Why My City Is Better Than Your City

Because on Sunday, a polka band (Joe Stanky and the Cadets) played five sets at a street fair a block from my apartment. Granted, the sets were getting shorter as the day went on (The last two may have been about 20 minutes each), but they still played from 2:30 to 9 p.m. with only a few short breaks.

Because that street fair featured food (stuffed cabbage, kielbasa, pierogies, and easily the best potato pancakes I have ever eaten--or likely will ever eat--in my life) made by the Polish ladies of St. Anthony's that was ridiculously good.

Because during the fourth set, when the sun finally started to go down, an old Polish woman practically took it upon herself to start the dance party by grabbing anyone who made eye contact with her (and some who didn't).

Because once that woman achieved success, there was the greatest multicultural polka throwdown I've ever seen, with Polish, Indian, Hispanic, white, and black people all getting on down.

And because during the third set, before the dance party broke out, one guy started his own private dance party, waltzing by himself, mamboing by himself, and, best of all, occasionally closing with Elvis karate moves. Unfortunately, he didn't bust out the Elvis moves when I filmed this (you can see him in the middle of one in the photo above, though), but he still busted some sweet moves (he even throws in some fist pumping). Please enjoy this look into my future. I hope.



I defy you to find a better dancer in your city. Send me the videos.

God bless Jersey City.

Of Geese and Men

A few weeks ago, as I was walking to work, I saw a family of geese--two adults and two tiny goslings--crossing the street in Newport. Unfortunately, this was the one day I didn't have my camera on me. If I hadn't been about 20 minutes from my apartment at the time, and if geese were able to heed the command, "Don't move for 40 minutes," I would have gladly called in to work just so I could get the picture. But I seemed to be the only working drone who felt this way, as everybody else just kept walking, barely even noting the scene placed before them on a clear Friday morning. Meanwhile, I stared and smiled for a little bit and then begrudgingly continued on my way.

Then, on my walk home, I saw the geese again, though not in such a photogenic manner, and decided there was no good reason not to wake up at 6:30 Saturday morning so I could stalk the geese with my camera before I got on the early-morning bus to Woodstock (via Kingston) for Levon Helm's Birthday Ramble. There was, of course, no guarantee they'd still be around, but I figured it was worth a shot.

As soon as I made my way into Prime Goose Territory, I looked to my right and saw what I assumed was the same family of four out for an early-morning stroll. The adults were walking outside of a fenced-in area, keeping an eye on the two babies walking on the other side of the fence. So I gave them some room, stood in the middle of the street, and began the photo shoot.






Satisfied that I had made up for the previous day, I set out for the Hoboken train station. Until I saw some more goslings, even tinier and cuter, and in a more goose-paparazzo-accessible area. Out came the camera again.





Best Saturday morning ever.

But, wait, look, there's another family behind that other fence. There's officially a goose population explosion in Newport.





By the time I was shooting the third family, I finally got one dude to stop and enjoy the moment for a few seconds. It felt like a victory.

Now, whenever I walk to and from work (and carefully wind my way around the many goose droppings), I look for the little tykes to see how they're doing. Some days I'll see one or two around, and other days, the bad ones, I don't see them anywhere. I admit--I get a little worried that they're OK. Granted, they will likely grow up one day to fly into a plane I'm on and send me to a watery grave, but, for now, I'm quite fond of them.

So, last Friday, when I cut through the Modell's parking lot, I could not have been happier to see this:





These are happy, exciting times in Jersey City. At least for me. And the geese seem pretty content. I suppose everybody else will follow along soon enough.

Nobody's Boy: My Further Adventures at Chiller

The twice-yearly "Should I really go and spend all that money at Chiller?" debate began a few months ago when the first guests were announced. It was a strong start, though most of the interesting guests (Susan Olsen, Mike Lookinland, T&R Hall of Famer and the people's Celebrity Apprentice Gary Busey) were people I'd already "met." Of course, since I'd already "met" them, that meant I had pictures with them--pictures I could get signed and lovingly framed so that my apartment can look like a Famiglia pizzeria. And, really, that's sort of always been the goal I've been striving for.

Robert Romanus (Damone from Fast Times at Ridgemont High) was another good add, and the return of Ernest Borgnine, whom I'd passed on last time he attended Chiller, gave me a chance to right a previous wrong and add a signed Marty photo to my collection (see Marty if you haven't, unless you've had a pain-free, love-filled life, in which case you probably won't enjoy it). But I was still on the fence. Then came two big adds.

