Day Eight: Not Everyone�s From Boston, John

So, here I am, behind schedule, yet again. It�s this bloody Eastern Time Zone codswallop, I tell you. Man was meant to operate on Central Standard Time�that�s why it�s central. This eastern nonsense�it tasks me!

It�s currently 1:09 a.m. EST July 10, 2001. This is a column about July 8. What can I say?

So after a night in our ever-so-groovy Ninth Floor Posh Portland Hotel Room, we loaded up the car and headed for Beantown. I�d actually been there once before, on a high school orchestra trip, and liked what I saw of it. We were, as always, on a schedule, so we didn�t have time for too much extraneous sightseeing, so as soon as we hit town, driving in past the Public Works Project That Will Never End (a.k.a. the Big Giant Hole) we headed toward our ultimate destination: Fenway Park.

Bo got it in his head that he wanted to visit one of our nation�s oldest baseball stadiums, seeing as how the thing�s being torn down in the near future, which is a shame, and this would most likely be the only chance he would get to see it. I am, as I have mentioned before, a relatively new initiate into our country�s favorite pastime-which is not to say that I was unfamiliar with baseball, but merely that I didn�t give a pair of dingo�s kidneys (with apologies to the late Mr. Adams) about it either way-but I thought it would be interesting from an historical standpoint, and who am I to stand between a fan and his pilgrimage?

A note about driving in Boston: don�t. Over the course of this day, we drove through Boston and then through New York City. Fortunately, we swapped off along the way�if either one of us had had to be behind the wheel for both cities�well, I don�t care to speculate, but have you ever seen The Road Warrior? At any rate, having now driven in all three cities, I currently rate the Three Worst Cities I�ve Ever Driven In as: 1st place New York, 2nd Place Boston, 3rd Place L.A.

I have no doubt at all that Jason will counter that L.A. is much worse than any other city on the planet, but Jason is a consummate Los Angeles whore, so I stand by my assertion.

After finding parking ($25 in a McDonald�s parking lot), we joined in with the throngs of people heading over to Fenway. Now, I hesitate to use the words �throngs,� as I think it�s become a bit cliched, but I really don�t have any other word to describe it. It was like something out of the Crusades. Assuming the road to the Holy Land had been littered every five feet with stands hocking hot dogs, pretzels, and various pro-Red Sox paraphernalia (Bo bought a handful of kid-tested, mother-approved �Yankees Suck!� items). We didn�t have tickets yet, and were thus going to have to pick out the least-shifty scalper. So, we stuck with the crowd and made to circumnavigate the stadium in search of a the lesser of evils, or, as it turned out, one standing not ten feet away from a pair of cops. Bo will tell you in his column that we only went around once. I counted at least two revolutions, and there may have been more, but I was starting to get dizzy. But then, Bo will also claim that I state in this column that he didn�t know where to get tickets, and, as you can plainly see, I make no such assertion here. What do you expect from a journalism major?

I was a bit worried about whether we would be able to get good seats since, based on the number of people in the area, they had not only sold out that day�s game, but were partitioning off waiting areas for the next five seasons. But this was, if you�ll forgive me, Bo�s ball game, so I amused myself while following Bo round and round the stadium by listening to the Bostonites. Excuse me, Baaahstaaahnites. I love dialects.

Bo finally got two fairly nice tickets off a scalper-for face value, thank you very much-and we filed in to watch the game. The game was cool. We routed for the Braves, and managed to get seats next to a clump of rabid Braves fans and a handful of increasingly despondent Baaahstaahn loyalists. 8-0 Atlanta, if you didn�t see the game. Even got to see Caminiti break a bat.

Far more interesting to me than the game itself was the announcer, who, as near as I can tell, was Stephen Hawking. Either that or the Red Sox announcer doubles as the voice of Hawking�s voice amplifier. I kept waiting for him to launch into an explanation of the aerodynamics involved in the game, and how they related to quantum phenomena.

