stop right there, I gotta know right now

Ever since I unceremoniously lost my job in Philadelphia, I have worked in New Jersey. It is not unusual for people from Philadelphia (and its immediate surrounding area) to work in New Jersey. As a matter of fact, Philadelphians consider New Jersey to be a suburb of Philadelphia. 

My commute to work is about forty minutes and, understandably, I have to cross a toll bridge. Actually, I have my choice of two bridges that span the Delaware River. My preference is the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge, a nearly 100-year old drawbridge that, at any given moment, halts traffic to open up and allow passage of a ship. This operation can interrupt my morning and/or evening drive by up to a full hour. My alternative is the Betsy Ross Bridge, a more modern but less traveled truss structure built high enough that it doesn't need to open. Ships just scoot right under it and so far no ship has been too tall for passage. The Betsy Ross Bridge, however, is difficult to get to and out of my way. It also sports a toll of five dollars as opposed to the Tacony-Palmyra's EZ-Pass-discounted three bucks. Most mornings, I take the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge. I subscribe to a texting alert system that lets me know when the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge is scheduled to open. If I get that message before I leave for work, I change my route and head, reluctantly, towards the Betsy Ross Bridge. If I get that text en route, well.... then I'm fucked.

Once I cross one of those bridges, I navigate towards Route 130 and soon I find myself at work. Route 130 is an 83-mile stretch of busy Interstate thruway of which I only employ a small portion. One day, while driving along the route I drive every morning, I saw the flashing light of a local police vehicle in my rearview mirror. I obligingly slowed down and pulled to the curb to allow the officer to pass. But he didn't pass. He pulled right up behind me. Panicked, I steered my car into the parking lot of one of the many businesses on Route 130 and shut off the engine. The police car came in right behind me and parked. The officer stayed in his car for a few minutes before approaching my car. In those minutes, I tried to think of what I could have possibly done to warrant a traffic stop. I wasn't speeding. It's kind of hard to speed on Route 130 that early in the morning. As far as I knew my brake lights were in working order. The officer appeared beside my car and I lowered my window.

"Hello, officer.," I said

"Good morning," he replied and he asked for my driver's license and car registration. He walked around to the front of my car and leaned down a bit. Then he returned to my driver's side door. "You don't have a front license plate." he said.

"Yes," I explained, "They are not required in Pennsylvania, where I live." He nodded. I went on to say that I worked in nearby Pennsauken, New Jersey and I was on my way to my job.

The police officer squinted at me and said, in his best "Sergeant Joe Friday" voice, "I ran your license and there is a New Jersey plate with the same number that was reported stolen." I didn't know how to reply. Obviously my license plate — a blue, yellow and white plate with "PENNSYLVANIA" printed across the top — is not now, nor has it ever been a New Jersey license plate. It does not look like, nor could it be mistaken for a New Jersey license plate. I decided on the best response... and that response was "Oh."

The officer examined my driver's license and registration for a moment or two before handing them back to me. He said, "Okay. Have a good day, sir." He turned on his heels and walked back to his car. He got in, fired up the ignition and sped away, no doubt on his way to break up a murderous and desperate crime ring in the Greater Pennsauken area. I started my car once he was out of sight. As I continued on my drive to work, I played the whole incident over in my head. My explanation of the lack of a front license plate to an officer of the law in a neighboring state just stuck with me. That is until I re-thought about his nonsensical reason for stopping me in the first place. Look up there. There is a side-by-side comparison of the current Pennsylvania  and New Jersey license plates. Can you tell the difference? If you can, perhaps a career in New Jersey law enforcement is not right for you.

Ever wonder why New Jersey is the butt of so many jokes? Wonder no more.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

best thing I never had

According to the signs posted outside of Joe Italiano's Maplewood Inn, you are looking at a plate of the "World's Best Spaghetti." Think about that for a minute. The world's best spaghetti. The best spaghetti in the entire world — out of all of the restaurants on this planet that offer spaghetti as an entrée on their menu. This is the best! Stare at it. Bask in its glory. The. Best. Spaghetti. In The. World.

My wife and I have been traveling to Atlantic City for a good portion of our lives. First as children, chauffeured by our parents on family vacations to the famous New Jersey shore destination. Then as adults with our son to create our own beloved memories of the storied seaside burg known as "America's Playground."

