Inquirer Staff Photo by Michael Wirtz
See, the ocean was just toying with us, what with throwing that frigid water out through July, coughing up a little medical waste in August, stubborn land breezes keeping things a little tense. But then, on Labor Day weekend, things were, well, rather lovely. Saturday maybe a little humid, but Sunday and Monday, a nice ocean breeze kicked up, the ocean was warm, the waves were kicking, the tide was low, perfect for contemplating the implications of Bristol and Sarah Palin's pregnancies as you dozed in a chair. People seemed ready for the season to end, shortened as it was by the calendar. I noticed a lot of multigenerational families this year, posing for a last season group pictures. Grandparents really are the heroes of the shore, aren't they? They were in the surf all summer chasing after the little ones, stocking the fridge, setting up the big shade canopy, letting their their kids hang back for a little reading or digging the big holes. There's a lot of love splashing all over those sands. The crowd at the beach also seemed a little less homogenous this summer, a little bit more like real life, gathering in from all over. As it should be.

Organizers were hoping for a few clouds to lure people from the beach to the screen this weekend, as the first annual Downbeach Film Festival, the baby of veteran shore reporter William Sokolic, kicks off with an impressive lineup. Well, looks pretty sunny until Sunday, but on the cool side. So check out their updated schedule information here, my story on the festival is here. Red carpet arrivals (seriously) begin at 7 p.m. at the Margate Performing Arts Center, 7804 Amherst Avenue, tonight followed by The Man From Earth, and an after party at nearby Sofia's. I'm thinking Phoebe in Wonderland at 4 p.m., Saturday, with cool cats Patricia Clarkson, Felicity Huffman and Bill Pullman, and Stuck at 8:30 p.m. Kevin Smith is receiving an award Saturday night at Resorts. Some of the actors, directors and producers will be in town or on the beach, but probably all ending up at Tomatoes for the after-after party. Or maybe Maynards?

Previously, on Downashore:

A warm ocean, at last, lifeguard races tonight, and another Howarth tears it up

Photo from Press of Atlantic City

This summer, it seems everytime I ask, what's going on with so-and-so, the answer is, oh, she's surfing now. All the moms be surfing, if you know what I mean. Except for the ones that are rowing in the back bays. What's with us this summer anyway? Chief surfing mom is Stacy Marchel, who was profiled here in the Press of Atlantic City. I'm suddenly seeing moms with their hatchbacks of their SUV's open to accommodate the surfboards they are now addicted to. But they best be careful. Here's an amusing story by Courtney McCann about surf rage. As in, if you're a beginner, stay out of the experienced surfer's way. Info on becoming a surfing mom can be had at Heritage in Margate, or by calling 609-823-3331.

Previously, on Downashore:
View from a bridge, and bunch of comments about whether the word shoobie should be retired...
Shoobie (or insert your own word for non-locals down the shore) awards, part 1
60 is the new 70 (Degrees)

I've been spending a lot of time on the Dorset Avenue bridge this last week, mostly waiting for the crew boats to pass underneath. Last week was the final week for this season's chicken dipper program at the Viking Rowing Club, a fine program run by Ray D'Amico, the coach at St. Augustine Prep, which takes kids as young as 10, but probably younger than that even, and has them in eights along the manmade Inside Thoroughfare waterway that bisects the island, stretching from Albany Avenue (the Wonder Bar) past the Dorset Avenue bridge and up toward Troy Avenue. It was a quiet, rare joy to wait on the bridge with the dogs for the boats to pass under, contemplating the implications of the guy who lives in the tiny house with the enormous boat, to hear all the little person chatter in the boats, the arguing, the coxswains asserting themselves, for better or worse, the others in the boat correcting, the faces turned up when someone spotted you, the furtive waves and laughs. Sometimes the ocean gets all the attention at the shore, but I've found the best times can sometimes be found on the more peaceful inside waterways, where lucky homeowners have found themselves a little Venice in Ventnor.

UPDATE: Actually, today, there is NO view from the bridge, which I feel I should disclose even if it interrupts the mood of the above little reverie. It's totally fogged in as of 3:36 p.m., as it was this morning at 7:30 a.m. No view at all, just fog. Actually, that part of its charm, I think. Forget Venice, it's more like San Francisco today.

Previously, on Downashore

Shoobie awards, part 1
60 is the new 70 (Degrees)
Aretha at the last minute
Ventnor Pier: Give access a chance

Ok, here we go....
Stoopidest shoobie question of the summer (as it turns out): "How is
the riptide affecting you? Pretty bad, huh?" This was asked of a
person about to set sail on a hobie cat off the Oxford Ave beach in
Ventnor. Ok, let's review. Riptides: undercurrents. Hobie cat: sails
on top of the water. Under. Over. On top. Beneath. When you're on top of the water, on
a trampoline powered by wind, those pesky undertows are irrelevant. At
least that's what my husband says. Personally, I thought it was a
legit question and turned to hear the answer.

Most persistantly dangerous shoobie driving move done in the guise of
isn't everything super relaxed at the shore mode: Waving
toddlers/moms/carts/beach chair laden groups of people across your
lane and into on coming traffic in the NEXT LANE over. This drives me
nuts. I get it, you're down the shore, life is easy, you give
pedestrians the right of way like you'd NEVER do in your own home
towns, but let's review: In a four lane, or even two lane, main drag, you're occupying only
one of those lanes. Therefore, if you play nice and wave the
unsuspecting people in front of your car, stopped in the middle of the
block, they will most likely get MOWED down by the people in the next
lane, or, just as bad, get stranded in the middle of the street. It's
a nice thought, but unless you're in a one-lane road, just keep
driving. They'll cross when it's safe. Though, you know, I appreciate the utopian vision you guys bring with you when you come down. I really do. And how I never know who'll be in my kitchen on any given morning. Hey, sure, help yourself to a beer.

Longest line for morning shoobie breakfast that locals know how to
circumvent: Outside Juniors Donuts on the bay in Margate. Last summer,
it was at Hot Bagels, where mere eye contact with the woman who gives
you bagels in January could get you to the head of the line. And every
summer, it's Mento's Water Ice, where the inside counter serves as a defacto
locals only express line. At Juniors, it takes a little more know how.
Haha. Think we're going to tell you? Let's just say, if you find the
right door and stick your head in, and know the right people, it's
instant donuts!

To be continued....

Previously, on Downashore

60 is the new 70 (Degrees)

Aretha and me and a not-exactly-sold out Borgata

Ventnor Pier: It depends on the meaning of the word 'access'

If there's a nicer time at the beach than dusk, with the ocean turning that deep navy crayola color, the sky flashing orange, people sneaking their dogs on the beach, families who don't want to pay beach fees appearing for an apres-six swim, I haven't felt it. And it truly is a thing to feel. A settled time, a high tide of contentment washing over everybody. This year, a walk or run down the Boardwalk in Ventnor at dusk has an added view: out into the ocean on the newly reopened and refurbished Ventnor Pier. The cost of the new pier, $3.2 million, was a major issue in local elections, but now that it's open, the newly elected officials seem rather pleased with it. And it is lovely. They've said they want it more accessible to non-fishermen, but so far, they seem unsure how to do that. They moved the two locked gates back further on the pier, and the first gate, they seem to want to leave open to spectators at least part of the time.