Our hotel that night was four-star number on the Jersey shore, located within easy traveling distance of Kevin Smith�s Red Bank, New Jersey comic shop. Bo managed to get reservations at the place for less than the rate at the local Holiday Inn. Turns out there was a good reason for this. But that�s a whole other column. And, ideally, you�d have to wait a day to read this column, so you�d have to simmer in suspense for a whole 24-hour period before finding out what lay in wait for us in Asbury Park, New Jersey.

But I�m such a terrible procrastinator that both columns are going up on the same day, so you�ll just have to deal with it.

Until tomorrow, (or yesterday, if you want to get technical), oops I did it again, and I remain.�(remained�?)

David "Driving Excitement" Wharton

Day Nine: Asbury Park is Melting in the Dark

Check that out�a double musical reference. Am I good or what?

So there we were, in Asbury Park. It�s not that our hotel was bad�it wasn�t. It did indeed look like a four-star hotel�if one happened to be in 1948. Supposedly the place started out as a beach satellite for the New York-based Waldorff-Astoria. Like the boardwalk that it overlooks, this hotel�s day has come and gone.

The room was acceptable, albeit a long way from deserving four stars in this chronicler�s humble opinion. But I may just be bitter because my mattress humped in the middle, so I spent the night trying to balance myself perfectly in the middle, less I slide down the precarious slope that lay even a few centimeters to either side.

They initially tried to give us a room that hadn�t been cleaned and appeared to have been previously occupied by an embittered and drunken Mickey Roarke. After we pointed out the mistake, the two old gentlemen behind the counter discussed our situation for a good fifteen minutes before giving us a new room. They looked like an old vaudeville team, one short, fat, and bald, the other taller, wispy, and extremely soft-spoken. For some reason, the taller one reminded me of that unnaturally-white-haired fellow who always shows up on the Trinity Broadcasting Network, explaining how Jesus needs another $3.5 billion so they can add a fourth coat of gold to the tile in the lobby of their headquarters.

It�s a shame really, because the area looks like it would have been a real happening town in its heyday, but as I told Bo this morning, I think we missed that boat by about thirty years. Maybe it was just me, but the whole area felt haunted. Not by anything supernatural, mind you, but by the past. Most all of the surrounding buildings-old restaurants, arcades, and souvenir stands-stand, boarded up and abandoned next to weed-choked empty lots and tumbledown chain-link fences. The cracked and weathered face of a beaming clown stared down on the neighborhood through paint-peeling eyes, the words around his head advertising tilt-o-whirls and cotton candy and skee-ball and carousels. It�s weird, because I�ve seen a lot of run down, old areas of various cities in my time-I�ve been in Boston, Portland, and Niagara Falls in the past few days, for Buddha�s sake-but it�s rare that one has such a profound emotional response on me. If I were the type to believe in psychic phenomena, the resonance I felt there would convince me more than anything else I�ve ever encountered. Combined with the traveling carnival that had set up shop on one of the surrounding empty lots, the whole area felt like I�d wandered into a Ray Bradbury story. Which is all right by me, given my fondness for that particular spinner of dreams.

Directly across the street from our hotel stood a large, empty convention center with the words �Greetings From Asbury Park� painted across the front. Shadows of the past. Echoes, flickers, whispers. I think there may be a story in there somewhere. I�ll let you know.

Kevin�s shop is smaller than I expected, but still very very cool for a hybrid ravening comic fan/ravening Kevin Smith fan such as myself. In between the stacks of comics and displays of higher dollar comic-and-film-related paraphernalia (I very nearly purchased the scale model replica of the Key to Hell from Neil Gaiman�s Sandman run), the room is scattered with glass display cases featuring various and sundry props and mementos from Kevin�s flicks, as well as from Good Will Hunting, which he exec produced. I got some photos of some of the more interesting props, and they�ll be up on the site either today or tomorrow. Check out the blood spatters on the angelic breastplate! And it has nipples�Joel Schumacher, how thou dost hound my steps!

