Zombie Season in Wildwood part II

We walk back down to the car. I guess we have sweated out the breakfast grease, because I am hungry again. And I want to take a trip back in the past. Archived here (search the summer tags) are all my stories about the ‘beach house’ my sisters used to rent every summer, and how it was the highlight of my year. I wanted to go back to see the ‘house’. We park at the bottom of the street, and cross over. Finally, we get to it. Is it still standing? What will it look like? Has it even changed? We walk up and the first thing I notice is the driveway has been done over recently in pavers. So instead of half dead grass and 2 concrete strips that lead to the garage-cum-house, there are nice pavers. My eyes follow the pavers up to the house. Yes, it still stands! Part of my childhood still exists! Except…except..it looks…nicer. Hmm, this is a surprise.

I don’t quite see the dumpy garage anymore. It looks like there is newer siding. Definitely new windows. Damn, the place is kinda…kinda … classed up. The pavers now occupy what was a small patch of grass with a few ratty lawn chairs and a hammock. Now it’s all done over. I even try to look into the kitchen window to get a glimpse of what the inside may look like. To see this place spiffed up is a bit off setting. Hell, I shoulda seen if the key was still in its usual hiding place and gone in. If no one called the cops on me for walking into the backyard and staring into the windows, surely I could get away with a little breaking and entering. I don’t even think the zombies would have seen us.

With a little piece of my youth rearranged, it was time to reclaim another piece. Right down the street was the local pizza place. In my youth, we would go there and order all kinds of food. While waiting, I would blow a few quarters on whatever arcade game they had; I can’t remember. Either way, it’s another trip for me. We walk in, and, wow, has this place changed. I mean in what most normal people would call a good way, but I call it a bad way. While my recollection of this place is a bit fuzzy, I do know they have classed it up. Been remodeled, better tables, counter, etc. Sucky video games; Golden Tee 05 and Simpsons pinball-not the kind of games I would want to fins there. Has Karate Champ and Turbo been forgotten by everyone? We order slices, and they tell me they don’t start making pizzas before 4. Well, excuse me, this is a whole lot of piss in my childhood Cheerios. Still, it is a bit like vertigo knowing the 17 year old Kevie was running around the same building all those years ago.

We go home, lament how old and lame we are, and fucking nap. Christ, I feel old this time. We get it together to grab dinner at a local bar. Now we hit a bit of a snag. There’s youth wrestling matches going on at the Convention Center. So the place is mobbed with families. We manage to get a table, and wait. Wait for the waitress, wait for our drinks, wait to order, wait for our app, etc. Again, I’d rather wait at the shore than here, so it’s not that bad. Clearly, they have underestimated the crowd for tonight. And it’s not the cool kind of wrestling, either. I mean, how cool would it be to see little Brutus “The Barber” Beefcakes and Ultimate Warriors running around? But no, it’s the legit kind of wrestling. Boorrrinnngggg. We wrap it up, and head off to bed. Today was supposed to be the best weather, so who knows about tomorrow?

Well, whaddya know, we wake up to blue skies and sun. We traipse off to another bfast place. We got there just in time, as right after us, wrestling families started coming in. Portly dads (who look like the only thing they wrestle these days is the buffet line at the Sizzler) along with their hoodie wearing sons. We eat a healthy diet of brownie and chocolate chip pancakes and decide to walk them off on the boards. It’s now Friday, and there are more people on the boards, and a few more stores open. And by open, I mean literally opening their store for the first time all year. Shit’s still tarped over, the floor hasn’t been vacuumed, a nice show of Senior Week 08 shirts and Wildwood 08 sweatshirts being displayed. One place was actually taking down drywall while they were open. Ah, the smell of little effort. We come across another arcade that has NASCAR, and we again race the vaunted banks of Daytona. This time, it’s me that claims the checkers. Ha! Tied it up, bizotch.