Right now, it has a handwritten 8 to 4 p.m., which seems kind of stingy:

Why not 8 a.m to 8 p.m. in the summer? Or, closed at dusk. But already, the local custom seems to have been set: leave the gate ajar when you leave. It's truly too nice to not want the next person to see it. That first gate will take you out to the first "T" with benches. Which is nice, but further out, past the gate that says you require a key, is even lovelier:

The key requires a form and $30 for non-fishermen, $90 to fish, for the season, which I guess they have the right to charge, on top of your beach tag, but it sure seems like the kind of amenity that should be open for a twilight walk, regardless of whether you knew enough to cough up the $30. (You can buy the pass on the pier during the day, or at City Hall).

Again, didn't seem hard to find someone to let you in, and walking to the very end at dusk was not to be missed:

Great view of the surfers:

Seems like in the summer at least, people should be welcome on the pier at least until dark. (Darkness at the edge of the pier did seem unsafe.) Then send the bicycle cops on the Boardwalk to lock the gate. It's also been striking to look at the pier from the Boardwalk and see so many people walking out to the end, to see movement on such an iconic structure. In the meantime, check it out if you're in Ventnor.
And leave the gate open for the next guy:

UPDATE: Today, at midday, the second gate was locked, so people walking onto the pier without a fishing key could only get halfway. And then peer, pun intended, through the gate at the rest of it. To which I say, why oh why? Especially because the new commissioners promised to make the pier open to all residents, not just the several hundred fishermen. It seems like if you at least have a beach tag, the pier should be open to you. All that money, why not let as many people as possible enjoy?

Ah, summer. My first two hour limit parking ticket of the season. This is a stoopid one, as I could have easily just made that illegal right turn off Ventnor Avenue to go the wrong way on the one way street for just that little bit to get to the reserved Inky parking spot in back of the office. Like I usually do. Rats! Don't the Margate police know I am upstairs doing Important Shore Journalism?
But I promise not to ignore this ticket. I've been down that road before. And trust me, once you've been up against the tag team of Wildwood Parking Enforcement followed by the Sitting At the End of the Bridge Longport Speed Trappers you learn your lesson. In Jersey, blow off a parking ticket, your whole life can start to unravel.

Meanwhile, in case you missed it from yesterday, here's a reprise of someone else's legal problems at the Jersey Shore: "Arrive on vacation, leave on probation." Lilliana and Julie, take note. Stuff happens down here you can only dream of.

Also, previously on Downashore:

I get cool looking veggies and incredibly tasty scallops at the new Margate Farmer's Market.

I really really want people to read this thing I wrote about my dad at the beach.

As Wildwood goes, so goes the nation? Oops, that's the lede that didn't get in the paper: A link to this Wildwood story I did that may or may not have retained some of its original intent and humor by the time it got into the paper.

And, because Belmar Benny liked it, a pictorial guide to LBI's no access signs barring schlubs like me from getting to the beach along what should be public walkways.

And finally, a public service announcement: The ocean temperature is 58 degrees.

No offense to Lilliana and Julie, our current Down the Shore video guidles, or Gabby and Catherine, the late lamented interns conscripted to be philly.com bathing beauties, or, for that matter, Alli and Erica, the Philadelphia Weekly parody of same, but THIS is a Jersey shore video.
VERY amusing journey of shoobie/benny alientation from 4th of July beach busts to, naturally, a Christmas Eve courtdate. Excellent job, BTwall60. Best comic musical unraveling of ridiculous judicial system entanglement since Arlo Guthrie got busted for littering.

That would have been unfortunate. Weather reports of impending doom and thunder and clouds sent lots of people home early on Sunday, but it turned out to be one of the best days yet. The sun hung in there, the breeze was nice, the beaches were (sorry) not too crowded and the ocean, well, let's talk about the ocean. Saturday, the ocean was 66 degrees. That means, it's almost warm enough to not be obsessing about how cold it is. You could swim and mean it. Sunday, though, it had dropped two degrees to 64 (at least along the Atlantic City-Ventnor-Margate-Longport part, reports from Avalon had it in the 50s). That's a big two degrees. Those two degrees meant, you could take a dip, but not without a lot of anticipatory build up and motivation. But it was not so cold that you couldn't stay in for a bit once you were in. But truly, if it's going to feel like summer, we need those two degrees back, plus a few more.
In other news, we made like tourists on Saturday and took a whale watching boat tour off Cape May and, ok, it's Jersey, so we didn't see a whale, but we saw some very cool dolphin stuff (mating, a little newborn kind of a dolphin guy who looked like a little black football swimming with mom, lots of pods, a dolphin snatching a fish out of the air) and, as a finale, an American Bald Eagle perched in a tree. That was spectacular. There had been word of a whale hanging around the Delaware Bay, and they do see them on these tours, but not for us. In any case, thanks to Nicole our guide. Here's a fun fact: Just like the shoobies, the dolphins who return every year to Cape May, or to Wildwood, or to Ventnor, are the same dolphins, year after year. So if they act like they own the joint, well, it's because they do.
Postscript: Speaking of weather, and hippy dippy weathermen, was a shocker to see this morning that George Carlin had passed away. I grew up listening to George Carlin records, over and over again, and I think that like many, Carlin was the guy who showed me what it was to laugh until it hurt. Carlin was scheduled to perform at the Borgata on July 26th. He will be missed.

Philadelphia Will Do takes up the challenge of parodying the philly.com video girl-guides to the shore. With deadpan philly.com stars like Lilliana and Julie, that's not as easy as it sounds. Or maybe it is. Like the piping on the shorts. Anyway, whatever happened to the original stars of the philly.com web series, Gabby and Catherine?

That's right, smoke on the water ... from fires in North Carolina. True enough. Wildfires down south combined with shifting winds out of the southwest blew smoke up the eastern seaboard and left even Jersey beachgoers in a haze of chokey smoke on Saturday. Felt a slight little burn in the lungs myself. That can't be too healthy. On the upside, the water was quite warm.
But if that was annoying, Father's Day weather at the shore had even Saturday's smoke fest beat. Was kind of like, you wake up, and it's cloudy. But before you can even say, Should we go see Zohan, the sun was peeking through, and your neighbor was on her way out to the beach. But before you could even really get it together to get out there yourself, it was raining along with the sun. Then, it wasn't. CBS3 ran a funny speeded up Charlie Chaplin-esque video from Ocean City of people leaving the beach, then returning to the beach, then leaving the beach, all day long. Around 4 p.m., it seemed like the decision had been made: deluge, thunder, lightning, exodus. Only, around 6 p.m., the sun came out again. My daughter and I finally made it into the ocean at that point. Now, at 7 p.m., it's sunny still, perfect beach weather.
In any case, whatever the wacky weather, the beach is certainly not the worst place to hang on Father's Day, though during an off-shore errand, I was touched by the sight of some dads buying sneakers for their little boys at Dick's. For my father, an old street baller from Brooklyn, there was no higher calling than buying his kids the perfect fit sneaker. Some more thoughts of my dad at the shore, in honor of the day, are here.

My dad at the beach was always an incongruous sight. He was more of a solid land guy, tennis, walking, not too much of a sand and sunworshipper. I can't remember him in the ocean at all. My memory of him visiting at the Jersey shore was out on the beach in a chair, socks and sneakers, tennis shorts and short-sleeved shirt, and, of course, a Knicks baseball cap. A true shoobie, even if he was from New York. But he was happy to be with his children and grandchildren at the beach, for obvious reasons, and so he parked himself in a chair and took it all in long enough for us to snap a picture, anyway. I think the beach is a place where so many of us have our seared-into-our-psyches memories of our parents, maybe because those long days in the sun allow all the shared love to really bake in, hazelike. I believe it was Tom McGrath at Philadelphia Magazine who wrote that the shore was the only place he ever saw his father ride a bicycle. And don't we all know just what he means by that. My memories of my mom at the beach are pretty vivid too: in her arms in the ocean, always packing cantelopes for our day trips (Jones Beach, parking lot 6, if we were early enough). I can remember her bathing suits and her then-out-of-style rubber flipflops (what were they called then? Something else.) And in her later years, it was the Jones Beach boardwalk where my father would take her, armed with first a folding chair stored in the trunk for rests, later a wheelchair. Was a respite that worked until the end. The other day, running on the Boardwalk, there was an older man in front of me who, from the back, looked and walked just like my dad, dressed in the same old guy jeans and sneakers. For a moment, it seemed...But you know, after a minute or two of that, I ran a little faster just to get in front of him, to move back into the present. It's a beautiful and trippy place, that ocean out there, with the smell and spray and light and breeze, the endless horizon to who knows what, and memories that originate in its vicinity in some ways seem to never quite evaporate.

