Asbury Park, NJ. The mere mention of the name conjures up many images in my head. So when Kevin and Mary mentioned over beers and oysters in B’more that the Hold Steady — a band with more than a little Boss running through their veins — were playing at the friggin’ Stone Pony of all places — and the Boss “rumored” to make an appearance, ahem, Madame Marie is telling fortunes again — I couldn’t help but get a little bit of nostalgiac rush. Nostalgia not in the personal sense (Asbury’s been a dump for as long as I can remember in my own short life) but a general nostalgia for all things simple and fun and closer to human scale, things more Astroworld than Disneyworld, sno-cones, fun-faced Tillie and Tilt-a-Whirls. Things that were once great and may very well be again.

From what I could see, the three coolest places to go in Asbury Park at night are, by default, the only places that showed signs of life at all: a gay bar/hotel called the Empress, the Pony a couple blocks down Ocean Ave., and further down, a bowling alley/concert space called Asbury Lanes. The Lanes looked intriguing (wow — rock-n-bowl with live music, sweet!), but they were having an event , so I met my friend Shannon on the corner in front of the Empress, in the shadow of a giant dilapidated casino. As we were early for the show, we popped in for a few drinks. Cute place and I regret not staying the night there.

Afterwards, it was on to the Pony, where we met Kevin and Mary and my brother Rob. The Hold Steady rocked out while more drinks were consumed. Love “Stuck Between Stations BTW …. “some days I think Sal Paradise was right / boys and girls in America / have such a sad time together … ” Maybe so, but sorry Sal, tonight it was not the case …. some bobbing and weaving through crowds, some conversing and other things that memory doesn’t serve up at the mo, and we were careening out the front door, stumbling back down the street and back into the Empress where a full-on drag queen extravaganza was taking place. Tables with translucent lighted tops, leopard-skin couches and pillows and shawls and more drinks and a little bit of dancing to “it’s raining men, hallelujah” thumping through the speakers, then somehow ducking into a cab parked outside in front of the windy desolate boardwalk, off to a hotel far, far, away and passing out with my clothes and shoes on.

Waking up in the morning and taking an hour to eat a banana, hungover — er, no, still drunk — and watching the news anchor’s painted smiley face on CNN looking not unlike the Tillie face slapped thick with makeup on the photo of the Palace Amusements facade, the last waking memory of the night before. Took the cab back to the bar where the car was parked and drove the hazy length of the Turnpike home, then collapsed.

Yeah, I know it’s Monday. And the monster trucks, they hit downtown Washington on Saturday. But I really wanted to say that. The Beetlejuice-like ode to the day of Shabbas, screaming the equivalent of “bring out your rednecks!!!” out of TVs across America and melting eyeballs and eardrums in the process …

And so there I was, my inner diesel fume addict answering the call with John and Michele and Gregg (who I haven’t seen in ages BTW, cheers man if you read this, let’s do some Guitar Hero some time!!) all sitting in the upper deck at the Verizon Center, Budweisers in hand.

Can’t say I’m a monster truck enthusiast but I got to witness the new scourges of county fairgrounds everywhere.

First off was the Virginia Giant, the Manowar of trucks, and the undisputed decibel champ. This truck goes to 11. The Iron Warrior was surly and erratic (reminds me of another Warrior, hmmm ….). The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle came swiftly out of the gate then peetered out early.

Black Stallion smashed the cars going forward AND going backward. He even smashed them going diagonally. He wreaked absolute havoc across the dirt in arguably the best show of the afternoon. He also stank up the entire arena, which was a plus.

The people’s favorite, Grave Digger, successor to Bigfoot in all-time most popular truck, had a hard act to follow. And yeah, he flashed some lights, burnt some rubber and crushed some metal, and followed it all up with a petulant spin that sent dirt flying across the front rows of seats. But IMHO, it was anticlimactic, a lot of bark in response to the Black Stallion’s bite.

But alas, the world of monster trucks is not a democracy. It is a popularity contest (so maybe it is too much a democracy?) Anyway … the band with the merchandise stand always wins. The emcee left it to mob rule — a battle of applause. Grave Digger in a landslide. The other trucks turned off their engines and sulked in the corner, resigned to the fact that they, like the Washington Generals to the Globetrotters, were mere lambs sent to slaughter at the altar of … the Digger.

After the event, we went back to RFD for some beers, my brain and ears throbbing, I was nodding throughout and when asked if I was even listening to the conversation, said, well, yeah, I can hear you but I just can’t process the information. Please try later. However, I did balance a salt shaker on its edge — proof that my motor skills weren’t completely shot.

Back in ‘93, the early days of the Interweb, when dial-up services ruled the earth. I was sitting at a prehistoric Mac computer, signing up for my very first “address” in this newfangled invention called “e-mail”. Well, I didn’t exactly know who would send me things, I knew that I got to pick out my own name. I needed something cool — a tag, a handle, an alias, something cool looking, something rebellious with an x or a q or a z in it.

My friend Mike had his own at the time: “Mazzo.” And he’d perfected its typography. He’d scribble it down wildly, like some New York subway spray-paint artist, on whatever surface at his disposal … the first stroke, an “M” slicing seemelssly into the “A”, the second stroke, a double “ZZ” striking its target in the center of the final “O”.

So I looked around the house for inspiration, which led me to the handful of CDs sitting near the computer. I picked up a couple, and one in particular caught my attention.

