SPECIAL TO THE SOMERS RECORD (08-10-17)
Every year at around this time I head south and spend a weekend at the Jersey shore all by myself, to unwind and recharge my batteries. And when I say "by myself," I mean myself and the zillion or so other people vacationing between exits 98 and 117 on the Garden State Parkway. I like to spend a little time at the beach, check out some bands at the bars and ride my bike around.
I hit 10th Avenue Beach on Friday when I got to Belmar. I've been to the black beaches of Santorini, the lush blue waters of Negril, Waikiki in Hawaii, and I can't think of any place I'd rather soak up some sun than the Jersey shore. I remember someone was once telling me about their dream vacation in Bora Bora: "There was not ONE SOUL on the beach!" They bragged. Is there anything more Boring Boring than that? Without big hair, small bikinis, bad tattoos and people yelling at their kids, I would be reduced to actually reading that book I brought. Later my wife asked me if I remembered to put on suntan lotion, and I said OF COURSE I remembered that I should have put on suntan lotion.
In between waves several planes flew over the ocean towing banners with ads on them. Some were useful in reminding me what time happy hour was at the beach bar, and who was the DJ, in case we weren't already on a first name basis. Other planes flew by with some odd advertising choices, such as health insurance and radiology services. I'm at the beach and I ALMOST remembered to put on suntan lotion- I'm clearly not here for my health. One banner was advertising outlet stores at exit 100. If your house didn't come with outlets already in it, you got fleeced.
At night I hit my favorite imbibery to see who was playing, as if I didn't know. I only come here once a year, but whenever that is, the Bruce Springsteen tribute band is always here too. I consider myself Springsteen-neutral, but I forget how many great songs he actually has, like "Growin' Up" and "I'm On Fire." But you need a singer who sounds like Bruce, and Bruce sings like he's passing a stone. It's hard to sing like that for two and-a-half hours- eventually that frog in your throat is going to croak. It might just be easier to pass a stone. You also need a glockenspiel player- a lot of Springsteen tunes have a glockenspiel in them. He was going to hire a lyre instead, but did not, due to the pants-on-fire situation.
On Saturday I rode my bike up Ocean Avenue, and into the stiff wind my top speed was only about 5 mph. I figured at least on the way back, I wouldn't need to pedal, and may not even need the bike at all it was so breezy. I rode north about seven miles and I noticed a police car that said, "Deal Police," and I thought, wow, that is so considerate of the cops to let drug dealers know in advance what they were up to, but it turns out that Deal is the name of the town.
On Saturday night The Nerds were playing. Those guys have been around forever it seems. They didn't over-geek their act, they were just a good solid band. The meek may yet inherit the Earth. The keyboard player seemed extra nerdy, and I tried to shout out a question about how to get my printer driver working, but he didn't hear me. They performed some crowd favorites, like "Shout!" Which has a part where everyone crouches down, while the band plays quietly. Then the chorus comes and everyone pops back up except for me, who did not have a round-trip ticket. They played that song, "I Like Big Butts!" A lot of women were pretty enthusiastic about that one, for obvious reasons.
By the time Sunday rolled around, I hurt all over from that long bicycle ride, I was sunburned, hungover and I had a headache. I needed the kind of prolonged rest that only three hours on the Garden State Parkway can provide.
Every year at around this time I head south and spend a weekend at the Jersey shore all by myself, to unwind and recharge my batteries. And when I say "by myself," I mean myself and the zillion or so other people vacationing between exits 98 and 117 on the Garden State Parkway. I like to spend a little time at the beach, check out some bands at the bars and ride my bike around.
I hit 10th Avenue Beach on Friday when I got to Belmar. I've been to the black beaches of Santorini, the lush blue waters of Negril, Waikiki in Hawaii, and I can't think of any place I'd rather soak up some sun than the Jersey shore. I remember someone was once telling me about their dream vacation in Bora Bora: "There was not ONE SOUL on the beach!" They bragged. Is there anything more Boring Boring than that? Without big hair, small bikinis, bad tattoos and people yelling at their kids, I would be reduced to actually reading that book I brought. Later my wife asked me if I remembered to put on suntan lotion, and I said OF COURSE I remembered that I should have put on suntan lotion.
In between waves several planes flew over the ocean towing banners with ads on them. Some were useful in reminding me what time happy hour was at the beach bar, and who was the DJ, in case we weren't already on a first name basis. Other planes flew by with some odd advertising choices, such as health insurance and radiology services. I'm at the beach and I ALMOST remembered to put on suntan lotion- I'm clearly not here for my health. One banner was advertising outlet stores at exit 100. If your house didn't come with outlets already in it, you got fleeced.
At night I hit my favorite imbibery to see who was playing, as if I didn't know. I only come here once a year, but whenever that is, the Bruce Springsteen tribute band is always here too. I consider myself Springsteen-neutral, but I forget how many great songs he actually has, like "Growin' Up" and "I'm On Fire." But you need a singer who sounds like Bruce, and Bruce sings like he's passing a stone. It's hard to sing like that for two and-a-half hours- eventually that frog in your throat is going to croak. It might just be easier to pass a stone. You also need a glockenspiel player- a lot of Springsteen tunes have a glockenspiel in them. He was going to hire a lyre instead, but did not, due to the pants-on-fire situation.
On Saturday I rode my bike up Ocean Avenue, and into the stiff wind my top speed was only about 5 mph. I figured at least on the way back, I wouldn't need to pedal, and may not even need the bike at all it was so breezy. I rode north about seven miles and I noticed a police car that said, "Deal Police," and I thought, wow, that is so considerate of the cops to let drug dealers know in advance what they were up to, but it turns out that Deal is the name of the town.
On Saturday night The Nerds were playing. Those guys have been around forever it seems. They didn't over-geek their act, they were just a good solid band. The meek may yet inherit the Earth. The keyboard player seemed extra nerdy, and I tried to shout out a question about how to get my printer driver working, but he didn't hear me. They performed some crowd favorites, like "Shout!" Which has a part where everyone crouches down, while the band plays quietly. Then the chorus comes and everyone pops back up except for me, who did not have a round-trip ticket. They played that song, "I Like Big Butts!" A lot of women were pretty enthusiastic about that one, for obvious reasons.
By the time Sunday rolled around, I hurt all over from that long bicycle ride, I was sunburned, hungover and I had a headache. I needed the kind of prolonged rest that only three hours on the Garden State Parkway can provide.
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