in and she had this earnest expression of, Am I doing this right? I’m a real wild child! I hope the traffic moves so’s I can stop this!

It’s getting late. Erinn says she has no problem with the guys with the jackhammers on the side of the road, it’s the 30 guys who stop and watch that’s the problem. The traffic takes its toll and Erinn curses John out for being too nice and giving everybody rides and letting himself be taken advantage of, John alternated between reminding her that he doesn’t control the traffic and why does he let everyone take advantage of his wheels. Christine was still asleep, I think Ripley fell asleep even, and I’m like, whatever happened to giving me a lift to the ferry?

At some point we find Christine’s nabe and Ripley goes home with her. Christine tells us how to get to the Steinway stop and we get lost. I have no idea where we’re going since I don’t drive, I’m not familiar with the Steinway stop, and Erinn and John don’t know where we’re going, even though he consults a map. Erinn starts getting pissed off and I start feeling embarrassed. I made the decision to go out there in the first place and I should be responsible for getting my own ass home. We get to the Brooklyn-Queens border area and she asks if I could just get on a train. I said sure, but she says she won’t let me take the G. At one point we see an L, but I have no idea where the hell we are and it’s late and I don’t know what type of neighborhood this is. Besides, I would have to hook up with the G. She offers me $20 to take a cab, but since I don’t know where we are or how to get myself home from wherever it is that we are, I have no idea what this would cost me and I didn’t have much $ on me to begin w/since I assumed I was taking the ferry back. A cabbie could see a woman alone at 2 in the morning and figure I was desperate to take a cab and jack the fare up. She invites me to stay over, which I would’ve even if I didn’t have my glasses or a fresh pair of contacts, it’s just that my mother expects me over at noonish and I can’t exactly show up in a SMUT T (or any other band’s, for that matter) for the High Holy Days. John’s convinced he knows where we are, Erinn is cranky and ready to kill, and I have no choice but to keep quiet.

We (oh, hell, they) pull into a gas station so John can check another map and ask directions. Erinn storms out, slams the door behind her, and charges into the convenience store. I wisely assume that this is not the time to point out that I could go for a nosh as well. Erinn slams back into the car, ripping into her bag of chips, then screaming and tearing at her hair. Seriously. She then wads up the bag and throws it out the window as we pull out. That’s ok, I wasn’t hungry anyway. I feel terrible because this whole mess is because of me and maybe I just should’ve taken my chances on the L or took the cab. This is an Oscar-worthy performance from her. I am very impressed with the elaborate fit she’s pitching. The tension in the car is so thick and I worry that this is not the sort of incident that will be funny later on.

We hit Laurel Hill, but not the part of it that’s near me. If we hit Queens Blvd. then we’d be fine, except we’re probably parallel to it yet a million miles away. More obscenities and rants against John for being a guy and not asking directions. Shit. Then I realize that Erinn’s on her cell. All of a sudden, it’s passed back to me. I answer and it’s Christine. She asks if we’re okay and I tell her that John and I are. She says not to mind Erinn, and I feel better and less responsible for this mess. She asks where we are, because she’s going to Mapquest it on her end and guide us. By the time I spot the intersection we’re at, I realize that we’re on Woodhaven Blvd. Oh, never mind.

So the moral of the story is that if you’re going to a punk show on Erev Rosh Hashana, go locally.