beach baby

In 1963, producer Sam Arkoff created the "beach party" movie genre. With inspiration from the popular Gidget films and the obscure Love in a Goldfish Bowl, Arkoff signed teen idol Frankie Avalon and Disney dream girl Annette Funicello to appear in the imaginatively-named Beach Party, released by Arkoff's AIP studios in late summer 1963. With the pre-established formula of teens, bathing suits, music and a simple plot thrown in there somewhere, Beach Party was a surprise hit. It spawned eleven more films using the same premise, if not the same locale. The action in most took place on the beach, but some were set in a winter ski lodge and others on the blacktop of an auto race track. However, all were chock full of hunky boys on surfboards and cute girls in bikinis (except, of course, Annette, under strict orders from Walt Disney). They featured music from the top trendy bands of the day, including Dick Dale and the Del-Tones, "Little" Stevie Wonder, Bobby Fuller Four, The Hondells and a slew of one-hit wonders. There was also a roster of popular comedians and actors known for their work in the Golden Age of Hollywood. Buster Keaton, Don Rickles, Keenan Wynn and even Oscar winner Dorothy Malone had no problem lowering themselves to the sophomoric level of writing and humor of these films. They were, indeed, a hoot!

And, boy, do I love them!

Of course, because Hollywood has a nasty habit of rehashing popular ideas, Arkoff's beach series gave other studios the cue to make their own entries into the genre, hoping to cash in on AIP's success. Just recently, I watched United Artists' attempt at making a "beach movie." The film — entitled For Those Who Think Young — is a mess. Just a mess.

Released in July 1964, between AIP's Muscle Beach Party and Bikini Beach, For Those Who Think Young wasn't really well thought out. Sure, it checks all the right boxes (Boys, girls, beach, music, Paul Lynde), but it lacks the endearing quality of the AIP films. Say what you will about the Frankie/Annette movies. They may be silly. They may have sub-par acting, but they do have plots. Paper-thin, yes, but plots, just the same. And they stick with those plots until the story is resolved. For a 90 minute feature, there is about 20 minutes worth of plot, allowing plenty of room for dancing on the beach, comical mugging from Buster Keaton and Mickey Rooney and a song or two from the two lead actors. But everything is neatly and satisfyingly summed up by the film's conclusion. And there's even enough time for another song and waving "bye-bye" to the viewing audience.

For Those Who Think Young starts off with good intentions. Good-looking James Darren is chasing pretty Pamela Tiffin (obviously, Shelley Fabares wasn't available, so they got someone who looks like her), much to the dismay of her over-protective uncle. All that is laid out in the first five minutes. Then, somewhere along the way, the plot is abandoned. There is a disjointed subplot involving a romance between Bob Denver and Nancy Sinatra. Suddenly, a major shift is made that makes Tiffin's uncle, played by up-and-coming comedian Woody Woodbury, the lead character. James Darren and Pamela Tiffin disappear for long periods of time, taking their storyline with them. Meanwhile, Woodbury monopolizes the screen with a little help from Paul Lynde and a pre-Ginger Tina Louise as a stripper. As the film winds to a close, character actor Robert Middleton is revealed to be an underhanded villain of some sort. He is outed, disgraced and everybody sings... and drinks Pepsi. Yep, at the time, "For Those Who Think Young" was the current advertising slogan for the Number Two cola company. At times, the movie feels like an extended commercial for the soft drink, made apparent by the blatant product placement. See?.... a mess.

The actors are all fine. Bob Denver, just a few months prior to ingratiating himself as everyone's favorite hapless first mate, provides some comic moments as James Darren's valet. Nancy Sinatra, in a brunette wig, is a foil for Denver's antics, otherwise, she is essentially a prop. Claudia Martin (Dean's daughter) is included in the bevy of girls. I suppose when Dino heard that Ol' Blue Eyes' progeny was cast, well....you know. Paul Lynde is... well... Paul Lynde. He mugs for the camera, chews the scenery and delivers his dialogue like he's giving an audition for his role as Samantha Stephens' "Uncle Arthur." (Ironically, the AIP beach movies were predominantly directed by Bewitched showrunner William Asher.) Tina Louise acts as though she is giving a performance worthy of Academy Award consideration. Woody Woodbury, the true star of the movie, is a typical hack comedian. He made a handful of movies after FTWTY and, at 98 years old, still offers a stand-up act in a Florida comedy club.