The story about filmmaker Steve Chernoski's Mercer-born quest to divide the state into North and South Jersey brought about lots of strong reaction. Some of it was from people who believe the true dividing line should be east and west.
Retired Army Engineers Capt. John Fallon II said history should be the guide, not flip flops or stilettos, bennie or shooby, Super Bowl parade or no Super Bowl parade. "You see this was settled over 350 years ago. In those days they didn't have road maps and when people considered New Jersey they realized that it is divided East and West. There was an East Jersey with the capital at Carteret and a West Jersey with the capital at Burlington. If you look at a road map you will not find North at the top of the page. North is several degrees to the left . The division between East and West Jersey was a line drawn from just above Brigantine, the border of Atlantic and Ocean Counties. It runs due North. East and North Jersey are identical.West and South Jersey are identical Just hold the map with North at the top and you will see.."
Todd Kimmel of Philadelphia refers to a wikipedia entry about West Jersey and another item on Craigslist that links West Jersey with beer and Ben Franklin.
Others clung to the notion of a Central Jersey and felt the discussion of that in the story was inadequate. (It was mentioned, guys). I did try to include a discussion of the Central Jersey wikipedia angst, but it was cut from the story for space (this is how things work around here), which I guess is not as bad as being cut from any one's notion of how to divide up the state. Keep trying, Mercer!
There were some novel ideas for dividing the state. From one reader in deep South, it's the Mullica River (a little extreme). Others fell back on the Turnpike Exit (in this case, 9) to settle the matter. And another reader suggested the Mason Dixon line should be extended from Pennsylvania.
As for LBI, one reader on Steve's blog suggested that it is the place at the shore most populated by actual people from New Jersey, rather than New York or Philly. I'll have to mull that one over.
Personally, I like the idea of an East Jersey, united by proximity to the Ocean and populated by those of us who do not go Down The Shore but are already At The Beach while everyone else is still stuck At the Pleasanville Tolls or bottlenecked around exit 63.
And note to Steve: I take full credit for the south Jersey shore-Philly shoobie inbreeding aside and the Staten Island snark. They were not your quotes, (and were not in quotes) just my little jokes.

Are they kidding? The storied Knife and Fork Inn at the oddly shaped 45-degree angled intersection of Atlantic and Pacific Avenues in Atlantic City is at least as distinctive for its iconic location a block from the Ocean as its Flemish architecture. It's where Burt Lancaster took Susan Sarandon for lunch in the great Louis Malle movie Atlantic City ("...Yeah, you should have seen the Atlantic Ocean in those days...") The restaurant's own website cites its location as part of what makes it as much of a landmark as Lucy the Elephant. Hmm. Lucy had a big old famous move one time too, a few blocks to its current location. Casino developers (who else) planning a new project at Albany Avenue and the Boardwalk want to up and move the Knife & Fork a block away. Knife & Fork owner Frank Doughtery is just glad the developers, who have an option to buy the restaurant in 2009, don't want to just tear it down. But will it be the same at the more prosaic intersection of Hartford and Atlantic? Is there no way to make this iconic landmark a part of the new gateway? City Council gave developers the green light earlier this month. The developers also want to relocate the World War I Monument, which sits in the middle of the Albany Avenue traffic circle and is virtually inaccessible to pedetrians, to a park across the street.

That makes more sense, as the war monument is impressive, if only you could didn't have to cling to it to avoid being hit by a car as you peer inside.
ADDENDUM: The always wise and helpful Dan Heneghan at the Casino Control Commission writes to point out that the monument is not literally "in the middle of a traffic circle." About 15 years ago, streets were aligned to allow one side/arc of it, the inlet side basically, to link up with a little park with benches along Atlantic Avenue.
Dan gives these instructions for visiting:
"You can park along Atlantic Ave, right across from Knife and Fork, stroll through the park, walk right up to the monument, go inside and admire the statue. I've done it. Didn't have to dodge cars at all. Take your kids, as long as you don't mind them seeing a statue of Liberty in the nude. .. I still don't think it's in the middle of a traffic circle. To drive around the monument if you are coming in on Albany Ave., you have to go all the way down to Atlantic Ave. and the Knife and Fork. Turn left on Atlantic and drive up two blocks to Providence and make another left. Then turn left on Capt. O'Donnell Pky to return to Albany Ave. To drive around the monument, you have to drive around a triangular park that's two blocks long."
Still, how many people can honestly say they've stopped off at the World War I monument, or even noticed the thing, on their way to or from, the Hilton?

Photo by Akira Suwa/Inquirer Staff Photographer
My colleague Jackie Urgo had a good line about this weekend. She called it "chamber of commerce weather." Was definitely nice enough to get everyone down to the shore and then headed back to Philly at precisely the same time, if the jammed up westbound Atlantic City Expressway around exit 7 Monday afternoon was any guide. Away most of the weekend, we got back in time for a little late afternoon time on the beach, which by then had been abandoned. Was good to get the rusty chair out again. There really isn't a better place to take the pile of Sunday papers you haven't read yet. Ok, it was a little windy and required a sweatshirt. But still, it felt like that time again. (Pay no attention to the temperature of the ocean!) The volume on the streets was its usual seasonal shock, and to the gentleman who got out of his car in the middle of Atlantic Avenue to yell at a driver in another car behind him, a woman from Pennsylvania who to her credit just pretended not to notice, a dangerous and unfortunate spectacle that went on until the man's children shamed him into getting back into the car ("Dad, please!), we say: come on, is that really necessary?

Meanwhile, over in video on Philly.com, hosts Gabby and Catherine bring you their first installment of Down The Shore. First episode: The Beach. Gabby and Catherine head for Ocean City. It's a dry town (mwah!), but that won't stop their fun....Check it out.

One species' start of beach season is another's end. Say goodbye, Spot. No dogs on the beach from now on. Don't worry. We'll find some cool parks. We'll drop by Mento's water ice, where Mrs. Mento will give you a treat. And you'll be back splashing and digging in October. Ok, maybe September.

In today's Inquirer, I make fun of my life as an unlikely Jersey shore local and attempt to explain a few things to shoobie-land, and on philly.com, people are invited to get annoyed with me. Please feel free.
My little piece may be viewed as a companion to piece to the previously posted Ode to Spending Time at the Shore, written from a down for the weekend perspective by one of my cool Philly nabes.
And if you haven't weighed in on the LBI, Hoagies or Subs, Bennies or Shoobies, South Jersey or North? dispute, please do.
There's also the Virginia Beach versus Myrtle Beach versus Jersey Shore conflagration.
And once again, here's my early pick for a summer song, by Brazilian pop group CSS, although it's been around since late Fall, but that still qualifies it for summer of 08 in my book. Contains the excellent lyric: "Music is my Beach House." But what does that mean?

