Asbury Park
“Well I’m riding down Kingsley figuring I’ll get a drink
Well I turn the radio up loud so I don’t have to think at all”
September 1, 2003
Another weird New Jersey day, only this time I had a partner. The beautiful and ever-popular Ali said yes to a Sunday drive, so I swung by her place to pick her up, and we drove down to Asbury Park. I could write a thousand entries and post a million pictures from Asbury Park. I'm tempted to call it the land that time forgot and say it hasn't changed in 30 years or more, but that wouldn't be true. It's obvious that time hasn't forgotten anything; it's well aware of the place. The sun, the rain, and the salty air relentlessly crumble the cement and peel the paint while the people walk around among the ruins, pretending not to notice. I've been hearing about an Asbury Park revival for years, but I don't see it. "What is with this town?" we kept asking each other. A case study in denial.
The structure looked condemned, but the sign on the plywood door said it was open, so we entered tentatively and took a couple of seats at the counter of Howard Johnson's. Ali wasn't so sure about actually eating anything there, and the bottle of antacids on the shelf next to the booze didn't do much to reassure her, but we ordered and ate, and it was fine. Afterwards, I wanted a soft serve ice cream cone, but couldn't find one. A seaside resort without soft serve ice cream? No wonder the town is going to hell. Ali ordered a small Italian Ice from a pretty girl who spoke and moved in slow motion. "Sure you don't want a large? It's the same price." So Ali got a large and an extra spoon, and I had a taste. "Um—yeah, uh, that's all I want, thanks."
"Yeah, I know, it tastes like lip gloss."