I usually have a high tolerance for bad movies. I can sit through some real clunkers. Some of my favorites are some really bad movies that I can watch over and over again.

For Those Who Think Young will not be joining their ranks. I have already deleted it from my DVR queue.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

metal health will drive you mad

When I was a kid, I was fascinated by those old guys who roamed the beach with metal detectors. On family trips to Atlantic City, I could always count on a few things. My parents would take my brother and me to the beach. My dad would gingerly wade into the ocean while wearing his sunglasses, indicating that he had no intention of putting his head anywhere near the water. Then he would invariably disappear from the beach, sneaking off to watch the slick-talking hucksters set up on the Boardwalk demonstrating those "handy-dandy" vegetable peelers/cutters that the likelihood of his purchasing one were about as good as his putting his head in the ocean water.

We could always rely on my mom buying an ice cream treat from one of those borderline-homeless guys who toted their frozen wares in a dented cooler, layered alternately with rock-hard dairy products on a stick and dangerous, but tempting, dry ice. We could also be sure that we'd see at least one old guy (but there were usually more) in torn shorts and a faded, threadbare t-shirt following his extended metal detector around like a handler displaying a prize-winning show dog. We would often see these mysterious figures in the early morning hours on the infrequent occasion that we were renting bicycles to ride on the Boardwalk. (Always with my mom. Never my dad). As the sun was slowly rising over the ocean, the silhouettes of these guys wandered intently in the freshly-combed sand, a pair of large headphones enveloping their heads under a ratty, but concealing straw hat. They'd listen closely for little "beeps" or "boops" indicating the presence of some hidden metallic treasure just below the sandy surface — or twenty feet below the sandy surface. It was a crap shoot.

Seeing these treasure seekers was a true sign that summer had arrived. Just like popping a salt water taffy in your mouth or flicking a wooden ball down a Skee-Ball alley, an unkept old guy on the beach with a metal detector let you know that school was out, surf was up and summer had begun. 

Did any of these determined fellows ever find anything of any real value? I'm not sure. Obviously, they did have the funds with which to purchase a metal detector. Perhaps they were just digging in a random spot on the beach and they discovered a long-forgotten pirate chest... or a wallet stuffed with twenties. Whatever the case, they were able to purchase a much-needed piece of equipment to assist in their quest for additional wealth. I surmise, however, that since they are still scouring the beaches, they are not yet financially sound and must continue their search in order to make ends meet. Or maybe greed is their motivation

The absurdity of their quest became even funnier to me as I got older. In 1991, children's network Nickelodeon broadcast a thirty-minute special that eventually became a series called The Adventures of Pete & Pete. It chronicled the quirky exploits of one Pete Wrigley and his little brother, also named Pete. This special focused on the Wrigley brothers encounter and subsequent search for their friend, Mr. Tastee, the local ice cream truck driver. Along the way, they visit a beach, where, with the aid of his trusty metal detector, the senior Mr. Wrigley finds a 1978 Cutlass Supreme buried in the sand. My son and I roared with laughter as the Petes helped Dad unearth the car and drive home in it. (That's right! It was buried with a full tank of gas!) I was immediately reminded of those optimistic old men on the Atlantic City Beach, wishing for a similar reward.

Just a few days ago, Mrs. Pincus and I were circling the block on our daily afternoon walk, when I spotted a familiar figure in nearby High School Park. Fifty or so feet into a large expanse of neatly-trimmed grass, in the shadow of some landscaped shade trees, there was an older man in ragged pants, faded t-shirt and straw hat methodically ambling about with a metal detector at arm's length. I suppose April is too soon for the beach, so perhaps he was keeping his finding skills sharp until that time when he could trade his sneakers for sandals and his ragged pants for ragged shorts.

There are coins or jewelry waiting to be found. Maybe even a Cutlass Supreme. 

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

einstein on the beach

Did you ever see one of those guys? You know the type I mean. You don't know them, but you instantly dislike them. Well, I saw one on the beach on Sunday. 

Late on Saturday, Mrs. P remarked that, if it was nice weather on Sunday, she'd like to take a drive to Atlantic City and sit on the beach for a few hours. I reluctantly agreed, as I hate the beach but I love my wife. So, Sunday morning arrived and the sun was shining. We gathered a couple of towels, a couple of chairs and a couple of snacks and pointed our car towards the familiar Jersey shore.