Here's my early entry for best summer song, 2008, if only because it contains the excellent lyric, "Music is my beach house." Music is also some other things for this Brazilian group, CSS, which stands for Cansei de Ser Sexy (Brazilian Portugese for Tired of Being Sexy), but not too many of those things other than "my hometown" can be restated here. However, the music video for the song is below for all to enjoy. CSS will bring a shockingly hip quotient to the shore this summer at the House of Blues at the Showboat Casino. This kind of coolness would have been unheard of in Atlantic City a few short years ago, but as anyone who was at the Regina Spektor show at the HOB last week can attest, we're getting spoiled down here.

Doesn't look much like beach weather today, but you know it's almost that time again by that old harbinger of summer: The Inquirer's Shore guide. As an added bonus to blog readers, here's an "Ode to Spending Time at the Shore" sent in during the offseason by one of my summer neighbors, the kind of guy who makes where I live seem like a hip suburb of Northern Liberties during certain months of the year. This tribute nicely captures the weirdness of the Jersey shore, where your thoughts can range from awe at the natural beauty to obsession over variances. Thanks for this, see you soon on the block. Come over for a cup of wifi anytime.

Ode to spending time at the shore …

Cruise
Top down, Unload.

Dropping in …
Ventnor pier waves
locals whisper – “he’s going to get hurt (for 25 years plus!)”
Feel, breeze, heat, people, days of old,
argue about zoning,
construction
casino buses pour in …
give the elderly something to do.

Local / out of towners
mixing it up on the streets of Margate …
nice car, who cares Hot Rod,
experience, you know ... the $$$

Miss the friends the years make
forever at a loss
who actually likes us ... tolerates.
Must wait and wait and wait and wait - acceptance
into the club.
as rare as a song bird singing in The City …

Forever the names
and the whispers, oh the whispers … the $$$ …
isolated, remorse, taxed, crowded, shunned …

our door has always been open...

As our best blogger pal Jen reminded us below, there's a very entertaining statewide parlor game being played now in connection with a documentary film, North-South Jersey, being made by three young filmmakers, Jersey guy Steven Chernoski and his Philly pals Alena Kruchkova and Andrei Litvinov. A trailer and more info is available here. It's a great idea for a movie, and an amusing game, but I think most of the confusion is on the part of North Jersey people. For instance, the current question of whether Asbury Park is south Jersey. You can debate all you want, but the answer? No. Not even close. It's LBI and below, though I would concede some overlap in various parts of LBI, which I know because my New York cousins sometimes end up in LBI and feel at home. But the movie guys have come up with some excellent criteria to figure it all out: flip flops or stilettos, bennies or shoobies, shape of soft pretzels and the relative abundance or absense of WaWas. Check it out here. Any suggestions of other criteria to distinguish north or south welcome below.

Hey, aren't dunes supposed to be, like, round? This newly-concave dune at Dorset Avenue in Ventnor had its middle carved out by that freakishly ferocious nor'easter yesterday that pounded our house overnight, flooded the roads that usually flood and made grocery shopping an Olympic event. I'm sure that Ventnor police officer found it amusing watching me hanging on to my shopping cart in 75 mph sustained winds in the parking lot, feeling imperiled for possibly the first time since I moved to the shore, but do I get a prize for my thoughtfulness in making sure the cart got back to the cart corral? (Sent it with the wind at my back, only way to do it). Still, schools were open and people went about their usual business, barreling their SUV's through two feet of water and taking note of trees on their sides, roots exposed. As the day wore on, it became clear: this was one of those nor'easters that sneaks up on the weather people but pounds a punch way bigger than the hyped storms. As Jen Miller details below, Ocean City was even more of a mess, with the bridges closed in the afternoon and lots of erosion. It was December in mid-May. Now, is everyone looking forward to Memorial Day?

UPDATE: Here's a link to Jackie Urgo's story and Tom Gralish's photos.

One of our favorite shore bloggers, Jen Miller of Down the Shore with Jen fame and newly published Jersey shore guide author, barely escapes back to shoobie land after trying to get authentic salt water taffy today in Ocean City for her book party (to be held in Rittenhouse Square...?). It was a windy rainy mess down the shore. We barely survived the parking lot of Pathmark earlier in the day, with winds threatening to take the contents of our cart and our car out to sea. Glad you made it back, Jen. Here's her harrowing report, with excellent and soggy photos.

"A repository of my time on earth." That's what Jersey, the Jersey shore in particular, represents to Bruce Springsteen. "My memory, the music I"ve made, my friendships, my life ... all buried here in a box somewhere in the sand..." Bruce made these comments May 4th at an induction ceremony into the New Jersey Hall of Fame. Now, as Bruce said, it's hard to believe there really is a New Jersey Hall of Fame, and does New York have one? On the other hand, how cool is it that Springsteen actually showed up to accept, and gave a speech about his love for the Garden State and especially the shore, about the comfort he gets being in the ocean and looking to the shore and seeing his kids coming toward him through the waves? From being in the same place his whole life, walking the same streets, taking his kids to the same beaches his mom took him to when he was a child? Here's a transcript of his speech, and the video.

An early sign of summer at the shore, every year, is the crop of new restaurants. We keep driving by Ventnor's newest offering, the as-yet-named pizza place on Dorset Avenue, a few blocks on the left before you get to the bridge. At one point, the red-shingled building had a sign that said Pizza Mia. Cool, we thought. A few weeks later, that was replaced by a fancier scripted sign that said "The Red Room Cafe." Um, not so much. Now, there's no sign. Word on the street is that the new owners, who have done a major renovation job including street scaping and new trees in preparation for this spring's opening, originally wanted to call the place, simply, SLICE. That, we like very much. Hope you also serve good JAVA.
UPDATE: What do I know, anyway. Pizza Mia/Slice/Red Room Cafe has opened its doors as the Red Room Cafe with some good local buzz, a pretty mocha and tan awning, a chic decor, gourmet pizzas and sidewalk tables. It's joined on that block of Dorset, just past Monmouth as you're headed toward the beach, by the relocated Rain Florist. Imagine that, you've got your flowers, your wine, your dinner all in one block, plus Custard's a short walk away for desert. All that's missing is a cool coffee shop in Sue Van Duyne's old pottery store. Takers anyone?
SECOND UPDATE: Ok, last Friday? A 45-minute wait for a table at the brilliantly-named red Room Cafe, unless you had a reservation. Unheard of for a new restaurant pre-Memorial Day! The buzz on the food continues to be strong. Plus, the owner will walk down the block to get you a bottle of wine from the liquor store, which itself caved to peer pressure and painted its exterior and stays open until 11 p.m. And now there's an actual possibly true rumor of a cafe/bakery coming to Sue Van Duyne's old pottery shop. Again, until I buy my first latte on Dorset Avenue, I won't believe it.
Meanwhile, in the little spot on Ventnor Avenue next to Cleo's that used to hold the excellent Manna and before that LoBianco's (Manna has since moved to LoBianco's spot at Jerome and Ventnor in Margate), new owners are opening up a restaurant this month called Gertrude's.

That spot has been a winner for years, let's hope it continues.
UPDATE: Gertrude's is open, and was also nicely buzzing with people last week, all of whom seemed to be Margate lawyers who knew each other. Was like walking into someone else's dinner party.

...is that seagulls and other shore birds have oily tears that help keep the salt from the ocean out of their eyes. True that. Bob pointed out this obscure fact while signing off today on his XM Radio show, Theme Time Radio, the second straight week he has done birds as his theme. It followed Prince's When Doves Cry, and came just before his final quote, from William Blake. "No bird soars too high if he soars with his own wings." The beach, though not birds, figures prominently in one of Dylan's most beautiful songs, Sara, whose lyrics are here. Dylan hasn't done a beach theme, though he's done summer and weather and the catch-all, danger, but it seems like something he'll get around to eventually.