The first was Tommy Morrison, better known to me as Tommy "The Machine" Gunn (though I did follow his boxing career and was legitimately bummed when Ray Mercer pummeled him). It would be almost impossible to pass up the opportunity to be that close to someone from Rocky V, easily the Rocky movie I've seen the most (note that this does not mean I think it's the best; I assure you I'm not that deranged). Sure, Mr. Morrison is quite possibly crazy now, believing that not only was his HIV-positive diagnosis wrong but also that HIV doesn't even exist. And, oh yeah, he teleported once. I am not making any of that up.

Anyway, if I'm gonna let a person's alleged out-to-lunch craziness stop me from handing over money for an autograph and photo, then, really, this blog's gonna be even duller than it already is. So, Tommy Morrison's inclusion confirmed my appearance at Chiller.

Then, as a bonus, and in a booking I still don't quite understand, Tony Clifton--Andy Kaufman's lounge-singer alter ego that lives on now allegedly perhaps maybe courtesy of Bob Zmuda--was added to the bill. I had no idea if anyone was going to be willing to pay for a Tony Clifton autograph (except me, of course, because I had pictures from Mr. Clifton's Santos Party House show that I thought might look nice signed), but a photo with sounded like an idea I'd be willing to pursue.

And now you know why I went to Chiller last Friday.

***
My first stop after I arrived at the surprisingly uncrowded Parsippany Hilton was at Gary Busey's table. As I walked down the hallway to get in line, I heard a big-boned gentleman ranting and raving about Mr. Busey for some reason, punctuating his disgust by shouting, "And that's why he got kicked off Celebrity Apprentice!" This, of course, made me more eager to get in line to see what Mr. Busey was doing that was so offensive. Unfortunately, two minutes before I got to the front of the line to go into the room where Mr. Busey was signing (and roughly an hour after the show started), Mr. Busey decided it was time to take a break. For about 30 minutes. So I spent those 30 minutes in the room watching Alex Winter (Bill S. Preston from Wyld Stallyns, of course) and Heather Langenkamp (from Just the Ten of Us, or, more important to the Chiller attendee, Nightmare on Elm Street) cordially greet fans and hoping Jake Busey wouldn't ask me (as he did the other people waiting for Papa Busey) if I wanted to listen to his band's music.

Finally, Gary Busey returned and soon I had this to display to my future wife when she comes to my apartment:



And if that doesn't dazzle her, maybe she'll be swept off her feet by my signed photos of Cindy and Bobby Brady:




And, hey, while I'm casually referencing my sad-sack, womanless existence, here's our patron saint:



Ernest Borgnine is the coolest 94-year-old I've ever met. Friendly with everyone (despite fighting a cold) and downright jubilant in every picture I've seen of him with others. You can't see it now, but you'll likely see our picture by the end of the year.

Tony Clifton was a few tables down from Mr. Borgnine and Loni Anderson (and, oddly, right between Pat "Marilyn Munster" Priest and Butch "Eddie Munster" Patrick) and was, not surprisingly, doing almost no business. So when I arrived with my photo, there was much rejoicing among Mr. Clifton and his manager. We reminisced about the Santos show (the longest they ever did, somewhere around four hours...and, yes, I stayed for the whole thing), talked about the Atlantic City show I missed (Mr. Clifton shared a joke he told to scare away the elderly members of the crowd), and generally had a very pleasant conversation, or as pleasant a conversation as you can have with a guy playing a character. Actually, it might have been the highlight of my night. And it's certainly one of my favorite inscriptions on a photo.



And, yes, despite the fact that this isn't Andy Kaufman as Tony Clifton, this picture makes me so happy I can't even tell you.



As I made my way out of the pit, I was stopped by a guy who wanted to know about my interaction with Mr. Clifton, since I was the first person he'd seen buy an autograph from him all night. He wanted to know if he was hurling insults, if he was really Bob Zmuda, and, if so, why wasn't he signing "Bob Zmuda as Tony Clifton," or something like that? He said he just thought it was odd that he was signing as a character and not as a real person. I thought of relating to him that it was odd that we were in a hotel lobby in New Jersey on a Friday night, forking over money to "celebrities" most of the world wouldn't know existed and that we were, in fact, roughly 20 feet away from "Fake Jan" from The Brady Bunch Variety Hour, who was doing a steady business, but I figured that was a little too deep of a thought for the evening.

