Rogo's looked like many other Hoboken bars on Saturday

For a citywide party with 30,000 of your closest friends, this was pretty tame compared to past years.

Tame, of course, should not be confused with "lame". Given the obvious popularity of Hoboken's St. Patrick's Day, it's nearly impossible to not have a grand time. Unless, of course, you don't have a concrete game plan a few days in advance. And in Hoboken this year, there were only about 200 citations for infractions including drinking in public, disorderly conduct, and public urination, down significantly from the 560 handed out in 2007.

Times in the following journal may not be precisely accurate:

8:30 AM: The alarm goes off after getting the requisite 10 hours of sleep. This is the first mistake that some attending the festivities make: Going out the night before. The excuse is always the same: "I was planning on going out for one drink after work, and before I knew it, the time is 2:00 AM and one drink became one keg." Running uphill is never a good thing, and in the case of people like the one mentioned above, going out to drink at 10:00 AM while hung-over is a whole bowl of wrong.

8:35 AM: The forecast called for snow turning to sleet and eventually rain, so I expected to see what began before going to bed. But since weathermen aren't paid on a performance scale, it was of little surprise that there was nothing on the ground and the sun was shining.

9:30 AM: Just because I had a plan doesn't mean it would work to perfection. For example, I had planned on having Joe from Garden Wine and Liquor have one of his kids deliver the beer I was responsible for getting for the pre-party on Washington Street that I was attending at 10:00 AM. One problem: The store wasn't open. I assumed it would be since it was for the Hunt, but no dice (or in this case, no beer). A dreaded run to A&P would have to do instead...

10:00 AM: Already running late for the party, I shuttered to see a line as long as the one I witnessed at Rogo's on the way there at aisle 4. While waiting to pay, two guys from Staten Island were talking about their day behind me.

"Can we drink in the streets?" one asked to the other. "I don't know. I would assume (there's that word again) no, but I'm sure we can just chuck it if we see the cops coming."

I felt compelled to jump in.

"You know it's a $1000.00 fine, right?" I said.

"$1000.00 fine for what?" one of them asked.

"$1000.00 fine for open container," I replied. "They gave out over $560,000 in fines last year."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" the other asked. "Is it legal to charge that much?"

"Apparently, yes," I said. "They're really trying to crack down. The word is out around town (thanks to publications like the Hoboken Reporter, Hoboken Now, and Realhoboken.com) so I think they're counting on out-of-towners to generate their revenue. Where are you from?"

"Staten Island," one of them said without the usual accent (it's scary when Jersey people can detect other accents in the Tri-State area, but that's Staten Island for you).

"Are there actual cities on Staten Island?" I asked. "Because anyone I meet from there always just says 'Staten Island' instead of a town on Staten Island, you know?"

"Yeah, but it's easier just to say Staten Island or you have to explain where you're from for another five minutes."

"Ah," I said, and paid for my Yuengling, Sam Adams and three bags of ice.

I assumed the cab I called ten minutes ago would be waiting outside (the dispatcher said it would take 5-7 minutes, which is 10-15 minutes in "Hoboken cab time" on a good day). But this wasn't a good day, or at least a normal one, so after waiting another ten minutes, I had to walk it up to

8th and Washington, which isn't a big deal unless you're carrying 24 beers and three bags to keep them cold.

Finally arriving at 10:45 AM, it wasn't a surprise that about 20 folks were there. I had starved myself since early the previous evening since I was told by the hostess--who took the previous day off just to cook and prepare--that there would be enough stuff to feed the entire parade, so I dropped off the beer and ice in the first available space and got a prime spot in front of the eggs, waffles, cinnamon buns, Quiche, and bagels. The hostess was German, and my experiences at Helmer's were always substantial in terms of servings, so it was no surprise that there was enough food here to feed the Brady Bunch x 17.