This time we decide to walk further north, past the boardwalk. After the boardwalk is a trail for walkers and bikers. We follow this as we see a bunch of people walking their dogs. Goddamn, another twinge of guilt, as our poor boy is cooped up at home, surely torturing our parents who come over to take care of him. I am surprised I haven’t gotten a call from my mom telling me he ate something he shouldn’t have or ran away. We walk up to the northern tip of the island. There we see more dogs, frolicking. This appears to be the perfect place to bring Bauer for his first ever trip to the beach. Let’s get on that. The weather is far nicer than it should be, so we stay out for as long as we can. On the way back, we play our last round of NASCAR, and she beats me. I still say she tapped me out of the way, but she claims not. Ya know what, fuck it, this is my Klog. She cheated to win. (Tell you what, we’re gonna start playing NASCAR here, so get ready for the divorce.) But nap time does come calling. And, fuck it, it sure is nice to take a nap at 3 in the afternoon. Not that I do that these days…..

Fri night is our last night there-what I call Last Night on Earth-‘cause who knows when we will get back. So let’s paint the town red, let’s rip it a new one, rock and roll all night, go out and break some hearts.

We end up tracking down the closest pizza joint, and drinking a few rum & cokes off the second story of the condos. It’s quite nice, some cars go by, a gentle breeze blows over. It really was a great ending. But bittersweet at the same time. It is a tease to spend such a short amount of time at the beach. And it stings a little bit to not have a job for 2 fucking years, and be that much further behind ever getting a beach house of our own. But for the last few days, all was right with the world. We surely needed this type of time right now. We are better off for having this time. Whatever is wrong with me, damn if the ocean can’t seem to fix it-even if only for a little while. That night, I have trouble sleeping. Maybe it’s because reality is creeping back in. Maybe it’s because I know tomorrow we will have to go back home. Maybe it’s because the time went too fast. Maybe it’s because she’s hogging all the covers, again. I’m awake it 4 when the first rain starts to fall. I am awake when it really starts to rain at 5. Fuck, well at least it’s a perfect day to go home.

Saturday greets us in all its rainy grey. That walk to the car with all your stuff is never easy, especially in the rain. But it’s perfect weather to go home to; I hate going home when it’s nice. That’s just another tease. We head back, anxious to get back to Bauer. Anxious to share the beach with him.

And the best news is the zombies never got us.

Zombie Season in WIldwood part 1

Even in April, I still want to be at the beach. So much has not gone on for me since last time I saw the ocean and heard the waves, a trip to the beach would be most needed. You can imagine I was pretty stoked to have my sister offer up their Wildwood place to us for a long weekend. T had a couple of days off and I…well, yea, time off for me ain’t a real problem these days. We jumped on the chance like a bum on a ham sandwich. This was to be my first real time in Wildwood in about 20 years. Sure, we did spend one night there 11 years ago, but to have the opp to spend 3 nights there is awesome. Please excuse me if this is a bit of a trip down memory lane, but I will try to make it mildly humorous.

As a kid, the trip down always seemed 3 hours. That was because we always went on a summer Friday night. And once you got off the Garden State parkway, every other idiot was going to Wildwood, too. I was quite happy, when Jill, our GPS (yes, that is her name, and one day she will take money from me to talk dirty. Breathy voice, “Yes, turn left here, you bad, bad boy.”) got us there in 2. Gotta love no traffic.

Wildwood was deserted. Over the years, I’ve really come to like getting to the shore off-season, be it November or April. And Wildwood was as dead as all those young white kids Nancy Grace obsesses over every fucking night. We were the only ones in the condo complex. Cue scary noise here. We got in, threw our stuff in, and headed to the beach.

We were about 3 blocks from the beach. It was about 9:30 at night. The full moon was above us, the ocean wind whipping down the motel lined street into our faces. Hmm, a bit chillier than we would like, but, hey, we’re at the shore! As we walked to the beach, it was pretty apparent that we were the only living souls about. T said it looked and felt like we were in a zombie movie. It was pretty eerie, as you walk by huge, dark motels. The wind would make a noise here or there, and you would think you were being watched. I guess it’s some sort of rule or something, but if the motel was empty, all the curtains were open. I guess that is to see if anyone is breaking in or squatting there. This is eerie, too; it almost looks like everyone just upped and left town because the zombies were coming quick.