In more recent years, Mrs. Pincus and I would drive from our suburban Philadelphia home to Atlantic City to... enjoy?.... encounter?.... experience all that the Harrah's Casino Resort has to offer. For a time, Mrs. P was a favored patron in the eyes of Harrah's. She was showered with gifts and trips and free rooms and complimentary meals, as well as literally hundreds of dollars in "free play" for use in their casino slot machines. We traveled to Atlantic City several times a week to take advantage of all of the perks that came our way... until it ended, of course. Yep, one day, the marketing algorithms caught up and Mrs. P was cut free. Until, of course, it picked up again. In hopes of recouping some lost income due to closures during the COVID-19 pandemic, Harrah's apparently dug deep into their mailing list and suddenly Mrs. Pincus was back in their good graces. She began receiving offers to come down and collect a modest gift card or household appliance of some sort. These offers were made to encourage folks to gamble a bit while they were there to get their free gift. But they don't know my wife very well. We took the ninety-minute trip, Mrs. P ran in (properly masked and gloved while I — also masked — waited outside), got her gift and we left. We spent approximately fifteen minutes at Harrah's including the walk from the parking garage. Mrs. P didn't drop a single nickel in a slot machine. Oh, they'll cut her off soon. Don't you worry.

So, while we are still on Harrah's "good list," we have found ourselves Atlantic City bound on that two-lane blacktop road that bisects the rural-looking communities of South Jersey more often than we ever figured. Considering how often we traverse Route 30, colloquially known as "The White Horse Pike," I still marvel at how it still seems unfamiliar and its landmarks very forgettable. The landscape is dotted with a smattering of weather-worn, single-story houses that — I am convinced — all have one of those brick-walled dry wells in the basement, like Buffalo Bill's house in Silence of the Lambs. I'm also sure that they each contain a senator's daughter pleading for her life. Oh, there are a small amount of recognizable businesses along the way, too — like local supermarket chains and big-box stores like Wal-Mart. (I think we pass three.) But, for the most part, it is a repetitive tableau, like the one Fred and Barney pass as they tool through Bedrock. There are dozens of car repair places, their yards piled high with rusted husks of years-old vehicles in various stages of disassembly. There are numerous strip centers with empty stores. There are a number of restaurants, some looking closed at the dinner hour, some lit up with no customers. But among those restaurants, shining like a beacon, its parking lot jammed with cars, is Joe Italianio's Maplewood Inn.

An otherwise nondescript building situated in a cleared lot along an unremarkable stretch of the White Horse Pike in Hammonton, Joe Italianio's Maplewood Inn has something its competitors (if any) are lacking. Joe Italianio's Maplewood Inn has the world's best spaghetti. They even have two signs proclaiming the title. The most noticeable is perched on the roof of the building, backlit at night, reinforcing what the world (in the aggregate mind of Joe Italianio's Maplewood Inn) already knows. If you are in search of the best spaghetti in the entire world, search no more. Within this unadorned brick structure, your quest has come to an end. The great pasta salons of Rome, Venice and Bologna have resigned themselves to the fact that despite centuries-old recipes and preparation processes, a little red masonry structure in the tiny hamlet of Hammonton, New Jersey has bested them all. The best! In the world! Wow! Just wow! They don't have enough room on their signs to spell out Joe's first name in its entirety, but — damn! — they need the space to alert the 14,000 residents of Hammonton and beyond that within these walls the best spaghetti in the world can be found. There are highly regarded restaurants and establishments boasting the coveted third star from the revered Michelin Guide. They are concocting delicate gourmet recipes from exotic ingredients to tantalize the discerning palate. But, when it comes to spaghetti — forget it! They hang their collective heads. Because, as we know now, none of them serve the world's best spaghetti. That, of course, can only be gotten from the kitchen of Joe Italianio's Maplewood Inn. 

During the pandemic, Mrs. Pincus and I are being very cautious in our actions. Yes, I know. Going into a casino seems like the last place we should be going. But, Mrs. P is diligent in her precautionary measures... and when my wife is diligent about something, watch out. In the meantime, we are eating all of our meals at home and we have not ordered from a restaurant in eight months. When the time comes when we feel it is safe for us to venture out and re-enter the world of "dining out" again, will we make a beeline to Joe Italianio's Maplewood Inn for a sampling of the world's best spaghetti?