I soldiered on to the rooms with the lesser-known celebrities (the class structure of Chiller must be humbling for some) and soon queued up behind a guy who became what I assume was the first of roughly 343 people to approach Robert Romanus over the course of the weekend and ask, "Hey, man, you got any Blue Oyster Cult?" Soon after that interaction ended, it was my turn, but I just asked him to sign a photo for a friend and then got my photo taken, courtesy of a woman walking by who, upon being asked by Mr. Romanus to take the picture, said, "Oh, I just wanted to hear if your voice sounded the same." Her mission accomplished, she then took this:



Soon, I moved on to this Chiller's "Yes, for $10 I Will Take a Photo With You Because I Liked You in That One Thing I Saw You In" winner, the one-degree-from-Zabka Joyce Hyser, better known as devoted journalist/male impersonator Terry from the brilliant '80s film Just One of the Guys.



She earned a lustful "She hasn't aged one bit" from a guy I passed on my way out.

And now we come to my encounter with Mr. Morrison. As I approached the table and examined the items for sale (a signed boxing glove [$30], signed red, white, and blue boxing shorts [$50], a wide selection of Rocky V photos [$20]), I recalled the many times I'd been on line behind someone who requested a movie/TV show quote from a celebrity on their signed photo. Sometimes I find this to be a brilliant idea, and sometimes I find it to just be annoying (whoa, I think I just described my life). But I'd never tried it myself. And, since one of the photos was from Rocky V's concluding fight scene and I knew almost every line from that scene, I figured now might be the time.

So, as Mr. Morrison (who, to prepare you, is not looking very good) posed for several photos with what I assume was a dad and his children (or child and her friends, none of whom seemed likely to be either boxing or Rocky V aficionados), I summoned up the courage to ask for a line from the eminently quotable film. And that's why, when it was my turn to get a photo signed, I asked this:

"Hey, Tommy, would you mind writing 'I aint nobody's robot' on it?"

He snickered. And then did it.



So awesome. I briefly panicked a few minutes later when I thought I might have flubbed the line (was it "robot" or "puppet"?...surely he wouldn't know and would just sign whatever I told him), but a viewing when I returned home confirmed the total awesomeness of the above photo.

Less awesome is the photo below, in which Mr. Morrison grabbed the woman he was talking to and said, "C'mon, get in the photo." He told me, "That's my girl," followed by something unintelligible that, if she was not actually his girl but a random woman he struck up a conversation with, I suppose could've been, "Please don't tell her about the Internet." And then the photo was taken.



Those three people will never be in the same photo again. A true collector's item.

And another successful Chiller.

Five States, Ten (and a Half) Games, One Man (With Lots of Help)

A nap almost killed it.

I knew I would have to sneak in some sleep, so I figured a little two-hour nap around 9 p.m. would be just what the doctor ordered--if, in fact, doctors were ordering five-states-in-one-day bowling tours to celebrate World Record Day (the culmination of National Bowling Week, as if I had to tell you), which I'm pretty sure they're not. Then again, I don't go to the doctor that often, so things might have changed.

Anyway, the two-hour nap would give me time to get to Bowl Rite Lanes in Union City, NJ, just before midnight, start my two games at the stroke of midnight, hop on the bus to the Port Authority Bus Terminal, and then hoof it down to Lucky Strike Lanes on the West Side Highway (Leisure Time Bowl in the Port, the obvious choice, only lets you bowl by the hour on Fridays and Saturdays, and $60 seemed like a bit much for a quest that would only really mean anything to me). Then I could go home to sneak another hour or two of sleep, get up to go back to the Port Authority and catch a bus to Philly, bowl a couple of games at Pep Bowl in Philly around 10 a.m., take the train to the Riverfront Blues Festival in Wilmington, DE, for a break, and then meet up with my friend in Delaware (provided his nine-months-pregnant wife didn't decide to give birth) to conclude the tour at Elk Lanes in Elkton, MD, and First State Lanes in Wilmington, all before the grand finale back at the Riverfront Blues Fest.

Seems simple, no?

Well, I overslept. And when I woke up and saw it was 11:45, my mind started racing. Should I still carry on? Should I skip Jersey and hope I had time to get somewhere near the Delaware border when I went down? Should I skip New York and just make it a four-state bowling tour? Should I maybe just drop the whole idea and not run around like an imbecile on a Saturday?

I still didn't know what I'd do when I got to the Newport Light Rail station around midnight. But if I was gonna do this, I really wanted to start in Jersey. So I decided to press on to Union City and hope that the buses were still running out of Union City to NYC, where, if they were, I would still have enough time to get to Lucky Strike (which I recalled as closing at 3) and get back on track. Sure, the extra two hours of sleep I'd hoped to get would be out, but I would probably be tired enough to sleep on the bus to Philly. And who needs sleep anyway?