Wildwood has carved an identity for itself of the doo-wop and 60s era. You don’t see fucking Best Westerns or Holiday Inns there. No, its all local places, most with a fifties kind of motif (if we saw one more plastic palm tree missing its palms). It did feel like a cheesy old B&W horror movie. I think if, for whatever reason, I saw a curtain in the motel move, I would run away screaming like a girl. Er, uh, I meant to say my wife would do that. I would bravely stay behind and slay the zombies in a cinematic fashion, be the hero, and get the beach named after me. As eerie as it was, it was actually kind of comforting. It wasn’t hard to see by the lack of parked cars or even houses with lights on, we were basically alone. We could jaywalk with no fear. The wind blew the flashing yellow traffic lights over empty intersections.

We got to the beach, the moon a few degrees above eye level. It was windy and cold, but worth it for a few minutes. We decided to take a walk to survey the land. We started walking north, paralleling the beach. The dunes and hotels were enough to keep most of the wind down. We passed one big hotel or condo where only one light was on. As we were walking, we would hear an occasional sound. It either sounded like an animal crying, or a big drill going into metal. We passed the one hotel this noise had to be coming from; there were 3 cars parked outside. As we slowly crept by, I was half expecting the zombies to come rushing out with huge ass drills. We slowly walked by, and the sound stopped. We lingered for a bit then moved on. As we continued to walk 10 minutes later, we again heard the sound. So I guess they waited to continue the torture until after we left.

We walked by lots of empty motels. We walked by lots of empty houses, both new and old. I think the modern beach houses are pretty cool, but they don’t necessarily scream “beach”. Just because you nail a few dolphins to the wall and put a small anchor on the lawn doesn’t exactly sell it to me. I prefer the old beach houses, the ones that do scream “beach”. They have far more weathered character. Don’t get me wrong, I would get either one if the possibility ever came along. We got a good idea where everything was (no nearby bars, but it didn’t matter since everything was pretty much closed anyway). We went back, anxious to get to tomorrow.

Tomorrow came the best way it should while on vacation; with a plateful of greasy breakfast. The sun was out, not a cloud in the sky, and actually kind of warm, especially for April. It was time to hit the boards. We parked at the south end, and slowly meandered our way up north. There was much more life on the boards. Bikers, runners, all the locals, etc. We even saw the occasional dog, which broke our hearts because our beloved MissilePup was at home. Most of the stores were closed. Like the night before, it was a bit odd to have such a nice day, and all these stores are closed. I at least felt better that the zombies wouldn’t get us; I believe they have an aversion to the sun. We slowly made our way up; me pausing to get some good beach pictures. I was really bummed that none of the arcades were open. True, most kids were still in school, but I was jonesing to find a Mario Brothers game to dominate. And the arcades that were open weren’t arcades at all; they were casinos. Since I last spent significant time in Wildwood, it seems Atlantic City wormed its’ way in and is trying to cultivate the next generation of gamblers. Instead of machines made by the likes of Midway and Atari, they have been replaced with games of chance. Yes, let the kiddies play the slots. I was really disappointed.

We did find one arcade that had a NASCAR game. OK, game on. I will go through jags here with my PS2 where I will play NASCAR with half a load on, and still win. Surely beating my non video game playing wife will be of little challenge. We were neck and neck when she drove into me, and won the race. Now she will contest this point, to which I will say “Get your own goddamned blog no one reads. My blog, my story.” So she won, rubbing is racing and all, but this is not over. Over to our right, work is being feverishly done to all the amusement piers. On Easter, they all open, so the Boardwalk is full of work trucks and workers doing whatever to ensure the Ferris Wheel doesn’t roll off its axle this year. We walk to the northern end of the Boardwalk, and hit the beach. It’s about 60 degrees or so, a fair wind from the ocean, but it’s still warm enough to feel the sun on your face. At a distance around us are families and kids playing. The ocean just does its job; wave after wave.