We found a parking spot two blocks from the beach in a 3-hour limit zone. I gathered our belongings, flinging the folded chairs and small cooler on my back like a Bedouin's camel. We selected a sandy patch of beach (ha ha) and parked ourselves for the afternoon.

That's when he arrived.

About eight or so feet away from our little encampment was a small group of senior citizens engaging in a similar exercise in sun-worshiping. I watched as he swaggered up to the group — puffed chest boasting a chunky piece of twisted gold right out of 1974, swim trunks slung low on his hips, arms bowed out from his sides as though he was stalking down the center of an Old West street about to draw his six-shooter and gun down Black Bart. And, of course, he had a smirk upon his tanned face.

"HEY!," he screamed in a volume too loud for his proximity to the old folks, but loud enough to let everyone relaxing nearby know that he had arrived and was about to honor us with some profound words. He grinned, continuing his opening statement, "It's the guy that makes the Phillies win every time you see him!" (At this point, it should be noted that the Philadelphia Phillies currently hold the worst record in Major League Baseball. While they have played surprisingly well over the last dozen or so games, overall their performance this season has been embarrassingly horrendous. Philadelphia fans, however, possess notoriously short memories and attention spans. They view a brief and uncharacteristic winning streak as the "major turnaround" we've been waiting for, entirely forgetting everything that preceded this victorious run. Then, when the team falls back into their losing ways, these same fans return to scratching their collective heads in disbelief.... Now, where was I....?) After attributing the Phillies' recent good luck solely to himself, he went off on an inane monologue in which he repeatedly professed his love for boiled peanuts. "I love 'em, I love 'em. I love 'em.," he reiterated over and over again. He made his point, meticulously describing the Southern delicacy as being "delicious and soft like peas," then fell back into the "I love 'em" catchphrase. He loudly extolled the virtues of boiled peanuts for — no exaggeration — five minutes. I didn't know this guy, but — boy! — did I hate him!

I had enough. I turned to my wife and offered to get us lunch at a nearby falafel* shop that had recently opened in a location that has been unable to sustain a thriving business for nearly thirty years. Mrs. P happily agreed and I had my escape from that yammering moron,

I entered the falafel joint. I hadn't yet allowed my left leg to cross the threshold when a cheerful fellow behind the counter yelled "Welcome" in my direction. I smiled. "Here's a menu," he announced and jammed a colorful folded paper menu at me. I opened it up and, despite already knowing what I wished to order, I politely scanned the many offerings.

"Two falafel sandwiches, please.," I requested A longtime favorite of my wife, it is only recently that I began to eat falafel, so it was odd hearing my own voice place that order, know one of those was for me. 

"Can I get your name?," the friendly fellow inquired.

"Josh." I replied and he scribbled it at the top of the guest check, under which he wrote my order. I handed over my credit card and the fellow swiped it in the terminal and told me I looked familiar. Then he glanced as the receipt printed out, looking back at me to give me the once-over.

"Pincus," he said as he examined the receipt, "Any relation to Michael Pincus?"

"Nope." I answered with a smile that I hoped would end the conversation. I was still curious as to why he needed my name. Aside from several employees, I was the only customer in the place. Another guy was busily assembling my order, hand-forming the chickpea mixture into balls and dropping them into the deep fryer. The friendly fellow came around to my side of the counter making half-hearted attempts at cleaning the tabletops.

My sandwiches were taking an awfully long time to prepare. 

"Where did you say you were from?," the friendly fellow said, re-initiating his line of questioning.

"I didn't," I responded, "But, I'm from Philadelphia."

"Oh!," he said, dragging the word out to several syllables, "Where abouts?"

"Elkins Park, just outside of the city.," I clarified.

"Oh!," he repeated his multi-syllabic exclamation, "I was just there! Do you know Frank Schwartz?"

"I do not.," I smiled a little less, hoping this one would end the conversation.

Suddenly, the counter guy passed a white paper bag stuffed with my sandwiches over to the friendly fellow. "Here's you order!," he reported. I took the bag, thanked him and left.

I joined my wife on the beach. I unpacked the bag. The pitas were still warm from the insulating aluminum foil wrapping. As we ate, I offered comment about the falafel place. 

"Boy, what a dirty little shop.," I began, "Good falafel, though." I bit off another mouthful of sandwich.