Nah.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

build a bridge to bring both sides together

Every day — twice a day — I pass the Lower Trenton Toll-Supported Bridge, that straddles the Delaware River between Trenton, New Jersey and Morrisville, Pennsylvania. No toll is collected from drivers crossing the bridge, making it one of just a handful of toll-free bridges leading out of the Garden State. Officially, the Lower Trenton Toll Supported Bridge is designated as part of US 1 - Business Route, however, US 1 - Business Route doesn't really cross the bridge. It's actually Route 32, but not until you are in Pennsylvania. The Lower Trenton Toll Supported Bridge has even been featured in a few movies, including 1954's Human Desire and 1988's Stealing Home. The real claim to fame for the Lower Trenton Toll-Supported Bridge comes from the somewhat arrogant slogan that adorns the southside span in seven-foot high neon letters. It reads "Trenton Makes The World Takes" and it is renowned (and even reviled) by those all over the Greater Philadelphia and surrounding area.

The Lower Trenton Toll Supported Bridge, which is known colloquially as the "Trenton Makes Bridge," opened on January 30, 1806, exclusively as a railroad bridge. It was the first railroad bridge in the United States to be used for interstate rail traffic. To keep up with the growing demands of railroad traffic, the bridge was rebuilt and reinforced four times over the years. 

In the spring of 1918, the Pennsylvania Railroad sold the bridge to state government of New Jersey and the tolls were removed. It was again rebuilt in 1928, after it was designated as an automobile traffic bridge for US Route 1. 

In 1910, the Trenton Chamber of Commerce ran a contest for a city slogan. Trenton, at the time, was a leading manufacturer of a multitude of goods, most notably steel, rubber, wire rope, linoleum and ceramics. New Jersey Senator and local businessman S. Roy Heath submitted the slogan "Trenton Makes The World Takes" and it was chosen as the winner. It appeared in brochures and on other printed material promoting the city of Trenton. In 1911, the slogan was affixed to the side of the Lower Trenton Toll Supported Bridge in large metallic letters. In 1917, the slogan was enlarged and illuminated with 24,000 incandescent lamps. In 1928, the sign and lights were removed and the bridge remained dark until an even bigger version was installed in 1935, this time the letters shone in bright glowing neon.

The sign and bridge, like much of the city of Trenton, fell into a dreadful state of disrepair. However, in the early 1980s, as part of a citywide revitalization, the sign was once again replaced with the biggest version yet.  In 2005, the sign received additional upgrades to lighting technology, including LED lights and multiple changing colors. More upgrades are scheduled as well.

Yet, as folks (like me) cross the adjacent Trenton-Morrisville Bridge (on the actual Route 1, where the toll is a buck), we still silently scoff at the boastful claim that the Lower Trenton Toll Supported Bridge makes on behalf of a once proud city. Because we are Philadelphians and that's what we do.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I saw the harbor lights

Here's a fun fact: When the Food Network conceived the show Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives and offered hosting duties to Guy Fieri, they had to explain what exactly a diner was to the boorish, peroxide-blonde celebrity chef. He just could not grasp the concept, despite being a "restaurateur"* for over twenty years.

However, anyone who grew up on the East Coast — specifically in close proximity to New Jersey — is very familiar with diners and all they have to offer. Poor, derided New Jersey is home to the largest collection of diners in the world — a claim that is completely understandable. A drive through any small town (Jersey has a lot of them) will reveal scenery regularly dotted with gleaming chrome eateries. Diner menus are renowned for their encyclopedic proportions, offering page after laminated page of every possible configuration of meal from hearty breakfasts to full-course dinners (with soup or salad, choice of two vegetables and Jell-o or rice pudding for dessert) to late-night snacks. Even those watching their weight need not worry, as diners notoriously offer "lo-cal" versions of popular dishes. Diner owners seem to think that a hamburger served with peaches and cottage cheese constitutes suitable diet fare. Every diner offers pretty much the same, abundant selection and the same quality food. Not great, but somehow, comforting. After all, it's kind of difficult to screw up eggs or a tuna melt.

