I enjoyed Ocean City. I think I figured out why it was so comfortable…I’ve been there before. It was just called Myrtle Beach and was a few states further south. During an excursion one day I commented that we must be close to home because we just passed the Rita’s Gelato place and the Dough Roller. As Thom pointed out, we were nowhere near the house, the strip was just built with a copy/paste mindset. It’s absolutely true. I think I counted seven Sunsation stores, nine different minigolf places, four Rita’s, and four Dough Rollers within a five mile stretch. They seem to have the order and frequency down to a science.
Sadly we did not get to sample the famed Seacrets. I know, lame right? Everyone I spoke to said we HAD to go. I didn’t come to Maryland to go clubbing. Being a typical NY snob, I assume all clubbing should be done locally. The description of the inner tube bar did not sway me. The stories of the three separate bands and dance floors left me unimpressed. However, after the talk of the lizards and chickens I was starting to rethink my decision. On our way home from dinner I asked the birthday boy to point the place out to us. All this time I thought it was spelled Secrets. Only a mildly douchey name. But Seacrets? Really? That made up my mind. A girl’s gotta have a little pride.
As part of the beach-side birthday bonanza, we joined the birthday boy’s family for a gathering in their backyard. His folks invited all sorts of relatives, neighbors and old friends of the family. When I say old, I mean it in all possible senses of the word. I felt like a little whipper snapper with this crew…a departure from the age I feel on an average night out in Hoboken.
After trying to commit to memory more characters than in a Wes Craven movie, I headed outside to enjoy some dinner. I started out sitting with our group of friends, but over the course of the evening and musical tables, I ended up at a table with a the consummate southern sales guy and a ninety-four year old retired military man. It worked out pretty well. One of them couldn’t stop telling mildly inappropriate jokes while the other couldn’t hear a single word we were saying. I can’t remember the younger guys name, but at one point he introduced himself as Dumb Ass. I just called him D.A. for the rest of the evening. I think the old deaf guy was named Bill. He certainly will be in my version of the story at least.
Basically the evening was another example of the copy/paste phenomenon:
D.A. would say “Watch this,” then make an off-color remark or tell a bad joke, then say, “Ain’t that right, Bill?”
Poor Bill would then respond, “Mmmhmmm whatever you say. You know I can’t hear a thing and have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Then D.A. would ask Bill what he was drinking. “Bourbon and soda…but not too much Bourbon. I’ve already had a few you know.”
“Sure thing Bill!” Then I’d watch him pour a ridiculous volume of brown liquor into a plastic cup, followed by a splash of soda.
Then D.A. would sit himself down, lean back with his eyes dancing and say, “Have you heard the one about the Jewish nurse?”
Ctrl C, Ctrl P. Lather, rinse, repeat.