By this time, the "boiled peanut" guy was gone. We enjoyed our sandwiches without further distraction.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*Falafel, for the uninformed or non-Israeli, are deep-fried balls or patties made from ground chickpeas. The sandwich is traditionally served in warmed pita bread with lettuce, cucumber, tomato, hummus (for that extra kick of chickpeas) and tahini sauce (made from ground sesame seeds, for when you've had enough of chickpeas). 

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.

wake me up before you go-go

Like most Americans who live near a large body of water edged by some sort of beach. Mrs. P and I spent the long July Fourth weekend at the location that fits that description nearest our home. In this case, we chose Atlantic City — the one-time jewel of the  Jersey shore, now showing more tarnish than shine in the aftermath of four shuttered casinos in the past year. My wife's casino activity has dwindled to non-existent over the past year, but I think that it is pure coincidence and she is not to be blamed for those closures. Nevertheless, we found ourselves with a weekend starting on a Friday and 72 hours of free time ahead of us. 

I don't know if I ever mentioned it before, but I hate the beach. I hate everything about the beach. First off, I dislike the misnomer of "beach." Face it. It's dirt. That's right. D-I-R-T — Dirt! And don't even talk to me about the (shudder!) ocean. I marvel every time I see someone gingerly wade into that fucking cesspool. And those that cheerfully splash around in that giant piss puddle with their kids! Yeesh! They should be brought up on charges of child abuse. But, I love my wife. And my wife loves the beach. So, I put my disgust for the beach aside for a few hours and sit beside her. Happily. Well, as much "happily" as I can muster.

On Friday, at a time when I am normally at work, Mrs. P and I made our way across the Atlantic City beach, laden with folding chairs, a couple of towels and some snacks and drinks. The Mrs. had plans to soak up some early summer rays. I had plans to cover my thinning pate and stick it out time-wise for as long as she could. 

We found a suitable spot and set up our temporary camp. Mrs. P leaned back and began her sunning process. I draped a large towel over my head and tried to pretend I was anywhere else but on a beach. I closed my eyes. With the murmur of a gentle wind and low whisper of the nearby surf, I began to doze. Hey! Whaddaya know! I was actually relaxed and  — dare I say  — enjoying this time on the beach. I drifted off in to a deeper sleep.

Suddenly, I was jarred awake by something akin to broken fingernails dragging the length of a blackboard. I shot up and fumbled for my glasses that I had folded and hooked in the neckline of my T-shirt. 

At first, I looked around for the source of the disturbance. It was shrill and grating. "Ooooh!," it wailed, "The Grateful Dead are playing this weekend in... in... somewhere!" Ugh! That voice! It squealed in an annoying raspy creak. I raised the towel up and my eyes adjusted to the sunlight. The voice continued, "I saw The Grateful Dead at Veterans Stadium the day before they tore it down."

About twenty feet away, a woman in a tie-dye beach cover-up was addressing a group of people spread out in their own beach campsite. Her unkempt hair blew about her in all directions as she related her story in a loud tone, too loud for the close proximity of her chosen audience. Her voice was at a volume more suited to clearing the area because of a fire or an impending air raid. As a matter of fact, her voice had the same tonal quality as an air raid siren.

Well, now I was awake! And mad. Mad because I was unnecessarily awakened, especially when I was just getting used to fact that I had spent more than five consecutive minutes on a beach. And mad because I hate when people dispense wrong information. I don't mean a mistake for which they will soon correct themselves, I mean flat out wrong information that they insist to be right and proclaim as gospel. Let's start with the fact that The Grateful Dead never played Philadelphia's Veterans Stadium. They did, however, play, what turned out to be the final show at Philadelphia's JFK Stadium, "The Vet's" neighbor. Six days after Jerry Garcia and his bandmates played JFK in 1989, the crumbling, sixty-six year old venue was condemned by the city. It was demolished three years later. Veterans Stadium, home of the Philadelphia Phillies and Eagles for thirty-three years, was imploded in 2004, twelve years after JFK Stadium bit the proverbial dust. While Veterans Stadium was host to numerous concerts, The Grateful Dead did not number among them. But the inflection in this shrew's voice told otherwise, especially when she drove her point home with a smug sneer and a defiant folding of her arms across her tie-dye swathed chest.

Plus, she delivered the misinformation in that voice!

I hate the beach after all.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com