Er, so much for the breakthrough concept of an actual book store in Atlantic City. It wasn't a real Borders anyway, but a Borders Outlet, which went with the outlet theme of the otherwise-kickin' Walk in Atlantic City, but was a failure as far as the idea of, you can walk in here and find the book you're looking for. It was mostly oversized remainders and book products, a waste of an excellent location with an actual Starbucks across the street (We have forgiven the Starbucks for rubbing salt into our wound by selling an Atlantic City coffee cup this Christmas with the phrase "City of Pageants." Um, I believe that would be Vegas). So the A.C. Borders has closed. We await another attempt to bring a real bookstore to town, though probably a real supermarket might be a higher priority. In Atlantic CIty, you're better off browsing the enduring storefront book shelves outside the Princeton Antique Shop, which is looking spiffy these days. Well, there always the Vineland Music Festival this summer for nearby culture. Oops, that's been called off too.

The massive pier reconstruction has begun in Ventnor, a controversial project that may had the incidental effect of galvanizing an opposition movement among second-homers in this town. In any case, new pilings are being installed, and the pier's floor/roof/cover (a designation that depends on whether your perspective is fisherman walking out on the pier, beach trekker passing underneath or slacker poking around at the sand in the shade) ripped off. It's starting to look a little like Stonehenge out there:

Well, hey now. Excuse me while I wipe the dust off my sleeves. That was one creepy dark implosion on the Boardwalk tonight. See ya later Sands, imploded after an oddly quiet, yet strangely disquieting fireworks display emanating from inside the rooms and out the broken out windows, followed by a series of heart thumping booms that led to the finale every fireworks display yearns for: the building itself brought to its knees, obliterated. So why were people, like, walking away kind of disturbed? This was not so much thrilling, like a roller coaster, but scary like a horror flick. Maybe because it was nighttime, the white Sands building lit up like a ghost. Then the fireworks came out from inside, like there were little troublemakers setting off sparklers inside, like it was possessed or something. It was cool and pretty at times, but putting life in a lifeless building through fireworks only to then destroy the thing like it had been taken over by demons, by the undead, by the _ I'm not kidding, this is what it felt like watching it. Some teens nearby worried that somehow, someone could be inside. Or some other kinda thing. Maybe it's that after 9-11, there's nothing particularly fun about watching a tower collapse in a heap of inevitability. Or maybe it felt too much like an poor-taste imitation of a middling apartment building being taken down during wartime. Whatever, "It was creepy," was a reaction I heard more than once from spectators leaving (and the beach and Boardwalk were packed like the Fourth of July). Ah well, it definitely gave meaning to the phrase bit the dust. I've watched the 1978 implosion of the Traymore Hotel on the Boardwalk at the beginning of Louis Malle's Atlantic City a bunch of times, and it always looked grand and gallant and breathtaking, but regrettable. This building, no one will miss. But the implosion felt, well, haunted. A goth time was had by all. All witnesses invited to describe their reaction to the implosion in the comments section.
Meanwhile, here's a before picture:

And an after picture: That's dust there.

Well, this was a first. Swimming in a warm October ocean, no wet suits, no rash guards even, no extra measures at all, no chill. Warm water, warm air temperatures, house guests in from Boston for the weekend, sun block, sand castles, chicken on the barby, jeez louise, enough already! It's like Groundhog Day down here, we're stuck on Labor Day, the summer that won't quit. The non air-conditioned house at the shore is wilting like it's August. Was a rare enough kick to cool off in the ocean on Saturday, but the whole thing is getting just a little weird and, well, monotonous. September was nice enough. Bring on the chill.

On Curb Your Enthusiasm the other night, Larry David unveiled his latest irritant: sample abusers. Larry David, meet Mrs. Mento, owner of the (tragically closed for the season) legendary eponymous water ice stand in Ventnor, which this summer put a stop to the free taste. Getting the punch line months before David ("Banana? Tastes like banana!"), Mento's posted several signs this summer with the beautifully harsh poetry of an exasperated looking-to-sell-already longtime water ice vendor: "Lemon (arrow) tastes like lemon. Cherry (arrow) tastes like Cherry. Chocolate (arrow) tastes like chocolate." With sarcasm laced througout like black cherries in the black cherry ice (tastes like black cherries), Mrs. Mento dismissed her sample abusers as "connosiuers" who waste her employees time by, yes, abusing their sample priviledges. No samples for you! Mrs. Mento did add a micro sized 25-cent serving size which approximates a free taste, only not free. There was only a wee bit of grumbling this summer over the end of the free taste, which didn't seem to speed up the line outside any (regulars know you can just duck inside the doorway to an inside counter to get served, anyway.). But thankfully Mrs. Mento, whose enthusiasm is famously curbed when it comes to your cute kids but who never fails to gush over a dog, did not end her tradition of free tastes for pooches: her stash of dog treats remained full until the end.

Our beloved Fourth Street Cafe in Ocean City, captured in a rare snowy moment from its illustrious past, is down to just scones and coffee, open only until 1 p.m., and only until the end of the month. Then, it's supposed to be shutting down at that corner for good. Over the summer, the cafe collected hundreds of email addresses of bereft loyalists and even had a tribute to itself in words and artwork, but still seems destined to fade into history, its owners off to California to make their mark in wines. Employees are still dangling the possiblity of a reincarnation at another location, though any place that doesn't look out onto the perennially imperiled and then rescued historic old lifesaving station at 4th and Atlantic surely won't be the same. Until then, goodbye to chicken salad platters and foccacia specials, no wifi or air conditioning, the inimitable buzz from a Mexican chocolate scone. We will keep you posted, and, in the meantime, make our peace with the fine fish and steak taco combo at the Ocean City Surf Cafe, still going strong in a parrothead kind of way on 8th street.

This past weekend was the kind of weekend at the shore that people try to explain to those who insist the season ends on Labor Day, but probably never quite fully succeed in conveying its graces. On Sunday, a day with a definite autumn chill in the air, but ocean temps still nudging 70, you could see the tableau breaking down into two camps. There were those determined not to give up on summer, out there with their chairs, their bare chests and bathing suits. Then there were those more forward thinking types, with giddy dogs in tow once again, sweatshirts, jeans and sneakers, hoofing along the water's edge. Both camps eyeing the other with somewhat bemused looks. Hey, it takes both kinds, right? Those who cling, those who yearn. Nothing against the beach patrol, but the beauty of the beach in September is in no small part due to the absense of the lifeguard stands marking the beaches, sectioning them off into a false order, swim here, don't swim here. Instead, it's just the coastline. Suddenly Oxford doesn't look so far away from Dorset, it's just over there. Atlantic City sneaks up on you, hard to even tell where it begins. Everyone all spread out, instead of grouped around streets. Less and less official raking of the beach (here we rake sand, not leaves), and so there's even the occasional plastic toy, or carcus, to be found by your exuberant dog, who cannot believe his good fortune to be back on sand, happening upon gorgeous Huskies more wolf than dog. There's a reason lots of people think the shore is never more lovely than during September (though after a snowstorm is its true miracle, I think).

Having covered more Labor Days at the Shore than I care to count, I have written the following story at least three times: it's the end of the summer beach season. People are eating lots of foods they can't get at home, because they're packing their cars and heading back to Mount Laurel and Manayunk and Fort Washington. Fudge shops, etc. are very crowded. Merchants proclaiming it was a (insert adjective here) beach season.