I have always loved eating in diners. They are a fascinating time capsule, a place where eras from the past remain a part of the present. What is really fascinating  is that, no matter where they are located, they are all pretty much the same. Same set up. Same decor, Same wait staff. You know what i mean. That teased-haired woman with the doily on her head and too much rouge on her cheeks, her voice roughened by years of cigarette smoke, her vocabulary peppered with lots of "hon"s and "sweetie"s and "not a problem"s. My dad's favorite diner was The Heritage, a place just a few blocks from our house. Our family ate there often. My dad ate breakfast there every weekday morning for decades, and after my mom died, he ate every meal there. The Heritage had a waitress that fit that description. As a matter of fact, all of their waitresses fit that description.

This past summer, Mrs. Pincus and I took regular drives to and from Atlantic City. Sometimes, we went to spend a day on the beach. Sometimes, we went to take care of other obligations. One evening, we were driving back home to Philadelphia. As we drove, we discussed our options for dinner. Growing weary of pizza and sandwiches from Wawa (we love 'em, but...), we decided to stop at one of the many diners that we usually pass on our routine transversing of Route 30. The narrow, mostly two-lane, highway that is Route 30 snakes through many small towns — Pomona, Absecon, Egg Harbor City, Chesilhurst, Elwood, Hammonton — in Southern New Jersey. For a lot of these tiny burgs, the only place to eat is a diner. Just ahead of us, between a church and an Auto Zone, we spotted the soft glowing neon of the Harbor Diner. But this time, we stopped.

There's a light....

The Harbor Diner is pretty unspectacular. It's chrome-clad exterior is similar to a thousand other diners on Route 30 and throughout South Jersey. Inside, the faux leather booths, silver-flecked Formica counter and other characteristics were, again, as nondescript as any other establishment in its category. A young lady grabbed two hefty menus and directed us to a booth along the front of the narrow building. We scanned the numerous offerings for something that did not include meat. On most diner menus, the vegetarian-friendly options are plentiful. I decided on an entree from the typewritten dinner menu that was attached with a clip to the pre-printed menu, expanding the selections by at least 30. The waitress — another young lady who bore all the signs of evolving into the waitress I described earlier — deposited glasses of water on our table and asked if we were ready to order. My wife ordered a lettuce and tomato club sandwich, an assemblage that sometimes requires a bit of explanation and garners strange looks when it is made clear that no bacon is to be included. However, our waitress scribbled the order on a pad without so much as a blink. I ordered grilled salmon and was promptly informed that salmon was not available. I settled, instead, for fried flounder, a diner staple and a point of misty reference from my youth. I ordered fried flounder at The Heritage Diner more times that I can remember. A short time later, our food arrived. It was typical diner food and it was good. Really good. Afterwards, Mrs. P got rice pudding to take home.

A week or so later, we stopped at the Harbor Diner. This time we were with our son and his girlfriend, returning from a relaxing day on the Atlantic City beach. Our family was greeted by the staff of the Harbor Diner as though we  were regulars. We ordered and we all enjoyed our choices. It was a good meal, nothing spectacular or exotic. Just good food at ridiculously cheap prices.

Cluck and Z with Murphy on the side

A few weeks went by and, once again, Mrs. P and I found ourselves at the Harbor Diner. This time it was late, nearly 11 PM. We looked over the menu and decided to have breakfast nine hours early. Mrs. Pincus ordered sunny-side up eggs, toast and home fried potatoes. Strangely, the preparation of the eggs required a bit of additional explanation. The waitress asked if my wife if she wanted her sunny-side up eggs "over easy." My wife smiled and clarified, "No, sunny-side up." The waitress nodded without further expression and jotted something down on her little pad. I ordered a mushroom-cheese omelette and its standard accompaniments. When our food was brought out, I promptly took a picture of my classic-looking platter and posted the result on Instagram. Google Maps, into which I am automatically logged on, asked If I wished to post my photo to the gallery created for the Harbor Diner. I happily accepted, uploaded my photo and then dug into my late dinner/early breakfast.

A few days later, I got an alert from Google. Someone had a question for me about the Harbor Diner, based on the photo I posted, no doubt. I clicked the notice and this eloquent, astute dissertation popped up:

I read it. And reread it. And reread it again. Technically, it wan't a question. Obviously, this fellow was disappointed with his visit to our newly discovered. eatery. Even after several run-throughs, I was still confused by this poor customer's sentiment. His anger seemed to have totally obliterated his ability to use punctuation, save for a set of misplaced ellipses. That aside, I sort of surmised that he saw a young lady (presumably a waitress, although he does not make that clear) smoking in the "ketchen," which I understand to be the area where the food is prepared and not the late creator of the popular.Dennis the Menace comic strip. His food was "diff" and "cold," which, unless it was ice cream or gazpacho (which I do not believe they offer), is unacceptable. Actually, I'm not sure was is acceptable, as far as "diff" is concerned. He concludes by saying that he is paying for this kind of service and he would go there "agian" (sic).