And, so at around 12:50 a.m., after walking from the 9th Street Light Rail stop in Hoboken all the way to Bowl Rite, the Five-State Bowling Tour was on.



I didn't take many pictures at this stop, because I was just trying to bowl fast and get moving. Plus, when you're by yourself at a bowling alley on top of a CVS pharmacy at 1 a.m., taking pictures doesn't really seems like a fine idea.



I felt pretty good bowling, until midway through the first game, when I started getting a little light-headed (probably due to the half-hour walk/sprint through Union City carrying a bowling ball bag, but it's hard to say). I was almost able to hit my average over two games (164 and 131), which, all things considered, was a decent feat.



Then it was time for the walk to the bus stop, another 20-25 minutes or so. I knew there was a bus that could take me to the bus stop I needed to go to, but I wasn't sure if it was still running, so I just headed out on my own. I also thought about taking a cab into NYC, but I'm against cabs as a rule, and I didn't feel like breaking any rules.

I eventually made it to the bus stop and then began praying there was still a bus going into the city. I saw one of the gypsy shuttles coming back from the city, but nothing heading in. Finally, as I was about to suck it up and call a cab, the 190 bus appeared and all was right with the world. I would be at the Port a little before 2 a.m. and would still have enough time for my first trip to Lucky Strike. Phew.

So, I get to Lucky Strike, walk through the door, and...

"We're closed."

"What?"

"Closed."

"Um, what time did you close?"

"We shut down at 2."

I was going to explain to him that I was pretty sure the website said 3 a.m., but he was significantly larger than me and seemed genuinely disgusted by my presence. So I just walked back out the door. And, to be fair, I was completely wrong. The website actually says they're open until 4 a.m.. Pigs.

So, what to do? Well, I knew Brooklyn Bowl in Williamsburg was open until 4, and as much as I didn't want to go all the way to Williamsburg at 2 a.m. (or, truth be told, any time of day), I didn't have much of a choice. So, I hopped on the A train to 14th, got on the L, and made it to Brooklyn Bowl a little before 3. All right. Back on track. That's a right on Wythe, and...

"Hey, buddy, we're closed."

"What?"

"Closed."

"But I thought your website said you were open until 4."

"Yeah, we're closed. Manager just gave the call that we're closing."

"OK."

Take your hipster bowling alley and stick it up your ass.

This wasn't looking good. Brooklyn Bowl was my last shot for the night/early morning. The only other option I had at this point to keep the tour alive was to eat my nonrefundable bus ticket to Philly, get a train or bus directly to Wilmington instead, bowl somewhere in NYC in the morning (or, later in the morning), and hope to have enough time to get to an alley in Pennsylvania between blues festival sets and games in Maryland and Delaware.

But that would be a lot of work. And to what end? To satisfy you, dear, sweet three readers? To top last year's five-borough bowling tour, which, as far I could tell, no one was asking me to top?

As I walked home from the PATH train around 4:30, after my train had been delayed and had to return to Christopher Street about two minutes after we left Christopher Street because there was "an emergency" in the Hoboken station (re: some numbnuts probably puked on the train after leaving Bahama Mama's), I decided that, for reasons completely and utterly unknown, I had to persevere. Somewhere, the bugles were sounding. Somewhere, the spirit of Earl Anthony was urging me not to quit. Somewhere, Mickey was telling me, 'Get up, you son of a bitch. Mickey loves you."

Or maybe I was delirious on two hours' sleep and hearing things.

Whatever the case, I got on the computer when I got back to my apartment, sussed out the possibilities, and regrouped. There were two bowling alleys in Brooklyn that opened at 9, and an Amtrak from Penn Station that would get me to Wilmington right on time. Unfortunately, Amtrak's fare system blows, and that train would've cost me $90. In the words of the great Roger Rabbit, "I may be idiotic, but I'm not stupid." So I went with a Greyhound that would allegedly get me to Wilmington about 15 minutes after Matt "Guitar" Murphy's set started but realistically, once Saturday New Jersey Turnpike traffic was figured in, probably would get me to Wilmington just in time to miss Matt "Guitar" Murphy's entire set. But if I had to sacrifice that to keep the Five-State Bowling Tour alive, so be it. Sorry, Mr. "Guitar" Murphy.