So: I'm not sorry I'm combing the Jersey beaches, looking for a story.

However: I am still bummed that I'm stuck at home, working, instead of downashore for one last beach day. (Notice I didn't say one last slice of Mack's pizza, because I make at least one mid-winter pilgrimage to Ocean City for my fix.)

So say goodbye to the ocean for me, anyone who's reading this who still has the luxury of dipping their feet in the ridiculously warm September ocean. Catch you next year.

Here's Jackie Urgo's story on a perfect final Shore weekend.

The Press of Atlantic City has an interesting story today about how those energy drink cocktails (Red Bull martini anyone?) you love to down at Shore watering holes and elsewhere could cause health problems. (Hint: yes, alcohol slows you down and energy drinks speed you up, but you're still going to get drunk anyway.)

Read more here.

So...you may be wondering, what does 100 degrees feel like? Thick, palpable, can't breath heat. Intensive care unit heat. Living at the shore in an old house without air conditioning, you quickly learn the basics, like, the house guests will arrive during the hottest day of the summer.
Also this:
Land breeze, bad.
Sea breeze, good.
Land breeze: flies, hot air, heat, existential dread.
Sea breeze: cool, flies go back to the bay where they belong. Optimistic sense of own survival returns.
Ceiling fans and air vents just don't work like they used to, I guess. The wall units are effective only until the old wiring blows their fuses. The tried and true freezing cold shower right before bed time trick you learned as a child helps. The ocean, fortunately a perfect 77 degrees to go with the perfect 100 recorded at A.C. International (in fairness about 10 miles inland), is filled with swimmers long after the lifguards go home at 6 p.m. (Some years, this kind of heat is also accompanied by a humorless, freezing ocean due to an upwelling effect that pleases nobody but the ice cream vendors.) Giving up your one air conditioned room to your child seems like the ultimate sacrifice. You vow to upgrade before next summer, but then, like a miracle, something in the air shifts. Literally. if you're outside at the shore, or even sometimes if you're inside, you can feel the moment it does. The breeze is suddenly cool again, coming from the ocean, from the east, from that unbroken horizon of coolness and water! Rejoice! The wicked land breeze from the west is dead. This morning, I felt a shift around 3 a.m., I think. The air, no longer coagulating around the eyes and throat. It is ... circulating.

This is a Margate Bridge pass (as captured on iphotobooth, anyway). Feel free to get to know it. If purchased, it will a) get you a cheaper toll rate to get over that quirky privately owned bridge and causeway that connects what we locals call (and I'm not proud of this) "off-shore" (and everyone else calls home) with Jerome Avenue in Margate, and b) will help speed things along for the rest of us, thank you very much. Wave to the ospreys nesting on the Longport side as you drive in.
Now, in the interest of full-disclosure, I will admit to this: During my
reverse-shoobie trips into Philadelphia (Does this makes me a, say, floopie because I'm wearing flip flops into town?), I have been known to absentmindedly wave a Margate Bridge Pass at the EZ Pass detector to try to get over the Ben Franklin Bridge. It doesn't work. I'm not sure what you would call a shore local who tries to gain entree to Philadelphia with a Margate bridge pass (please be nice), but doofus is probably a good start. Too much sun, maybe. See, it works both ways.

So I really meant to blog during my vacation. Truly. I brought my laptop, took a ton of photos, and had the best of intentions. But there's something about the Shore - or vacation in general, I suppose - that saps the urge to do work right out of you. So instead of dispatches from Sea Isle, you're getting a dispatch from my desk at Philly.com. (My excuse is that there was rarely a wireless signal, but really, it was Vacation Brain.)

I spent nearly two weeks in a rented house in Sea Isle City. For that stretch, I lived with my parents, my sister and brother-in-law, and my niece. I have an army of aunts and uncles and cousins, and lots of them were there. (Some rented a house a few blocks away, others camped out in the house directly behind the one we rented.) And yes: it is expensive to rent a house, upwards of $1,500 a week for any sort of place at all. I could have gone to an all-inclusive resort for cheaper. And yes: I did share a room with my two-year-old niece, and shared a bathroom with several other people. And yes: we did cook most of our meals, so that meant that we were not immune to chores, even on vacation.

And yes: there were seaweed and shells and murky water, and I swam in it, just the same. Loved it, even.

And yes: summer wouldn't be summer without a trip to the Shore. And not a daytrip, mind you. You need at least a week to properly relax, and to eat enough Mack and Manco's Pizza to satisfy your cravings for a while, until you get the urge in the middle of winter and drive back just because.

I know it's corny, but I feel lucky to have grown up with this particular tradition.

Here's a view from the deck of Aunt Jane's bay-facing house. Boy, it's hard to be back at work today.

...They were crowding the lobby of the Tilton 9 in Northfield for matinee showings of Ratatouille and Evan Almighty. Hey, you had your Fourth of July weather on Memorial Day, remember? In any case, for a local like myself, who has weathered the shore movie theaters year round for a decade, it was a pleasant little shock to be in the midst of the movie throng. Forget surround sound. This was surround-people. Usually, I'm one of about 5 people watching the movies down here, and always, the only one to perceive, or care, about the myriad mishaps that have been known to plague your shore movie going experience. Sound off. Blurry screen. Movie starting 20 minutes late. Titanic shutting off before Celine sings. One time, during Amelie, the projection was so out of whack that the subtitles were below the screen, invisible. Still, I was the only one of the dozen or so people in there to get up and point this out to management. We're just not wired down here that way, I suppose. So it's always reassuring when the shoobies come to the movies. Even before Ratatouille began today, the man behind us was on full alert to possible problems. "The sound's low," he said, during a preview. It got better. But I knew this was one time I wouldn't have to be the one to complain. Thanks guys.

No, he's really not worried about skin cancer. The Inquirer's Amy Rosenberg tells the tale of Bruno Battaglia, a 59-year-old unabashed sun worshipper who sits on Ventnor's Newport Avenue beach for eight hours at a stretch, every day. Battaglia is, Amy tells us, "the Jersey Shore's ultimate beach bum, a dude with a California mentality and Peter Frampton hair, who toughs it out in Ventnor because, well, that's where his mom lives." Read the full story here.
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Mrs. Leahy returned to Ventnor this week, along with 30 of her nearest and dearest. But instead of staying at the shore home her family built and owned for 75 years, the family stayed across the street, renting the sprawling gray house owned by the Dominican Nuns of Blauvelt, N.Y. (To see why the nuns are now landlords, click here.) Twelve years ago, as taxes rose, new construction blocked their views, and the older generation that united them all had passed along, Mrs. Leahy and her two siblings reluctantly sold the house they loved _ and kept immaculate, summer after summer, from the third floor dormer to the basement, where the lifeguards would come to shower. But as is so often the case with these family heirlooms, the sale, which made sense for all the right reasons, financial and practical, still left a hole in the family's heart _ and summers _ that was not easily filled. And so, twelve years later, Mrs. Leahy is again presiding over dinners for 30 served in a big pan, margaritas on the porch and, no doubt, keeping the nuns' house immaculate. (The new, or no longer that new, owners of her old house have never been able to match the spic and shine of the previous owners, and face it, the geraniums just never bloomed as big.) She declined an offer to go through the house again, though in truth, much of it is still as they left it. But others in the family poked around, approved of the newly paved driveway and the rosebushes out front, as they tried to recreate the old sense of family togetherness and contentedness that is a shore house's true gift. From the view across the street, it seems clear they succeeded. And so we say, welcome back to Dorset Avenue, Mrs. Leahy and family. Come back anytime.