I was saddened by Mr Google "M"s convoluted rant cum complaint about the Harbor Diner. I cannot speak for Mr. "M," (actually he can barely speak for himself), but I know that I will happily return to the Harbor Diner, if given the opportunity. 

Perhaps next summer. Perhaps next week.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*allegedly

let my people go-go

I was born and raised Jewish. Growing up, most of my friends were Jewish. Now, in my social circles, that meant that while everyone else was celebrating Christmas, we screwed a fresh light bulb into the electric menorah with each new night of Chanukah. We had a box of matzo in our house around the time we saw commercials for Easter egg dye on television. We weren't particularly religious, but when one of my friends turned thirteen, he got a big party and bunch of money for reciting a memorized speech in Hebrew in front of a bunch of his relatives at synagogue. Aside from that, we were just like everyone else. We dressed the same. We ate the same food and, for the most part, we looked the same.

However, this did not make me immune to my share of discrimination. I experienced a good deal of antisemitism in my mostly gentile neighborhood. My Jewish friends and schoolmates all lived in a different, mostly Jewish neighborhood. The kids in my neighborhood never let me forget that I was Jewish. I was taunted, accosted, pushed, prodded and verbally abused. Even though, for the most part, like I said, I looked just like they did. I didn't dress any different. I didn't wear a traditional head covering or sport curly payis on the sides on my head. I even ate the same foods they did, except for the foods I didn't like, not for any religious dietary reasons.

When I was 20 years old, I met the woman who would become my wife. When she told me that she observed kashrut (Jewish dietary laws), I told her the only people I knew who kept kosher were in their 80s. Needless to say, I didn't win her over immediately. (It worked out, though.) As I got to know her and the family into which I would marry, I was introduced to the heretofore unfamiliar world of traditional Jews. I found myself witnessing — and even participating in — Shabbat prayers. When Spring rolled around, Passover became more than just a single box of matzo. My in-laws would be host to a full-blown seder, complete with ornate wine cups and long explanations of the origins of the holiday, and, of course, homemade matzo balls, gefilte fish — everything! At Chanukah, my future wife's mother shredded actual potatoes and made latkes right before my eyes! We attended synagogue on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, but also on Simchat Torah, Purim and other holidays that I never heard of. All this prompted my mother — a woman whose maternal grandfather was a rabbi  — to ask if I was marrying into an Orthodox family. When I did marry, my wife maintained a kosher kitchen. (as a matter of fact, we still have a kosher kitchen!) Our son attended Jewish Day School through high school and loved knowing how knowledgeable he was about the history of his family's religious observances.

Recently, Mrs. P and I experienced a different sort of discrimination. This time, it was under the watchful and judgmental eye of our own people.

Last weekend, Mrs. Pincus and I took a drive to Lakewood, New Jersey, a community of 92,000 that sits about 60 miles east of Philadelphia. Lakewood, itself, is pretty unspectacular. It's got houses and apartment buildings and many varied businesses. But what makes Lakewood unique is its Jewish population. More than half of its population is comprised of Orthodox Jews. And they are quite visible. On a drive down Route 9, the township's main thoroughfare, you can see men in dark suits, white shirts and wide-brimmed black hats on nearly every corner. Women surrounded by hordes of clamoring children are close at hand. Because of neighborhood demands, Lakewood is home to a giant supermarket called Gourmet Glatt. An unbelievable operation, Gourmet Glatt is easily twice the size of  typical supermarket. In addition to aisles and aisles of grocery items, there is a huge fresh produce section along with an array of stations offering sushi, cold cuts, salads, entire prepared meals. And every single thing in the place is certified kosher. They stock many national brands that are already kosher (whether you knew it or not) along side lesser brands that are more familiar to the particular (and loyal) clientele, On the Sunday we were there, the place was jammed. It was, after all, the week before Purim, the holiday that commemorates the ancient Jews being persecuted by someone (probably). Purim tradition has children dressing up in costumes mimicking the main characters in the Purim story. Sweets are distributed and exchanged as part of the celebration. Gourmet Glatt sets aside an entire room filled with high factory shelving overflowing with candy treats and various colorful containers ready to fill and disburse. It is on par with what most secular stores put out for the Christmas season. Again, this area of the store was packed to near capacity, making the navigation of the aisles a bit tricky and accessibility of a shopping cart impossible.