So, things were back on track again. I would sleep for a few hours, leave my apartment at 8:30, and get to Melody Lanes in Brooklyn by 10 for a quick two games before going back to the Port Authority for the 11:30 bus to Wilmington. I printed out a set of directions to the AMF Conchester Lanes in Boothwyn, PA, the closest alley in Pennsylvania, went to sleep, and hoped that tomorr, er, three hours from now, would be better.



I didn't oversleep the second time around, and I made it to Melody Lanes in the Sunset Park section of Brooklyn just around 10 a.m. Stunningly, no one else was bowling, so I had the whole place to myself. And, as another bonus, the interior was so bright that I had no trouble staying awake.



I'm not sure if you've ever bowled in an empty bowling alley on a Saturday morning while "In Da Club" plays over the in-lanes PA, but if you haven't, I highly recommend the experience. Once again, I was pretty consistent, and I managed to improve slightly on my Jersey performance, with a 161 and a 154. I also messed around with the timer feature on my camera to take some action photos for you. And also, so you can see just how white my legs are.



I was back on the subway by 10:35 and just did make it in time to get on the Wilmington bus (in a moment of stupidity, I left my Greyhound tickets under will call, something one should never, ever do because it forces you to rely on the allegedly helpful Greyhound computer terminals, which consistently don't work). As expected, we hit lots of traffic and, as also expected every time I get on a bus, there was almost a fight on the bus when, two hours into the trip, a guy decided that he didn't want to hear the guy two rows behind him talk anymore. And once he expressed that opinion, the next 20 minutes were filled with the sound of the talking (and much, much larger) gentleman expressing disbelief at being spoken to that way. Good times.

Anyway, the bus pulled into Wilmington just as they were striking the stage after Murphy's set (the festival was next to the bus and train stations, which, if everything had worked out as planned--or if anything had worked out as planned--would've been very fortuitous), so I waited outside the bus station for my friend to pick me up (I had called him when we were getting ready to cross into Delaware).

I knew his wife was due to give birth at any moment, and I suppose if I had really thought about it, I might've been able to predict that she and their three-year-old son
would come along, too. It would, after all, be much better if my friend were around as his wife went into labor, rather than in, say, Elkton, MD. But since I'd been running train and bus schedules through my head for a week, I was a little surprised to see that the whole family had come to pick me up and join my adventure. After working through my guilt about dragging a nine-months-pregnant woman and a three-year-old child across at least two states (Pennsylvania still wasn't a definite yet), however, I embraced the "more, the merrier" approach and grew excited at the thought of having the whole family along for the ride. Plus, it was the three-year-old's first bowling excursion, so I felt proud to be able to make it part of such a memorable day.



The first stop was the kind-of-run-down but kind-of-awesome Elk Lanes in Elkton, MD. According to the sign on their door, they weren't even supposed to be open for another hour or so (need I say that their website said otherwise?), but there was a birthday party going on, so we walked in and began on State #3. We even got to use a newly constructed ball ramp, or at least the three-year-old did. I declined.



Elk Lanes was easily the least fancy stop on the tour, but I am a fan of all things not fancy, so I felt pretty comfortable. There was also a jukebox, so I helped DJ the birthday party, with a ton of selections (Four Tops, ABBA, Michael Jackson, Sam Cooke) I'm sure the preteens and teens hated immensely. As I chose the songs, though, I was careful not to repeat a mistake I made at the Bowl-o-Drome in Ithaca once, when it was just me and a birthday party and I forgot that "Misirlou" on the "Pulp Fiction" soundtrack is preceded by a scene from the movie that features, oh, language 10-year-olds probably shouldn't be exposed to, particularly at loud volumes. Oopsie.



With plenty of good music playing, I recovered from a shaky first game (143) and rebounded with a 182 in the second. The three-year-old seemed to be enjoying his bowling experience, despite a few balls that didn't make it all the way down the alley after he got bored with the ramp. So it felt like, finally, the Five-State Bowling Tour was in the proper gear.



The next stop was back in Delaware, at the First State Lanes in Wilmington. It was a bit more high-tech than the Elk (and with a nice billiards room in the back, too), but no less enjoyable. And they also had one of the greatest things I've ever seen.



That, good people, is a plastic bowling pin bottle that you can fill with soda for $6. Absolutely phenomenal. It made Lucky Strike and Brooklyn Bowl a distant memory.