America's favorite oversized wooden elephant by the sea is going through what seems to be seasonal trauma here in Margate. Last summer, the problems were deeply rooted, psychological ("was Lucy really a boy?), financial (should the city seize control from the Lucy Committee?) and, most dramatically, cosmic (her famous howdah, the thing that sits on top of her back, struck by lightning!).
This summer, the old lug looks kind of dapper from ground level, see above, with some fancy new nail polish, no idea what the J stands for, but on top, things are a little, shall we say, open-ended. Lucy has temporarily lost the roof of her howdah. It now sits on the ground, with all its rot exposed like, say, a workman's belly on a hot day.

This is Tom Haight, an employee of MB Markland contractors, who this morning was selflessly ignoring the lure of the 70-degree water, and repairing rotted wood that was found after the howdah was removed. The lightning bolt struck Lucy's crescent and star (leading, perhaps, to this year's Lucy existential question: is Lucy a Muslim?) and blew apart the wood, but contractors found massive rotting of wood and steel throughout the structure. They are now basically rebuilding the fiberglass and wood. Haight, whose last job was an actual house, though he's also worked on dog houses, noted the unusual nature of the work. "Whoever built this thing was crazy," he explained.
Here's another look.

I finished my Shore/Summer solstice day at the 59th Street beach in Ocean City, where the Surfrider Foundation held its annual International Surfing Day Festival. Hundreds of people surfed, ate, played Frisbee, and listened to music. The weather was stunning, and I wasn't sure if everyone knew each other or this was just a really, really friendly group of people. I think it was a little bit of both.

Surfrider is a nonprofit organization that's about more than just surfing. Jen Zappone, a member from Linwood who doesn't surf herself (her husband, Mark, does) explained: "For our family, it's about keeping the beaches and oceans clean so we can enjoy surfing." While her kids Charity, 5, and Bodhi, 3 (means "peaceful warrior") ran around in swimsuits, the family dog Bailey, a chocolate Lab, appeared to be the most joyful creature on the beach. Dogs, who are normally banned from O.C. beaches, were given a temporary reprieve for the event. Life was good.

Steve Muller, president of the South Jersey chapter of Surfrider, expounded on Jen's philosophy: "We're promoting clean water, environmental activism, and surfing access."

By Jonathan Tannenwald, Philly.com producer

Greetings from the other side of the Cape May-Lewes Ferry -- Rehoboth Beach, to be precise. I’ve spent just about every summer of my life there, and I have much the same kinds of connections to its boardwalk that the other Downashore writers have to the Jersey side of things.

I went down to Rehoboth for the first time this summer this past weekend to surprise my father for Father’s Day. I usually go by car, but I decided to try something new this time. There’s a bus that runs on weekends from the Wilmington Amtrak station down to the Park & Ride lot out by the outlets for $7.50 each way. It’s run by DART, the Delaware public transit agency. So I caught the 5:33 p.m. R2 out of Suburban Station last Friday and decided to give the Route 305 bus a shot.

It was quite a pleasant trip. Just under two hours from start to finish on a modern, Greyhound-sized bus instead of a city-style bus – but much cleaner. There wasn’t a bathroom, but it was a short enough ride to not make much of a difference. Best of all, the bus got to Rehoboth right on time, and there’s an easy connection to Route 201, which takes you down Rehoboth Avenue to the bandstand.

Edwin Tuttle gave the world many gifts _ just ask people at the Pennsylvania Ballet _ but none more beautiful than the little beachfront lot across the street from his shore house in Ventnor that he turned into a free standing patio two decades ago and then left alone. The former head of Pennwalt Corp. preserved this lot at Sacramento and the Boardwalk to preserve his own view, naturally, but also that of his neighbors. He brought in a statue of a nymph, a replica of one in Pompeii, which he replaced with another replica when the first one was stolen. He put in circular patterned pavers like it was a piazza in Florence and chairs and benches and a pavilion that, truth be told, nobody really ever sat in it. Maybe one time, they had a barbecue. The garden was valued for what it wasn't. It wasn't another big house at the shore. It didn't block anything. It wasn't for sale. It wasn't available. It wasn't fenced in, just a little gate around it. When he died last year, he left the lot to his neighbor directly across the street from him, whose house borders the lot, another act of generosity in a lifetime full of them. But taxes on the lot are $26,000 and the neighbor, an 80-year-old widow, can't afford them. By selling the lot, which has an asking price of about $1 million, she will be able to live out her life in the two story bungalow the Wades have lived in since the early 60s. She thinks Edwin Tuttle meant for that to be the case. "It's been lovely for everyone," she said last night, as dusk fell on a perfectly lovely evening along the Boardwalk. She didn't want her full name used. "I am just not able to keep it." Here's another photo.

One minute, the dogs are living large, hanging on the sands, fetching balls from the surf, keeping order among warring flocks of seagulls. The next, in the name of progress and summer tourists, it’s this: a barren, pebble-lined, fenced-in desperate stretch of land nestled in the shadow of the Ocean City’s sewage waste treatment facility (ok, fittingly nestled, but still). Its own website euphemistically and apologetically describes the park as “sterile.” Even my dumb dogs would know this is not exactly doggie heaven.
Officially known as the Cape May County/Ocean City Dog Park, it was unveiled last month to the backyard-challenged dogowners of the shore as a refuge during summer, when their dogs are suddenly canis non grata on the beaches. They are promising some trees at some point. It’s located at 45th and Haven Streets, with the scary-big pipes of the treatment facilities as the view, complete with the sounds of sewage being treated as you scoop your dog’s poop. Four blocks away, the beach beckons.
Once the dog lovers of Ocean City dreamed of getting a stretch of actual beach front declared open for dogs, even just in the early morning hours. But all their efforts _ and they were considerable _ resulted in this penitentiary-like setting on the bayside of the island. There are a few amenities: a tire to jump through, a cute little water fountain at dog height, double entrances so your dog doesn’t go chasing after a new friend, and, eventually, the company of other dogs. There’s lots of room to throw a ball and to run. It costs $35 a year for out-of-county folks to get a “Paw Pass,” $25 for locals and $10 for a week. Mandy, a 9-year-old miniature pinscher, was the only dog there today. “It is kind of bleak,” her owner, Gene Hall, said. “It’s all gravel. But if you try to take them to the beach anymore, it’s like a federal case.”

Somewhat shockingly, it remains midseason form down here (except with lots of parking), even midweek. Normally, after Memorial Day, the shore will sort of go back to sleep during the week, at least that is what we tell our editors, with kids still in school and the tradition of the Memorial Day to Labor Day rental pretty much a thing of the past. But, with apologies to those who actually have day jobs, today is a beauty, low 80s with a warm comforting breeze, the sounds of Akon hanging in the air, making an early run at this summer’s prize for ubiquity that Gnarls Barkley snagged last year. Girls on bikes with surfboards under their arms are cutting off cars in Ocean City, people are hanging in the chilly surf, and those lucky enough to be down here are finding themselves stumped by this question asked over and over again at the Dixie Picnic on 8th Street, where they will pack you a nice box lunch for $8.25. “What kind of upcake would you like?” Upcake is their word for an upside down cupcake, minus the top, that comes with every lunch. There’s too many varieties to list, and the most common answer, at least today, was “I don’t know.” Go for buttercream over chocolate.