After downing four bottles of liquid gold in a matter of 90 minutes (a somewhat slow pace for me but the food wasn't making consumption easy) and watching the beginning of the parade from the window overlooking Washington Street, it was time to go off to the Quays (1:15 PM). This is where my plan would work seamlessly: While other fools would be waiting on mile long lines in the Mile Square, I would present my pre-purchased tickets to the bouncer and get in without a hitch. But upon walking by places like the Farside and Nine on the way, there was something different about HSPD '08.

Different as in...there weren't any noticeable lines at either of the places. And we're not talking about an off-the-beaten-place like Carpe Diem or DC's Tavern, but those right in the heart of the parade route. The parade itself had a good crowd, consistently one or two lines deep, and the weather was fine (45, no wind), so either (A) Everyone got there early; or (B) House parties were more popular this year with bars being insanely packed over the past few first Saturdays of March.

1:30 PM: Upon arriving at the Quays we encountered a small line. We had one extra person without a ticket with us, so I gave the bouncer two tickets and a $20.00 bill to act as the third after explaining that she had "forgotten her ticket at home." He gave me a look that I needn't bother with the bullshit excuse (which was accurate, she never had a ticket in the first place), and waved us in. In other news, 2nd Ward Councilwomen Beth Mason files her 17th lawsuit of the week.

Anyway, I expected the bar to be wall-to-wall drunks, but to my delight it was only at maybe 85% of capacity, thereby making it relatively simple to get a drink and move around. The band that replaced Celtic Cross, which had played the Quays on HSPD since it opened in 2005, The Skulls, were up to the task and should be considered on par with CC as far as Irish bands were concerned.

Many friends from present and past were on hand, as expected. One guy from school (Maryland) offered to buy me a shot, which ended up being something that mixed Jager and Red Bull, aka "JagerBomb". I'm not really a shot person (except for SoCo Lime at the Parker House), so it was to the bartender's and Brian's surprise that I had no idea what this shot was outside of reading about it in Drunk Chicks Magazine.

Another shot was purchased about 15 minutes later, and given the now-six beers I had along with two concoctions, I felt myself veering off the tracks too early in the day. The goal is always to obtain the perfect buzz, but I felt my equilibrium and eyesight starting to get ever-to-slightly off their axis. I wasn't stupid drunk, but experience has taught me to catch these moments early before the knockout blow from some mixed drink limited my ability to have spirited conversations, which is the second most-fun thing about drinking during the day.

1:45 PM: Having said that, I ordered a ice cold glass of water and a Coke. This would be slowly consumed over the next half hour.

2:15 PM: As Costanza would say, "I'm back, baby!" Ordered a beer from the back bar (which was always wide open without any hint of a line) and coasted from there.

2:30 PM: I look up and see a Brady Quinn commercial on...the second different one I would see that day. Given that the Browns re-signed Derek Anderson, it appears the Notre Dame QB that made Charlie Weis looked like a genius will be getting rich on the pine for awhile. I only bring this up because it would be like the hefty lefty, Jered Lorenzen, getting endorsement deals while holding Eli Manning's clipboard. Just a thought...

3:00 PM: This probably happened to everyone at least once yesterday: I ran into that girl whose name I can never, ever remember. I probably have said hello to her less than 100 times over the past five years at the beach and Hoboken, but unless her name rhymes with a female body part, I couldn't even begin to guess who she is. The word "you" replaces her name, as in "How are you?", "Where are you living these days?", and "How are the men treating you?". I keep waiting for someone to come by so she can introduce herself, but after 90 seconds, I excuse myself for the bathroom without even needing to go.

3:20 PM: I check my phone for the first time and see seven missed calls and even more text messages. The theme is the same: "Where are you?", "Can you get me in?", "Do you want to meet up later?" and "What makes puffy clouds so white?"...the usual nonsense. Most of the texts were from those doing HSPD for the first time, so I guess they don't understand how this day works, which is to say, it works one-dimensionally with little movement. In short, where you land at 1:30 PM on Hoboken St. Patty's Day is where you're stuck until you go for something to eat. It's nothing personal, just business...