I didn't bowl particularly well at First State (152 and 137), but who cares? I got a bowling pin bottle! I also bowled about half of the three-year-old's game, because he grew tired of bowling right about the time the french fries arrived, and his dad had tweaked something in his forearm and was having enough trouble finishing his own game (yet, he still beat me, so I think I was hustled by the both of them). So I stepped up and gave him a few good frames to end his day on the lanes and add a little bonus to mine.

My friend thought the tour was over at this point, as it was getting closer to 8:30 and dinner was of the essence for the nine-months-pregnant woman and the hungry child. Unfortunately for them, I'm a stubborn jerk, and I reckoned that there was still enough time to make the dream come true. I told them they could just drop me off in Boothwyn and get something to eat while I bowled, but eventually the decision was made to sit and watch me bowl Game 9 (and 1/2) and thus complete the Five-State Bowling Tour.



And, so that is what happened. We made it to the AMF Conchester Lanes in Boothwyn around 7 p.m., and I fought my way through the sluggishness that was starting to overtake me as I bowled a 149 in Game 9 (and 1/2). There was much applause from my posse, until I informed them that I kinda wanted to bowl Game 10 (and 1/2). I couldn't end on a below-average game. They, understandably, looked at me like I was a lunatic, but, to their credit, let me continue on my quest (though my friend expressed concern about what would happen if I bowled another below-average game). There is a special place in heaven for all them, and also for the little girl that has, as of this writing, still not made her way into the world.



For poetry's sake, let's say I bowled my last game for that unborn child and her folks, because, just as I did last year on the Five-Borough Bowling Tour, I saved my best game for last.



That open frame kind of kills me (would've broken 200 with a mark there), but I was still pleased with a 193 to wrap up the day.



Then we ate dinner at a nearby diner, they dropped me off at the blues festival, I had a good time there, and I made it back home just about 24 hours after the Five-State Bowling Tour began, a true success if ever there was one.

And then I woke up at 6:30 a.m. to get on another bus to go see Pete Seeger and someone called Princess Wow in upstate New York. Wait until you hear that story.

It's Often Stormy in Philadelphia

The last two times I have attempted to make my way to Philadelphia (one successful attempt, one attempt thwarted by buses refusing to run) and the surrounding area I have been met with Nor'easters carrying copious amounts of snow. So, when I saw the weekend forecast for several inches of rain across New Jersey and Pennsylvania, I wasn't terribly surprised. And, to be honest, it would have taken a storm of biblical proportions to keep me from attending Monster Mania at the Crowne Plaza in Cherry Hill, NJ. Why, you ask? Well, I'll tell you (and, really, I appreciate you still asking questions at this point in your Tinsel and Rot fandom).

One of the main guests for this edition of Monster Mania, making a rare east coast appearance, was one of our greatest human beings, Tinsel and Rot Hall of Famer Gary Busey. And the rule is (surely you know of the Tinsel and Rot rulebook) if a Tinsel and Rot Hall of Famer is appearing within a 200-mile radius and there is an opportunity to obtain a photo with said Hall of Famer at this appearance, Tinsel and Rot will do everything in its power to be there.

So, as the rains fell and the winds whipped, I was on a 7 a.m. Greyhound to Philly (new $10 round-trip to Philly much appreciated), where I would get on a train to Cherry Hill (after a quick run through the Reading Terminal Market), and then walk 0.9 miles (Google Maps walking directions are my best friend) to the Crowne Plaza to meet Gary Busey.

I'm not sure if you've ever walked 0.9 miles with rain whipping in your face, but it's not as much fun as you might think. Particularly when you have a vague idea of where you need to go. I got off the train with two other Monster Mania attendees who asked me how to get to Marlton Pike. I told them I was headed the same way, so we embarked on our adventure. One of my fellow travelers asked a Shop Rite employee for directions, and she pointed us in the direction of the Crowne Plaza, which you could see in the near distance through the sheets of rain. After some general chitchat about conventions and who everyone was excited about seeing, I split up with my fellow travelers because I wanted to move as quickly as possible so as to avoid being drenched upon meeting Gary Busey and they wanted to light up.

We eventually wound up together again as we approached the Crowne Plaza, and the gentleman traveler said, "We must really love horror movies to be walking through this." I didn't have the heart to tell him that my horror movie watching began and ended with the six movies I had to watch in an Academic Writing class in college (shoutout to Doug Sparent, wherever he may be). Monster Mania is more horror-centric than Chiller, so, as far as I can tell, it tends to attract more horror devotees. Two of the big events for the convention were reunions of cast members from "My Bloody Valentine" and "Night of the Creeps" (two movies I would never know existed if I didn't go to these conventions) and the appearance of Dario Argento or, as I think of him, a guy I never heard of. Whatever. That's what makes the world go round. And brings a lot of interesting people to a hotel in New Jersey during a rainstorm.