Off to our right is one of the amusement piers. We decide to stroll over, so we can go ‘under the boardwalk. I have mixed emotions. Part of me is excited because it might mean I am getting lucky. The other part of me fears this is where the zombies hang out during the day. I’ve never really been under the boardwalk, so this will be cool; even if there are stoners and drunks there. It’s pretty cool, for what it is, and makes for some nice pictures. O, and no, I didn’t and no there weren’t.

DVD Extras

Directors Commentary

Another part 1 post. I do it because I believe, unlike me, my readers have busy, full lives. And you may not have the time to read the whole 4 page account. I am actively trying to better edit my work. And I also like to string you along for a few days while I finish this up.

Pictures of this momentous trip are on my MySpace account. I find MS much eaiser to post a new album. I am still a motard here and can't figure out how to do it. But I do think Blogger is much easier to put the pictures in the actual post. I think doing that adds to the story instead of just seeing 30 pictures with a few captions. Also, for some reason, my posts there are getting fucked up. I type all these in Word, and over the last few weeks, the format never transfers over to MS. It looks like a 12 year old posted it; hell, half the time it probably looks like a 12 year old wrote it. That is starting to piss me off. Anyway, as always thanks for reading. Or at least getting someone to read it to you.

When Harry Met Whitey

OK, so I finally have lots to write about. Lots of half baked ideas looking to be…well, baked, I guess. And I really had no intention to write on the following topic. But I find things have hit me, and it’s affected me more than I thought, so I will go with it.

Famed Phillies announcer Harry Kalas passed away yesterday.

When I heard the news, I was not immediately affected. I thought it was sad, and you never heard of him being sick or anything. But as the day wore on, I found myself thinking more and more of old Harry. Look, I am not going to say I am a baseball/Phillies fan, because I am not. But there was a time in my childhood when I did follow the team. And if you followed the team, that meant you heard/saw Harry every game, every night. As many fans have already said, he was the voice in my childhood. Baseball is an incredibly parental kind of sports; sons bond with their dads over the game. For a while, I did the same with my old man.

I played baseball (pretty poorly) as a kid, and wanted to be the next Larry Bowa. I even had an ugly yellow shirt with him ironed on. This was fashion in the early 80s. And Harry was The Voice. He had been with the team since ’71. Generations of fathers and sons listened to him call the game. As someone said, he was the soundtrack to the summer. And fathers and sons would sit and listen to the game with Harry broadcasting it. (Now, I suppose I could use this as a rant about who dafuck listens to a baseball game. Apparently, it’s a big deal. It’s quite possibly tied with soccer as THE Boringest Sport on the Face of the Planet. I mean, what is there to say? “The pitcher throws the ball. The batter watches it go by for a called strike.” Seriously? Whatever.)

To generations of Philadelphians, Harry was the Phillies, he was baseball. And if you’re not from around here, you’ve still heard him. He’s been on tons of commercials, like Campbell’s Chunky soup, and also voiced NFL Films. So every January, you will still be able to hear him when ESPN does their NFL films marathons leading up to the Super Bowl. If you’re not from here, losing Harry Kalas is the equivalent of waking up with no cheese steaks or soft pretzels. Yes, it is that big of a deal around here.

Philly has been kind of lucky when it comes to our sports guys. We’ve had some true legends like Harry and Gene Hart with the Flyers. Dave Zinkoff was a famed in game announcer for the Sixers. Merril Reese has seeming been doing play by play for the Iggles like the last 60 years. Reese is a horrible homer, though. But, all in all, I am not aware of another city that has head the dearth of superior announcers than Liberty City. It’s a shame for the most part, the teams have sucked.