And now, for a little local perspective…That was a doozy of a holiday weekend, its effects still lingering down here in Ventnor, a weekend that jolted the locals right out of their smug little off-season bliss.
Even after all these years, it’s still a shock to see your Philly peeps descending on your town, bringing fancy cars and haircuts and college t-shirts and the assumption that nobody actually lives at the shore. Usually, the Memorial Day weather mocks all of you, but not this year. In a dozen years of living at the shore, I cannot remember when summer threw down its gauntlet so dramatically.
Of course, like a true local, I was nowhere to be found, having bolted for a family event in Boston, leaving the beach, as someone suggested to me, to the amateurs. Returning to town on Monday evening was like walking through a political convention floor after the candidate has accepted the nomination. The town was spent. People were suddenly tan and in a mid-summer slurry cheer. Guy the ice cream man who lives near me reported perfect ice cream weather: hot air, cold water.
Best story I heard: The woman on one beach in Ventnor who had to go to the bathroom and so she got in her car, drove over the Dorset Avenue bridge headed for her home in the Heights, was promptly stopped by the Ventnor police and given a $46 ticket for not wearing a seatbelt. Harsh.
The woman who walked our dogs while we were away reported being cursed out by beach goers walking in the middle of the street. It is a street, guys. Please curb your children.
Anyway, if this weather keeps up, should be an interesting season, though nothing perhaps could top last summer for weirdness, at least at one beach at the shore, (whose location shall remain undisclosed, to protect the allegedly overzealously prosecuted but mercifully sentenced), where a friendly gent on house arrest was able to set up his chair on the sand close enough to his beachfront house so that he and his ankle bracelet were still in compliance. Must have left a uniquely Jersey tan line.

Sunset, 12th Street beach, Ocean City

So I am nearly at the end of my Memorial Day odyssey. Tonight, the Ocean City boardwalk was filled with people like me, who were trying to squeeze every last moment into their holiday weekend. There were last ice cream cones, and last boardwalk lemonades, and last handfuls of Johnson's popcorn. In a way, these three days are an illusion - it feels like summer, but it's not.

"I don't WANT to go back to school," I heard a little boy cry as his parents steered him off the boardwalk.

We know what you mean, junior.

With all the recent flap over beaches in Surf City, I came here this morning expecting to talk to vacationers who were frightened by the unexploded munitions found under the sand, which had beaches there closed from March until last Wednesday. I clearly underestimated the will of inveterate beach bums. Everyone I talked to, to a person, said they were being careful and not digging too deep in the sand, but that a little thing like unexploded munitions wasn't going to keep them away from the beach.

Here, folks walk to the 4th Street beach in the late morning. Hardy souls, all.

Oh, and for you weather-watchers, it's still beautiful here. It's 72, about as cool as it's been, but the clouds seem to be giving way to sunshine. In my four or so years of working Memorial Day weekend at the Shore, this is hands-down the best weather weekend I've seen. Merchants - and their cash registers - agree with me, too.

Don Myers, beach patrol supervisor in Long Beach Township, said the weekend has been the busiest Memorial Day holiday ever. Myers credits the weather.

"This is right-in-the-summer kind of weather," he said, adding that the sun made up for 55-degree water. (Thanks, Jeff.)

In my quest to visit as many beach towns as possible during my Shore jaunt, I hit Cape May today. And of course I had to check out the ocean there, as water temperature reports I'd read put the ocean at seven degrees warmer than Atlantic City water. But it's all relative - 57 degrees in AC is freezing, but 64 degrees in Cape May didn't really feel like 64 degrees. It felt much chillier. I must say that this feet-in-the-ocean photo gets filed under "what I do in the name of journalism."

Shortly after this shot was taken, I wrapped my feet in a warm towel. The moral of this story is: it's not quite summer yet. I much prefer a dip in water that's closer to 70, thank you very much.

I am always struck at how cute Cape May is. Tons of Victorian charm. Quaint downtown shopping area, all bricked and pretty. The sand is even quaint, with those Cape May diamonds giving it a texture all its own. And look! The motel is even different from other towns'. Although I don't know that a sign slapped on a brick front makes something Victorian. But points for effort, I say:

There are many many stores peddling t-shirts on the Wildwood boardwalk. Of course, that's a pretty common thing for a boardwalk to have, but Wildwood's is rife with them (and it has a Kabbalah Centre and a little chapel, too!) But: I'm wondering what your favorite t-shirt saying is? You know, the one that makes you laugh or even makes you cringe.

Here are some of the winners I saw today: "Beer Pong Champion!" "Italian Stallion." "Watch the Tramcar, Please" (complete with dead, splattered duck. Nice). "Senior Week 2007!" "Silicone Free." "Jake's Property." (If I were Jake, I don't know how I'd feel about that.) Lots of pirate stuff - "Walk the Plank", "Hand Over The Rum And No One Gets Hurt," etc.

And, my favorite: "I went on Senior Week for vacation and I came back on probation."

There were, of course, plenty of shirts whose messages were raunchy or profane. I didn't see anyone wearing anything remotely like that, though. The only "message" shirts I saw on the boardwalk were "Class of 2007" shirts.

Anyway. Leave a comment with your favorite - or most memorable - T-shirt saying.

After a half-day of combing the beaches and strolling the boardwalk (is it really strolling if you have a camera, two notebooks, and a backpack to lug along?) I have come to some conclusions:

1. It is entirely too hot for Memorial Day weekend. I'm sure the lemonade vendors and water purveyors are loving it, but let me tell you - 88 degrees feels like July weather, not warming-up-to-the-summer weather. I saw plenty of people leaving the beach because it was Too Darn Hot.
2. The water is another story entirely. We're talking frigid - about 60 degrees.
3. Although I come to the Shore every Memorial Day, I'm always struck by how crowded it is.
4. People are in such a good mood when they're here. There is something about the holiday weekend, short as it is, that makes everyone I approach cheerful and happy to talk.

Ocean City is my first Shore town stop - I hope to get to as many as I can. I got my first taste of the Shore here as a kid, and it's still got the best boardwalk in town. One of the people I interviewed this afternoon remarked that while other towns seem to gentrify and change character, Ocean City stays the same, and that's what's great about it. It's for families. It's got a terrific boardwalk, size-wise and mix of shops-wise. OK, maybe the house prices have gone sky-high, just like everywhere else at the Shore, but it's still essentially the same place this woman grew up coming to in the 50s and 60s. And the same place I grew up coming to in the 80s and 90s.

(Oh, and the adorable pooch pictured is one Abby, a Red Bone Coonhound whose mom, Christine Petrillo, drove her from Williamstown for Barks on the Boards, a dog walk and contest.)

Welcome to Downashore! I’m Kristen Graham, a producer and reporter with Philly.com. For the next few days, I’ll be your guide to the best stretch of beach towns around.

My Shore credentials: When I was a little girl, I didn’t know that people went on vacation anyplace other than the Jersey Shore. My family has always rented a house for two weeks — first in Ocean City, now in Sea Isle. I am certain that if I were on Death Row, my final meal would consist at least partially of Mack and Manco’s pizza.

This year, as I have for the past several years, I’ll be spending my Memorial Day in the best possible way: reporting from the Shore. I have walked the hot sand with the Fudgy Wudgy guy, gone up in one of those planes that tows banners across the beach, and gotten more sand between my toes than anyone rightly should while working. Starting Saturday, I’ll be blogging, writing stories, shooting photos and video, and stopping random strangers on the boardwalk to ask them about their Memorial Day plans and what makes the Shore so special to them. If you’re one of the people I stop, please be nice and say something really quotable, OK?

But Downashore only works if you weigh in. Please make this a robust online community by commenting, sending us your shore photos, and shooting ideas for what you’d like to see our way. We’re downashoreblog@gmail.com.

See you on the beach! Stop me if you spot me - I’m the girl lugging notebook and various cameras and having a blast.