The 250 Square Foot View

By Bobby Calise

Hoboken St. Patrick’s Day takes place on the first Saturday in March. Hoboken throws its party in early March rather than losing its would-be green-beer swilling customers to its rival Manhattan bars on the observed holiday, March 17. 

From the ages of 24 to 26, Hoboken St. Patrick’s Day was my Christmas Morning. I had moved away from home and was living with a roommate in a crappy basement apartment just two blocks away from Hoboken’s main strip of stores, bars and restaurants, Washington Street. The apartment itself was best known for its stale Doritos smell, flooding up to thigh level, and a series of uninvited rodent pals who spent a lot of time hanging out in our cabinets but never chipped in for groceries. But we tolerated the situation for longer than we should have because we knew that a crappy apartment is at least good for one thing: throwing a kickass party and not worrying about making a mess.

Preparation the night before was minimal but crucial. A keg of the cheapest light beer we could find. Check. A few sleeves of red Solo cups and a couple of bags of Tostitos. Check. Unhinging the closet door and propping it up onto an ironing board to build a makeshift beer pong table. Check.

And the parties were always a great time. Once, the cops stopped by to explain that technically, playing beer pong in our driveway was considered having an open container on the street, which is illegal in Hoboken. Another year a girl slipped and fell on the ice in our backyard. And there was one party where seemingly every other guest said they’d been invited by someone named Evan. (For the record, we narrowly avoided a ticket, the girl who fell was fine, just embarrassed, and I never did meet Evan.)

I still come in for Hoboken St. Patty’s Day every year even though I’ve moved into the city. Of course, the day doesn’t stir up the same ebullience in me that it once did. At 29, that Christmas Morning feeling comes at different times now. Now it’s when I’m on the verge of beating a particularly challenging level of Angry Birds…or when I’m about to put on a comfy new pair of fleece pants. Still, I remind myself that Hoboken St. Patty’s Day used to be my favorite day of the year, and that I will have a great time.

After trudging through the crowds of drinkers in various degrees of drunkenness—from buzzed to hammered to vomiting in bushes—I make my way to my intended party. I walk in and find my former roommate and co-host Mike sitting on the couch hunched over a coffee table about to claim his second straight presidency in a big game of Asshole. I tell him about all the drunken foolishness I’ve encountered on my walk over and ask him, “Hey man, do you think we were that loud and drunk and obnoxious back when we were having our parties?” Without hesitation, he looks at me with a straight face and says, “Oh, absolutely.” We can’t help but laugh.

For a moment I lament the days of loud and drunk and obnoxious on St. Patty’s Day, but then I realize: I’ll get another chance in about a week and a half.