MIke Miner We Hardly Knew Ya

First, an extension of gratitude toward the entire Thate family for inviting me to New Jersey for a holiday party and allowing me to bring along my slack-jawed, herpetic^ compadres. Then, I must discuss the events that led up to an evening in New Jersey. Mr. Miner, a.k.a. Mike, a.k.a. Mr. Lucky 24/7, a.k.a. The Boss (maybe that’s sacrilege in Jersey, but Bruce Springsteen never met Mike Miner) came to New York at a mere half past 5 in the a.m. on Saturday morning. He arrived in our neck of the woods, Brooklyn, around 8 a.m. after an atrociously long journey from JFK. After sleeping off the night before for my roommate Colter and I, and Mike his red-eye flight, we began the day at 2 p.m. at White Castle. We had mentioned to Mr. Miner in a telephone conversation previously that we resided near the infamous food-bag and demanded we sojourn there while he was here. Nobody says no to Mike Miner.
For those who’ve never been, and I was one of these people prior to this fateful day, White Castle specializes in tiny, bite-sized thin hamburgers with onions. The burgers in the pictures, unlike McDonald’s, did not look appetizing, nor did the cooking area consisting of a flat fryer bordered by discarded, discolored sliced-up onions. I ignored my instincts to run like hell in favor of the will of Mike and ordered two double cheeseburgers, coke and an order of onion rings—I asked for no onions on the burgers but received them anyways. I ordered first and got my food first, but upon retrieval, my disgust told me that nothing was going to get prettier so I might as well close my eyes and eat. There was little catsup and so I was forced to savor the flavor White Castle had to offer. I am sure that the onion rings were merely onion flavored breading molded into a ring. The soggy burger buns kissed my tongue as I imagine a sponge might and the patty fortunately was too thin to even taste. The patty, by the way, had to be a slice of ham I assume because of the way the White Castle employee slapped each slice onto the fryer, making it look like a rolled out pig.
Halfway through my first burger and it wasn’t the over-consumption of alcohol the previous evening that was making me nauseous; no, it was the combination of both Colter’s and my own self-loathing for eating this and Miner’s joy in consuming the same sloppy shit. To be fair to Mike, he knew quality and White Castle were polarized, yet he relished in our disgust, as most of us have known him to do. And we made all gone and departed, never to return again, save another Mike Miner visit, which we regrettably agreed to inhabit each time Mr. Miner comes to visit.
Mike and I attempted to mask White Castle’s lingering effects with beer, Yeungling to be exact, but with each flatulent call, we relived each bite. A few beers and a few hours passed and we were ready for a slice of pizza and an adventure into New Jersey. On our journey to pizza we stopped at the Spirit shop and Mike, the gentleman he is, acquired three flasks of Jagermeister. After pizza we added our friend Owen to the mix and we were off to New York Port Authority (side: I will try to include the New York Port Authority into my everyday life). We were contemplating taking a ferry over to the other side of the Hudson but instead chose in favor of the ten-minute bus-ride through the tunnel, which I now know to be the Lincoln Tunnel. On the bus we exchanged alcohols around, unsure of the adventure we were about to embark upon. We arrived at a nondescript bus stop, a hundred yards from the ferry port, Port Imperial, and about three or four hundred yards from any other form of civilization. The backdrop to the port was a picturesque view of Manhattan, the kind of panoramic shot seen at mall picture-framing stores. Mike attempted to take a group photo while the three of us pounded our respective flasks. Ask him, they were shit.
We were lost though, and only the youngest Thate, Ally, could save us. And save us she did. Each of us a little tipsy, we were greeted in an Infiniti SUV, by this svelte, poofy-haired blonde, too short to reach the pedals adequately. She assured us that the residence where we were going to be “partying” was close. We never worried in the hands of young Ally. Upon arrival, we stood out as the vagabonds of the party. Unbeknownst to me, this was a rather formal gathering of friends, family and coworkers and Mike, Colter, Owen and I arrived in t-shirts and jeans to the partygoers’ gowns, slacks and button-down dress shirts. Not to mention it was a beautiful three-story apartment. We got everyone’s attention to say the least, but we ignored the gazers and dodged the kitchen island for the plethora of alcohol bottles conspicuously hidden in the corner. There was a lovely young girl, who will remain unnamed, in a slit, black cocktail gown juxtaposing fake tanning with fake French-manicured fingernails. The beautiful hoarse voice of Jersey, and a lip smack here and there, she actually stood out.
Mike, Colter and Owen decided to engage in conversation with the oldest looking, and surprisingly oldest--my assumption—lady at the party.* My first interaction with her came at the kitchen sink. I was obtaining ice to freshen my beverage, when aforementioned lady—I could use gratuitous vulgarities but that would be just mean—aforementioned lady, stole my ice filled glass and dumped it into her glass. I protested but she only said, “Yeah, I’m taking your ice, and I’m smarter than you.” It was most likely the alcohol prohibiting me from thinking of a clever comeback, but I didn’t respond verbally, I just looked at her, eventually thinking, “What kind of person says that?” I walked away, I didn’t even care to find out.
Only, I did find out. I eventually, through my friends’ reiteration of her tales, found her to be a chemist with multiple degrees. And we all decided, my friends and I, she was smarter than I’ll ever be. But I doubt I’ll ever be a 42-year-old saggy everything single gal living in New Jersey. Who the hell am I to judge though? I’m an idiot remember.