Anyway, I walked into the hotel around 11:15 and proceeded to scope out the Busey situation. My years of Chiller attendance had me prepared for a potentially long wait, but I was pleased to see that Monster Mania, because it has fewer celebrity guests, is much less of an endurance test. Whereas Chiller has a frequently ridiculously long wait to get in the main autograph pit, the only line of any considerable length was for Mr. Busey. And the only reason that line was so long was because Mr. Busey had yet to emerge from his hotel room (the convention technically started at 10, but you can't expect Mr. Busey to be up and about at that hour). Instead of hopping on the line immediately, I walked around to see the vendors and other celebrity guests. Since most of the vendors were selling horror-related stuff, it was a pretty quick run-through, stopping only to look at the Ozomba t-shirts and see if the bootleg DVD vendors had anything worth while.

There were only a few celebrity guests I was curious to see. Jason Lively, star of the aforementioned "Night of the Creeps" but more popularly known (to me) as the second Rusty Griswold (in "European Vacation"), looked roughly the same and did indeed have a photo of him as Rusty. I thought about it, but I've got two vacations of my own coming up, so spending $20 on an autograph and photo with someone I'm marginally interested in (if I am to be honest, he is my least favorite Rusty, narrowly edged out by Ethan Embry, who I'm probably giving extra points because he was Doyle in "Dutch") didn't make sense. I will say, though, that if he had brought his "Rusty" beret, I'd have been in for a photo with. But he seemed to be doing fine without any props, as he had a healthy line every time I passed by. Eric Roberts also had a solid line going, and when I noticed that he was only charging $5 for a photo with, I made a note to maybe come back for that later.

Corbin Bernsen, seated a few tables down from the busier Greatest American Hero William Katt, looked a little bored, though he seemed pleasant and earns bonus points by having baseballs to sign. I love "Major League," but the only guy whose autograph I'd like from that movie (besides Bob Uecker) is James "Lou Brown" Gammon. However, I'd get Corbin Bernsen's autograph on a photo with Gammon, so long as Gammon wrote "Don't give me this 'ole' bullshit" on it. Something to think about for those booking conventions in the future.

After another look-see at the vendors, I went back into the room where Gary Busey was signing to see if he had emerged. Indeed, he had, along with his son, Jake, who was also operating on Busey Time. So I headed back into the lobby to get in line and, about a half-hour or so later, it was my time with Mr. Busey, who had Monster Mania security on either side of his table to prevent people from snapping photos as they passed by. Normally, I would deride a celebrity for such behavior, but if you think I'm going to besmirch the name of Gary Busey, you are sorely mistaken.

A young woman was in front of me in line, and Mr. Busey seemed to take a shine to her and/or her prominently displayed cleavage. After signing her photo, she sat down next to him for the photo with, at which point Gary turned on the Busey charm and asked her if she wanted him to make out the autograph to her. After she carefully spelled out her name for him. Mr. Busey added a silver heart (colored in with red Sharpie). Then, after the photo was taken, he kissed her on the cheek. Very suave.

I was prepared to fork over $80 (yeah, yeah, I know) for two signatures ($30 each) and a photo with ($20), despite the fact that I generally think that the photo with should be included in the autograph price (but, again, I'm not questioning the Ways of Busey). But Mr. Busey's handler told me I only owed him $60. I guess I got in on the Buy Two Autographs, Get One Photo With Free special.

My first item was the LP soundtrack to "The Buddy Holly Story," which Mr. Busey was excited to see. But he seemed even more taken aback by my second item, a screen capture from what might be my all-time favorite musical moment on television, the performance of "Stay A Little Longer" by Mr. Busey, Rick Danko, and Paul Butterfield on "Saturday Night Live." Last Sunday, while preparing for My Busey Experience, I was excited to find that one can buy the episode of SNL with this song on Amazon On Demand (you should buy it; it's worth the $1.99). And then I thought, "Hey, 33-Year-Old Guy With Too Much Free Time and Antisocial Tendencies, why don't you take a screen shot of a frame of this performance and have Gary Busey sign it?" And, so, over the course of several hours, I came up with a reasonably strong selection of screen caps, with the best one being the one with the least amount of movement: a close-up of a wide-eyed Mr. Busey singing the second verse.