As Mrs. P and I strolled the aisles of Gourmet Glatt — marveling at the sheer volume of product, the compelling displays and the swarming crowds of anxious shoppers — I got a strange, somewhat uncomfortable vibe. How could that be? I was among my people. Tribesmen. Mishpacha. Well, we were being watched by the other customers, eyed like we didn't belong, scrutinized like outsiders who had infiltrated their secret sanctuary. The stares were palpable. Mrs. Pincus was wearing jeans, a no-no among Orthodox women. I was sans a head covering and fringes from a prayer shawl were not visible at my waistline. Also, I was clean-shaven. Unfettered, we ignored the silent inspection as best we could.

My wife, who had been to this store several times before, searched the delicatessen section for a delicacy called kishke, a rich, savory appetizer made from matzo meal, schmaltz (chicken fat) and spices. (Hey, don't knock it. In my carnivore days, I couldn't get enough of this stuff.) She scanned the many refrigerated cases but came up empty. Not content, she approached a bearded fellow who was arranging some packaged meat in another cold case.

"Hi," she began, with a smile, "I was looking for packaged sliced kishke, but I didn't see any."

By the way, this is kishke.

The fellow placed his last package in the case and, with a friendly grin, replied, "I can check to see if we have some." He burst through a swinging door and soon returned with a Styrofoam tray upon which rested two ochre-colored disks of kishke. "Here's some," he said as he presented the tray to my wife.

"Is this pre-cooked?," she asked, remembering that the last batch she bought only required a quick warming in the microwave. Uncooked kishke, you see, needs a good hour or so in a hot oven before it can be eaten.

The bearded fellow pointed to the tray of kishke and looked at my wife. "Well, Jewish people usually heat this up and serve it with gravy."

An expression of horror flashed across Mrs. P's face. I saw it. I saw it immediately. The bearded fellow was explaining the customs of Jewish people to my wife — she of Jewish day school training, of traditional and observant upbringing, of Kosher kitchen keeping. But now she was gettin' schooled by a guy who already deemed her  — purely based on his own assessment  — as not Jewish.

She momentarily struggled to respond, but then slyly injected her response with the word "fleshig," a Yiddish word for "meat." The bearded fellow didn't bat an eye, figuring to himself, "Well, whaddaya know? The shiksa picked up some Yiddish." We took the package of kishke and continued our shopping, first annoyed, but then amused by the exchange.

We still were being watched and judged as we walked towards the checkout counters. Men in wide black hats, women in sheitels and scarves, droves of kids swarming around the candy displays, all dressed in frumpy drab clothing and all looking exactly the same. I whispered to Mrs. P, "If one of these kids wanders off and Mom calls 'Shlomo!,' two dozen boys will come running."

Then I realized that I was exhibiting the exact same type of discrimination that we just had thrust upon us.

Discrimination and prejudice is a curious thing. Just like opposable thumbs and the ability to reason, it's what makes us human.

I won't be going back to Lakewood anytime soon. But the next time Mrs. P has a craving for kishke, she is likely return.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

seaside rendezvous

I first went to Seaside Heights, New Jersey just after I met Mrs. Pincus. We were not yet married, just a couple of kids looking for some fun at the shore. By this time, the Atlantic City of our youth had all but disappeared. It was now making the hopeful transition to becoming the Las Vegas of the East. Family resorts had been converted to casinos, amusement piers went bankrupt and were shuttered and the beach was no longer AC's number one destination. Seaside Heights, as I was told by my art school pal Eric who spent his summers in the small North Jersey community, stood unchanged for generations. The boardwalk, while considerably smaller than its famed Atlantic City counterpart, was lined with games of skill (like Whack-a-Mole and SkeeBall), spinning wheels of fortune and several piers jammed with carnival-style thrill rides.