Shortly after that we decided to leave second class New York for first class New York. Only the trek home was much more daunting than we expected. The younger Thate having disappeared, we turned to the eldest, Taylor, for help. The family lived in the opposite end of the complex in the condominiums, which had an immaculate view of the city. I don’t get no view in Brooklyn. We were greeted by the man of the house, Mr. Thate, my high school basketball coach. He sat on the couch, in the dark, a glass of wine in his hand, watching a definite Coach Thate movie, Pirates of the Caribbean. He loves that shit. He wasn’t waiting up for his daughters to come home, he was watching a movie, relaxing, and we had to go and fuck it up and intrude with our whispered yelling, talking basketball, partying, and some more basketball. He graciously went to bed and,officially, I sent my basketball coach to bed. What is the world coming to? Every time I see that man, I feel like I should stand on the baseline and run, just run ‘til I can’t runs no mores.
Taylor called us a car. We didn’t ask what it’d cost. We bid farewell and thanked Taylor for her hospitality. We met the car and were off back to New York. We got in the car, a haggard bunch, and asked the driver, in Spanish, how much the ride would cost. He told us $36 plus $6 for the tunnel toll. We were outraged, having paid a mere $3.20 a piece to cross into Jersey. We told him we wouldn’t pay, again in Spanish, I think. We had driven half a mile or so and the driver decided that if we weren’t going to pay, we were going to start from point A and he drove us back to the complex we originally came from. It was a kick in the pants. But we didn’t care; we’d find someone else, no problem. We had spirits to get us through. We began to wander toward the tunnel, only very few cars came or went, and none of them were taxis. What had I gotten everybody into? We were an adult, deranged version of “Stand By Me” only there was no dead body and we were too inebriated to even think about walking on train tracks. But there were train tracks, taunting us, giving us hope that in our path a train would swoop us in and save us from the aquatic enhanced cold air. It never came, and so we walked. Some say it was twenty minutes, some say it was two hours. We’ll never really know.
A taxi finally came and we were ready to sell our bodies to cross into New York. Instead we ended up paying $32, flat.* A hell of a deal for a bunch of burgeoning prostitutes. Colter would have gone first and he knows it. We sent the taxi to our friend Rob’s, who was living in, owen knows, I have no idea, what part of the city. Rob was out of town and we were checkin’ the place out. Within minutes of being there, with the kitchen light acting as a spotlight, we dropped the last remaining flask, spilling a bit on the counter and decided we didn’t want to disrupt anything more. And so, we went to find alcohol. Only we didn’t need it. (Sorry mom, sorry dad—if you read this, I didn’t spend a dime)
We tried 7-11, and left with only a beef roll purchased by Mr. Miner for Owen, intended for a defiant Colter. Mr. Miner purchased, for himself, a set of taquitos. No alcohol. I had nothing, although in mischievous fashion, as Mr. Miner was finishing his taquito, I slapped it out of his hand. To which he responded, “I don’t care” picked it up off the New York concrete, and finished the Mexican delicacy. Attempting to finish his second piece, I again slapped it out of his hand and laughed. My laughter=the beginning of my demise. Mr. Miner proceeded to pick up the taquito and slap it into my face, smearing it all over. The collateral damage; my jacket stained, reeking of artificial beef for days to come. Mr. Miner likes to leave mysteries of nostalgia for his friends. He must get it from his friends. Ask Mike about the fish that lingered inside his own car for days, and ask who the culprit is. His first name starts with a C and he is mentioned in this story.
Shits and giggles aside, alas we found a bar. Moments passed and Mike disappeared, only to return with hot dogs and a pitcher of beer, at the very moment Owen was tipping the bartender for the pitcher of beer he just purchased. Colter doesn’t drink beer, and so Mike demanded he take a shot of the strongest proofed liquor in the building. None of us could tell you what the liquor was, but I can assure you Colter did not take the shot. Neither did I. And Owen decided it was time to put himself to bed and bid us adieu, and so Mr. Miner was left to the shot. He pleaded, we pleaded for Colter to take it, and our torturous peer pressure should have led to two black eyes on two different people, but instead Mike, the man that he is, drank the miniature glass of lighter fluid. He then slapped me. In the face. Like a woman who catches her man cheating. The bouncer didn’t think the slap was as hilarious as Mike and I did. “I don’t care if you guys are friends, that’s how fights break out.” I think the bouncer just needed to adjust his crotch and needed an excuse to get off his fat ass. We adhered but now it was time for the bar to close. And we had two pitchers of beer to drink. We’re 21st Century men, we care about our resources and so we couldn’t well let those drinks go. There are children in Africa who are thirsty.
I believe that is where the evening ended for dear Mr. Miner and myself. Only Colter can recall the events after the bar, and he has the footage to prove it. If you find Mr. Miner on myspace.com, we can see that Colter posted some footage of a wrestling match obviously dominated by The Great Mike Miner. Pathetic and out of shape, with blood shot eyes, I sit in a headlock, defeated, and not for the last time. For in the life of Joel Michael Miner, failure is an illusion. Hail Hail Hail! Thank you Colter for not being a lush and making sure we returned home
And then, like a puff of smoke, he was gone by 4 p.m. Sunday. And so I beg and plead, a petition will be administered to the world, come back Mr. Miner. We need you here, now, and forever!

^sources unvarified
*specificity is wary due to consumption levels