The summer.

If they weren't here before, they are here now! Like an invasion they've taken over the roads, dominate the sidewalks, and even the bike paths aren't safe.
"I hate tourists" was heard only minutes before I began this post, pushing me to update, as I am well aware was long over due.

A friend of mine pointed out that this is a very bitter blog, something I must work to change. There are many times when I truely enjoy the island, especially this time of year when I only have the time to enjoy, not share with everyone else.

There's a lot on my mind lately which has left me rather vacant. Two days ago I was awake very early swimming with the dogs, and upon leaving the house I thought I had put on ALL of my swimsuit, but no.
After almost 20 minutes of swimming I'm standing in knee deep water, bikini top, pink leporard print panties. I quick ran and put on my pants and finished swimming in those. There wasn't anyone around, and I was grateful for that.

The touristas should give us locals a summer off, like they get.
Us working people loathe the term "summers off", it was only two days ago I went to a riduculous local bar ::cough::laguna::cough:: and met a girl from my childhood who was a school teacher in AC, and lived at her boyfriend's parents house and had the summers off.
That really must be nice. No bills, no responsibilities, and summers off. Sounds like childhood. At least she's contributing to society, but there's a great chance that what she's contributing is negative though. When I asked how she delt with urban special ed, she said "selective hearing", so who knows.

This is now the conclusion of our bus broadcast for the day, thank you for tuning in. 

We locals take the bus and cabs for the

Giddy up, Juliana

Memorial Day Yuppies

Brigantine Local
They come from the Philadelphia suburbs of both Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Each Friday, Saturday, and Sunday the Garden State Parkway both directions is backed up with...them.

Like a bad horror movie, "they're here". Pale, well dressed, sunglass wearing yuppies.

As if they were turtles returning to same beach they were hatched on, close to 11am on the Saturday before Memorial day, every year, these zombies drag their asses onto our fucking beach, coolers in tow. They leave plastic, cans, and glass where it lay. Dropping their broken beach chairs off on their way out, these people are locusts taking the good, and leaving their shit.

One of the best yuppie Brigantine summer leech viewing areas is the second Wawa parking lot. It's like the look out but better.
The sociology project that is the Brigantine Wawa's parking lot, has every varital of over privilaged youth. The smell of entitlement creeps down the surrounding streets at all hours, and stinks up the surrounding area that is almost compeltely locals that live on the island all year round.

The area around the second Wawa is largely dominated by rentals, and AC bus commuters. (Just an observation) Therefor seeing this is I am quite disturbed by the lameness that is this parking lot.

They drive their parent's hummers, and their sweet sixteen present SUVs. Meeting up in the parking lot is a rite of passage for the over grown children that cohabit with me in Brigantine for the summer.

Two years ago I verbally attacked a fellow surfer in a drunken rage due to his lack of shoes.
"If I can't bring my dog in here, why do you not have to wear shoes?"

On an extra personal note, today I littered ever floor in one of the Tropicana towers with magicican flyers barefoot.

What were we talking about?
Oh yea, tourists/snowbirds/yuppies they fucking suck...except they keep the economy going, lucky us.

Map to walk to little beach if you've timed the tides right.

View Walk to Egret Inlet! in a larger map

The view from Little Beach.

Bar crawls and fish tales...

There are few bars in Brigantine.
The Rod & Reel

St. George’s

Laguna

Mickey’s Raw Bar/Steak 38

The only one truly not worth going to is Mickey’s.

From the exterior Mickey’s appears as if it were a thatched roof trailer jutting out into a parking lot from a two story steak joint.

When you walk in the floor is uneven and painted blue with spots of cement showing through. The bartender that is always there is an old stand by blond milf-y bitch. She’s a cunt who won’t serve you unless you’re in there every day tipping here after the toothy BJ she gave you in the men’s room.

Yep, she rubbed me the wrong way. The whole bar’s service is terrible and the general consensus attitude will have you walking out leaving half a beer.

St. George’s (to me at least) is the last stop on the way home kind of place. It is warm, safe, and has two of the friendliest overnight guys anyone could meet in a 24 hour bar.

The food’s slightly disappointing, but it’s meant for the drunchies, as well as only having a kitchen open on the regular hours of 11am to 2am and not Atlantic City 24 hours. I find it hard to make it to this place at any other hours other than 4am to about 10am.

All of this I am saying about st. George’s is my attempt at an objectivity, but this is an understatement as the strange things that have happened to me personally at St. George’s are crazy.

At 18 I had a boyfriend who was 24 and a hardcore alcoholic. He is actually an infamous Brigantine Local and so is his family, so I will spare the intimate details. However we still stayed in contact, and at 21 I went to hang out with him at St. George’s and right in front of all of his friends he asked me if I was going to spend the night (in so few words). I told him absolutely not, went outside to use my phone, came back to my drink, and no money. This mother fucker robbed me.

A minor fight ensued, I was reimbursed for my money, and that bartender banned him from the bar. A year and a half later, that bartender died, and with him went the ban.

Since then, it is rare that I don’t see him or one of his family members there at almost any hour.

This place is also covered in stuffed locally caught fish, boat photos, and it was here I heard the legend of the largest Striped Bass ever caught, and all the conspiracies that come with it. Ironically the fish’s final resting place, along with the plaque on it, is not at this bar, but at another Brigantine bar, The Rod and Reel, but we’ll get to that later.

Here’s what Wikipedia confirms about this story, “The largest striped bass ever caught by angling was a 35.6 kg (78.5 lb) specimen taken in Atlantic City, New Jersey on September 21, 1982”

According to my version of the story, it was caught off the AC Inlet Jetty, viewable from the window of my girl friend’s apartment in the Waterside complex, in a storm.

Now I know from spending much time looking out her windows in great wind and rain, that standing any where near that jetty, especially at high tide, is next to impossible. The waves crack over the jetty so hard, when they’ve stopped, there’s a tidal pool with all sorts of life in it!

In addition to this man standing, angling on the jetty in a storm, apparently his equipment was unsatisfactory to the men telling me the story, and couldn’t possibly carry that size of a fighting striper into his arms.

Beyond all of that, the point being that it is believed by the sailors to be that this man split the profit of that bass with some fishermen on a boat, only claiming that he caught it.

Also, this story is far from complete. To get the complete story on the fish, you must either go to the Rod and Reel, or ask the right men (or women), or St. Georges, and find a sailor.

I will finish this later with a long tail about Laguna, and the final epic closer of my bar crawl, the Rod and Reel!!

The snowny beach.

Honestly I've not seen much snow in Brigantine. It's either melted too soon, or not stuck at all. Being originally from Bucks County, I am very familiar with the cold white stuff.
It's lovely.
On our snowiest day Sunday, January 18, 2009. I had to visit the beach twice, I just couldn't get enough. First when I got home from work in the dark before sunrise, then shortly after. Infatuated with the hightide line in the snow, I was just infatuated with the natural lines created by this beautiful display of nature.
It reminds me of a poem.
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.


I'm in Pennsylvania for a little while, and boy do I miss my little island.

Atlantic city map.

View Larger Map