One summer day in the early 1980s, Mrs. P (in girlfriend mode) and I tackled winding Route 37 through the notorious Jersey Pine Barrens*, to the tiny burg just over the oddly-configured Thomas A. Mathis and J. Stanley Tunney twin bridges. As we approached, we spotted the tracks of rollers coasters rising above the typical Jersey shore homes, We could hear the cheerful sounds of a calliope mixed with the angry chirp of seagulls and the calming woosh of the ocean. It was as though we were transported back twenty years to the fond memories of days spent lounging by the pool at The Deauville and evenings spent spinning on the Tilt-a-Whirl on Million Dollar Pier.

Mrs. P and I met Eric on the beach in the morning and later "walked the boards," marveling at the sights, riding the rides and even scoring a full box of candy at one of the wheels when the arrow finally landed on our quarter-covered number. (Of course, we had already plopped down twice the amount a box of candy would cost had we just made the purchase in a legitimate store.) After a nightcap of a Kohr Brothers chocolate-dipped cone, Mrs. P and I said our goodbyes to Eric and headed home, still joyed from a day's visit to a time past.

We returned to Seaside Heights regularly, even after our son was born in 1987. By this time, Atlantic City showed no signs of its former self, as the casino business was experiencing a massive construction boom and dizzying revenues. Seaside Heights still offered fun for the whole family. Rides, games, the beach and pizza slices bigger than your head.

Of course, time marches on. Our son grew up and a ride on the Whip could no longer compete with concerts and college and girls. Mrs. Pincus' interest in casino gambling blossomed and we found ourselves in one Atlantic City casino or another nearly every weekend. Our trips to Seaside Heights became less frequent, eventually ending altogether. The next time we heard the name "Seaside Heights" was in 2009 when MTV presented Jersey Shore, a "real life" look into the lives of a group of self-proclaimed "Guidos and Guidettes" sharing a house near the town's boardwalk, I never saw an episode of the show, but I know it was an extremely popular cultural phenomenon. It made Seaside Heights a household name as more tourists clamored for a glimpse of Snooki, The Situation and their assorted partners in crime.

After four years of ridicule based on Jersey Shore's infamy, Seaside Heights was assaulted by Hurricane Sandy (or "Super Storm," as it was dubbed by every major and local news outlet because everything needs a name) in the fall of 2012. Mrs. P and I sat in front of our television in a Las Vegas hotel room and watched in horror as the piers we once walked upon and rides we once rode upon were reduced to splinters by voluminous rains and violent winds. However, in the aftermath, the scrappy little town-by-the-sea banded together, determined to rebuild in time for the important summer season. For the most part, Seaside Heights bounced back and welcomed tourists as they had in the past, only to be knocked down again in September by a devastating fire that destroyed over fifty boardwalk businesses as well as one of the more popular amusement piers. But, again, like a phoenix, Seaside Heights rose unfettered and greeted tourists in 2014 with open arms, open beaches and open bars.

"we're gonna get to that place 
 where we really wanna go and 
we'll walk in the sun"

Last Sunday, just my wife and I (refusing to admit to the label "empty-nesters") returned to Seaside Heights after an absence of almost twenty years. Filled with nostalgic curiosity (and looking for an excuse to kill a Sunday afternoon), we decided to check out the progress and changes since our last visit. First, the private parking lot in which we regularly had secured our car was now a municipal lot, outfitted with automated, credit card-accepting kiosks dispensing tickets in lieu of a real-live teen with summer job. The boardwalk, however, looked nearly as we remembered — packed with bathing suit clad tourists, toting giant stuffed animals awarded by one of the many spinning wheels of chance or daintily stuffing a deep-fried Oreo into their zinc-oxide smeared lips. Groups of teenagers mingled with clutches of extended families and the atmosphere was buzzing with joyful activity. The beach was just as jammed with sunbathers and sand castle-builders and volleyball players. Music played. Rides spun to dizzying heights. Pizza doughs were tossed high in the air. Mrs. P and I strolled the truncated boardwalk and took in the sights, the sounds and the smells. We were happy — very happy — to see that Seaside Heights was thriving and vibrant. And when I saw that sign in the window of a boardwalk bar, I knew the more things change, the more they stay the same. Seaside Heights is gonna be okay.

The missus and I each had a slice of pizza as big as our heads, then started for home.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com



*The Jersey Devil was nowhere in sight.