Losing Harry Kalas is losing a bit of your childhood. For many current fans, he’s the only voice for the Phillies. I know, at that time in my geeky life, he shared some big moments with me. All the big games and events. He’d be sharing the mike with long time partner Richie “Whitey” Ashburn as Schmidt hit 500, or the Phils beat the Expos on the way to the playoffs. The Xmas of 1980’s hottest gift was the vinyl record of Harry & Whitey calling the 80 World Series. Which never really happened in real life. At that time, the World Series was only broadcasted nationally by a national broadcast team; local broadcasters were not allowed to call the World Series. After Whitey and Harry were shut out of calling the Series, such an outcry arose, that the rule was dropped, and since then local markets can broadcast the games. So what we heard was those 2 calling the game via replay. And you know what? To my kid ears, I am sure it was magical.

How ironic, then, that Harry finally got to call a World Series the Phils actually won. I remember watching the end of the game going, “Shit, I wonder what Harry said?” The rest of the night, just about every newscast synced Harry’s call with video of the moment. As someone from the Phillies said yesterday “We have lost our voice.” There was reaction from the players themselves. Which I find kind of ironic, since they are playing when Harry was broadcasting. How could they have ever heard him? Anyway, I am sure their loss is far more on a personal level that professional.

Over the last 2 days, local radio has been flooded with fans calling in; relating their Harry memories and stories. No surprise, it turns out the guy was a true class act. (Just once, after someone dies, I would like to hear someone say, “Now that the son of a bitch is dead, I can tell you what I really thought of him.") A tribute grows at the stadium. Not that I’ve ever regularly watched the Phils over the last 20 years or so. But, usually, once or twice a season, I would drop by and check out Harry. He was always there. Always. I am sure many could close their eyes, and go back to their childhood.

Harry was beloved in this town, a fixture you really don’t realize how much you will miss till it is taken from you. Harry died yesterday, before a road game. Same way as Whitey. Harry was Philadelphia. He was known for singing “High Hopes”. (I suppose I could use this to lead to another rant about just what the fuck that song is about. Who writes songs about ants pushing rubber tree plants?) For many fans, they spent more time with Harry than any Phillie player. Not that I will ever watch another Phillie game. But when I do just happen to flick by, and not hear Harry, it will be odd. I am sure I will get many flashbacks over the next few days as his life is recalled. And I guess, down somewhere, deep, deep down, a piece of my childhood is gone. I can’t imagine how the real fans must feel.

OK, thanks for reading, and I will get to klogging the BS we all love. If you’ll excuse me, I have some rubber tree plants to move.

Back to The Future

I am not a big proponent of moving a step back to take a step forward. In fact, I can't envision many scenarios where dwelling in the past can lead to any positive result. Unless you're me. Because I am special, more special than you. My mommy tells me so. Do as I say, not as I do is how the saying goes. So go figure I think I have found a situation where revisiting my youth might benefit me, and the Internet at large.

As I follow "this writing thing", I have recently landed a gig (gig=free) writing for a site called Isurvivedthe80s.com. You can bookmark the site and check out my first post here:http://www.isurvivedthe80s.com/?p=131 Be sure to check there often, as I won't be posting those Klogs either here or over on K Theory. Remember, clicks equals love, and with AdSense, I just might get a buck or 2. Beats busking on the subway platform.

I know on the surface, it seems pretty easy stuff to write about. But I do find it challenging. For one thing, I am limited in my subject matter. Sure, it's pretty fucking hard to exhaust a category that is a decade long. But, hey, even That 70s Show ran it's course. Plus, while I really did/do enjoy a lot of the 80s stuff, I am not a big fan of recalling what a fucking loser I was. Most great writers seem to get humor from pain, and if that is the case, I should be one funny motherfucker on this site.

The site is relatively new, so it's cool to help shape it and see what the crowd is and what type of stuff they react to. I admit, while I was writing my first post, I had the 80s Sirius channel on, and it was quite a trip. It will be fun to see what type of stuff I come up with, and what Sun-In colored memories will appear. I humbly ask you to drop in from time to time. That would be like, totally awesome and tubular. Totally.