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'

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.

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.

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.

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?

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, 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).

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.

...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.

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.

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.