Around 5:00 PM, Realhoboken.com's Amanda Dwyer witnessed someone using a different kind of stairs

5:30 PM: I'm at that point in my buzz where two hours goes by justlikethat. I remember having a good time and talking to more people than I can remember, many of whom I hadn't seen since Labor Day. "This day can never get old," I think to myself. I then wonder if my future wife will allow me to come when I have kids. And then I wonder why I'm even thinking of this shit in the middle of a bar after 12 drinks and just completing an Irish Car Bomb.

6:00 PM: While the pre-party food was plentiful, it also had expired in terms of satisfying any need for more. Time to go, I thought. This place is dead anyway (quoting Swingers, even though it wasn't). And it was off to one of the few bars I could finagle my way into: Rogo's on 8th and Willow.

6:15 PM: We walked to the cab stand over by the PATH and noticed once again that the Cage, Hoboken's only gay bar, was suddenly transformed into a straight bar again for the day. The gay pride flag was gone, as was the neon sign in the window that left no doubt that this was Jim McGreevey's favorite bar in Hoboken. "We're here, we're queer, get used to it," appears to only apply when boatloads of money aren't involved. Good job by the owners of the Cage for throwing away their principles to make a good buck. Capitalism rules over silly things like taking a firm stand advocating certain kinds of lifestyle, after all.

6:30 PM: Rogo's is selling burgers wrapped in aluminum foil upstairs. It is smaller than your average McDonald's cheeseburger, with the bun twice the size of the actual meat, but it was easily the best burger I've ever had since the time I forgot my wallet at my beach house and was stuck on a train for 2 1/2 hours and forced to walk home from the train station in 94 degree heat after not eating the entire day. Amazing how much change can be found in a couch when you actually look for it...

7:00 PM: Now I've seen my share of PDA and even participated in it when I was left little option to say no, but what I saw near the jukebox at Rogo's was the closest thing to intercourse without making a trip to Romantic Depot on Washington. The passion, the hardness of the kisses, the pure animalistic nature of it all. It was the scene in Mr. and Mrs. Smith times pie. Of course, the photographer for realhoboken.com, along with at least four other people amazed by what they saw (and that's saying a lot on a day when you expect to see first base on display everywhere) took more shots of this than Britney walking out of a clinic.

7:30 PM: Have you ever drunk yourself straight? This was my reality. I wasn't slurring my words, stumbling or saying anything that would make my face become wet. I just felt, after nine hours and doing this for eight years, that it HSPD 2008 had run its course. Another thought was that I had to be at work on Monday morning at 1:30 AM (don't ask...just keep things like sleep in mind when considering a career in television).

8:00 PM: Home sweet home. Skip around the tube and find one of the 22 Democratic debates being repeated again. Here's an idea: Instead of the millions that go into stretching the primary season over eight months, why not have five major primaries over five months (10 states per primary) so candidates don't need to raise so much money (obligating them to donors with their own agenda) and it would allow these Senators to actually be doing the things that Senators are elected to do (represent their own states).

8:01 PM: Wow...I must be sober if I came up with something like that.

8:02 PM: Switch to Con Air on HBO instead. Nic Cage was in, like, 40 movies like this back in the 90s, huh?

10:00 PM- After downloading photos from the day, it's time for bed. Noise from people at a party down the hall can be heard but isn't obnoxious. I wonder how they could still be going...unless they decided to wait for the second shift and started the festivities at 5:00 PM.

And so another Hoboken St. Patrick's Day has come and gone seemingly without any major public incidents. It was once thought that Hoboken couldn't handle the masses taking over town for the day, but maybe the excessive fines, enhanced police presence and delayed opening of the bars was enough to make it tolerable...even for those who said the day should be eliminated.

St. Patrick's Day, the Arts and Music Festival, St. Anne's Festival, Movies Under the Stars, and the social event of football watching every Sunday in the fall...if you thought there was a better town in New Jersey (and New York for that matter) to live in, I'd like to hear exactly where this magical place is.

Joe Concha is Realhoboken.com's Senior Writer and is half-Irish (the better half). Email questions or comments to joeconcha@yahoo.com or use the censor-free message boards on the homepage.