And that was the photo I plopped in front of Mr. Busey as I explained where it was from and why I wanted it signed. His handler asked if it was a screen cap and what year of SNL it was from, and Jake Busey shouted over from his table, "Hey, Dad, tell him about the band," which brought a stare from Dad and a thought from me of "Cool, I'm gonna hear a story about The Band." But then Jake clarified that he was talking about his band, Sons of the Lawless, which also features Lee Butterfield, Paul's son (I watched a YouTube clip when I got home; it's not like the SNL performance). Mr. Busey then asked where I got the record from. When I cleverly told him, "a record store," he informed his handler, "See, I should have things like that." I'm not sure if he was talking about the photo or the album (his handler seemed to think it was the photo, because he told Gary he could get him one off the DVD), but I'm hoping that if it's the album, that someone can fetch him a copy of the soundtrack for the movie for which he received an Academy Award nomination. Seems like he should have one.



Anyway, the photo was soon taken, and after Mr. Busey told me the SNL photo really brought him back, I was on my way, pleased with my interaction with a Tinsel and Rot Hall of Famer (I didn't tell him he was in the Hall, but I'm sure it's gotten back to him).

Yeah, you were expecting the photo here, right? Sorry. It's under embargo for potential inclusion in the Sigman Holiday Greeting. I can't guarantee it will make it (I've got eight months or so ahead of me), but you'll at least see it here on the blog in December. You can wait.

OK, OK, I know you feel cheated, so I'll give you something to sate your celebrity photo jones. And I think it's an even better photo, though it won't make it onto a Sigman Holiday Greeting. It's just too good not to share.

After my time with Mr. Busey came to an end, I headed back into the room where Eric Roberts was. I should point out that I'm pretty sure I've seen exactly one Eric Roberts movie, and I don't have much of a recollection of that one ("Rude Awakening"). I know I probably should've seen at least one or two more (I suspect I'd like "The Pope of Greenwich Village," and if Mickey Rourke ever does a convention, I'll be on that line for a photo with), but, hey, I'm not a big movie guy. Still, he's been funny on Howard Stern's show and he's Julia Roberts' brother. And after watching several people take photos with Roberts, I knew this would be a good use of $5.

So, I handed over my $5 to one of the Eric Roberts handlers (there were three, which I think was a new record for handlers at a convention), and as I put down my bags for the photo, I heard Eric Roberts say, "OK, step on the line and look at the camera." I assumed he was talking to himself, but as I moved closer, he repeated, "Step on the line, and look at the camera." So I looked down and saw that there was a line in the carpet pattern, and I quickly surmised that that was where I should stand. And then, as the handler held my camera what seemed to be a little too close for my liking, Eric Roberts draped his arm over my shoulder, and we got what might be the funniest (and is certainly the least heterosexual) celebrity picture I've ever taken.



I find it impossible to look at it and not laugh.

And as I walked my 0.9 miles back to the train and got slammed so hard by the wind and rain that I had to buy a new pair of jeans at the Burlington Coat Factory in Philly for the ride home (if you've never changed clothes in the Greyhound Bus Terminal men's room in Philadelphia, you've never really lived), I was comforted by the fact that not only do I have this picture that will produce laughter for years to come but, also, for a few shining moments, I was with Busey.

Revku CXIX

Joy comes to the world
From a birth in Bethlehem
And accordions

The Jimmy Sturr Christmas Show (w/special guest Tommy Cash), John J. Breslin Theatre at Felician College, Lodi, NJ, 12/6/09

Revku CXVIII

Just when you're thinking
He's sung all the monster hits
Here comes another

John Fogerty/Steamtrain Mary/Rick Barry, NJPAC, Newark, NJ, 11/25/09

Revku CXV

They played with relish
Then stopped to buy some hot dogs
Sorry for the pun

Maybe Pete, The Saint, Asbury Park, NJ, 11/18/09

Revku CVIII

Adults and costumes
Always a tricky combo
The rock was a treat

Chris Skel and the Original Sins/Frankie and Kelly McGrath, Fitzgerald's Harp and Bard, Clifton, NJ, 10/31/09

Revku XC

An old, well-worn drawl
Amid vast mountains of hair
Singing songs for you

Leon Russell/Red Molly, Hoboken Arts and Music Festival, Hoboken, NJ, 9/27/09

Revku LXXXIX

The faraway towns
Heard rock and roll ringing out
It's Clifton calling

Maybe Pete/Mark Linskey/Chris Skel, Clash Bar, Clifton, NJ, 9/25/09