Praxis. The word started with Aristotle, worked its way through the Marxists. I’ve had a few conversations with people who said if I used it, I’d be linked to the Marxists via word association. Whatever. It means “theory in action.” Gramsci called Marxism a “philosophy of praxis.” It is also the name of a teacher certification exam, a Home Depot-like store in Europe (I lived near one), lots of things. And now, apparently, a church. Finally a religion to call my own :-) .

And these things are all well and good. Lots of symbolism and deep intentions by all concerned, I’m sure. But, at the risk of revealing the glaring superficiality behind the whole exercise — Praxis is just an incredibly cool word. And its origins rested firmly in that CD, now sitting in my hands as I sat at the computer. A word nicked from a collective of New York musicians, who in turn nicked it from someone or something else.

At the time, I was 19, living a suburgatory existence of community college during the day, supermarket checkout at night and dreaming of greater things that had yet to happen. The CD, called Transmutation (Mutatis Mutandis), was beautiful. Futuristic, kaleidoscopic cover art, music like Sun Ra channeled through Slayer in a vortex. Dense, barely intelligible liner notes. “Chaos is not entropy,” they lysergicized, reasoning away the constraints of earthly existence, “chaos is continual creation.” Everything a 17-to-19 year old kid like me could possibly ask for in packaged stimulation. All of it a bit excremental, in hindsight, but then — incredibly cool.

And the word in front of it all, “praxis” with its magical fulcrum “X” that made it leap out from the page like the outstretched hand of a crossing guard, you just had to stop in your tracks. I drew imaginary lines with my finger, the loopy, curlicue “p” lead-in, segueing into the “ra.” Then, the vicious, capital “X’ in the middle. Then the baby “i” and the serpentine “s” tailing off right back into the middle. Then the dot for emphasis.

Yep. I typed it into the computer. Rejected. Someone — some no good son of a bitch bastard had taken it. Some prefab “would you like” names showed up on the screen.

But no, I wanted that name, clearly I just needed a flourish. Somewhere lying around was a program for the 88 Olympics. The logo was cool, a double infinity standing on end, interwoven into the rings of the Olympic logo. Just the number “88″ was cool. Just like praxis was cool. So there they were, praxis and 88, a shotgun wedding of pure coolness. So I grabbed a sharpie. Tried out some combinations on a sketchpad. p RAX is 88. PRaXis88. prAxis-88. Finally settled on a design, the “praXis” followed by two loopy eights, each with baby heads leaning to the side off of a giant thorax, like melting snowmen.

So there it is. The deep origins of my identity. Representing nothing but the blip on the timeline, and like the other reminders, the little fishbone scar/tattoo on my back or the ratty t-shirts and faded concert tix, dreaming of greater things that had yet to happen. I can get behind that, even now.

Left my parents’ place at 9:30PM. Into the cold rainy outdoors and into the Matrix, the two-hour pilgrimage down country roads, through Amish country, past the Herr’s potato chip factory, and eastern Pennsylvania towns where they ring in the New Years by dropping all sorts of foreign objects — wrenches, anchors, roses red and white, and perhaps most bizarrely, a stuffed goat. Passed them all, on my way towards the sour, green center of pure absurdity :-)

The pickle drop. ‘07. Dillsburg PA. Street signs led the way as I approached. It was a town I’d passed before, the type of town where you blink for a second and miss entirely. I veered off rte. 15 to the main drag downtown. Parked the car on a side street. Tucking the pickle card in my jacket for dryness, I walked towards the first sign of shelter, a Bingo hall where a cukette with collagen lips served up pickle soup, and outside of which a man purporting to the mayor gladly offered his John Han-cuke to my card, all under the auspices of a bovine of questionable dairy output.

After picking up a few souvenirs (and eating a chocolate-covered gherkin … yep), and making all the obligatory calls and texts, I jostled for position behind the yellow police tape, dodging umbrellas for a clear line of sight, and set my camera to camcorder mode.

The crowd became rowdy, green balloons signalled the way, and at the tick of 11:59,
the cuke of ages began its slow descent into the barrel of destiny, ejecting fireworks from its Fred Astaire top hat, finally immersing its dillhole into the brine as the clock struck midnight.
A modest fireworks display later and the crowds dispersed. I snapped a few pics before jumping back in the car, my second jacket of the night drenched, and over to the local 24-hour diner. There were more waitstaff than patrons inside (at 12:15am on New Year’s Day? Three blocks from the celebration?). So I sat down for a breakfast platter and showed my video to the waitress, who casually said, “oh is that the thing over there in Dillsburg? Can’t say I’ve ever been.” I looked at her with a furrowed brow. “Never been? Have you lived here the whole time?” “Yep, Dillsburg born and raised.” “Oh, so I guess you couldn’t get the time off?” “No, hon, wasn’t workin’ neither. Just never made it downtown is all.” OK, well, to each their own, I guess, shaking my head.

In the diner bathroom, as I wiped my face down in the mirror, I said to myself, “Wow. You just drove two hours here in the rain by yourself, and still have two hours’ drive back, all to watch a giant pickle drop into a barrel when even the locals can’t even be bothered to watch. Are you fucking nuts?” Again with the furrowed brow. Eyes darting. Head scratching. “A giant pickle …. ” Then slowly, the tomato-red face in the mirror contorts into a big smile and laughs. “I’ve never been so proud. Happy new year.”