Sadly, neither Kevin nor any of his sundry pals, lackeys, or hangers-on were anywhere to be found, which was too bad, because Bo and I would have bought them lunch. Even if we had to kidnap them to do it. Okay, actually, the notable exception was Walt Flannagan, who checked us out. Unfortunately, at the time, I wasn�t sure if it was him, so I didn�t ask for him to autograph anything. Not that I know what I would have asked him to autograph�it�s not as if I had a dog with me. As it was, I had a good time snooping around the place and managed to get out the door having spent less than $50, which is quite impressive, given the circumstances.

The rest of the day was spent on the road again, making the long trek from Jersey to North Carolina. We stopped at a roadside way station for dinner, and that�s where the final Weird Thing of the day went down. So, we�ve finished eating, and I wander into the men�s room to make like an onion and leak. I do my respective business and finish washing my hands when this old, grubby looking guy wanders over and asks if I can hold his bag for him while he does his business.

Now, normally, I would politely decline such an unusual request, but I was wearing my Superman shirt today, so I felt obliged to lend a helping hand, all in the spirit of truth, justice, and the American yadda yadda. So I say sure, I�ll wait outside for him to finish. I sling the black knapsack over my shoulder and head back out to look for Bo and pass on word of the weird old coot. Bo�s across the way getting an ice cream cone, so I just hang out outside the men�s room waiting for Mr. Whipple to zip it up. I wait for like five minutes and he�s a no show. Bo wanders over and is giving me puzzled looks, but I tell him to hang on and wander back into the bathroom. No sign of the old guy. I check the stalls as best as I can without looking like a sex offender and getting my butt kicked, but still no old guy.

So now I�ve got a bag and no owner. I don�t see him out in the food court area either. I tell Bo what�s going on, and he agrees it�s weird and that the poor old guy probably just forgot to take his pills this morning. I unzipped the bag to see what�s inside-I know, I probably shouldn�t, but you would have, too. All that was in there were a pair of fairly old-looking leather-bound books. I didn�t investigate them too closely, because they looked pretty fragile. Finally, unable to wait around any longer for the old guy to return, I scribbled a note of apology on a napkin and left the bag with a security guard I found nearby.

From there on out, the day was more driving and no more weirdness. All in all, an odd day, but not a bad one.

Until tomorrow, 9 out of 10 dentists preferred the way I did it, and I remain�

David "Driving Excitement" Wharton

Day Eight: We pahked my cah in McDahnald's yahd

Portland, Maine is a lot like San Francisco: even the homeless people have better backpacking gear than I do.

I'm not kidding. There are people sleeping in doorways wearing North Face jackets and huddled up with their internal frame backpacks. It's such an odd juxtaposition.

Another odd thing about Portland is that both Longfellow Square and the Longfellow House are both at 485 Congress Street. What's so odd about that you say? Well, Longfellow Square is at 485 West Congress and the Longfellow House is at 485 East Congress. Guess which one we walked to first.

So once we'd seen the town, we hopped into the car and moved on to Bean Town.

I could have stuck around Boston for another week...

...just as long as I didn't have to drive anywhere to do it. It's no wonder that NASCAR isn't as popular up here as it is in the south. Who needs to watch auto racing when driving in real life is so much more frightening than what they could see on TV. The general rule of thumb is that you can drive in any direction you'd like just as long as you don't make eye contact with anyone who might be in the way. Say what you want about traffic in LA, Dallas, Houston, or any other place you hate. Boston is the craziest town in which I've ever driven. And the "Big Dig" doesn't help anything.

But eventually we got to our destination: a McDonalds two blocks from Fenway Park. We walked around the park taking in the sights and peoplewatching. And BOY HOWDY are there a lot of interesting people to watch. Street vendors, scaplers, even the cops are fun to watch.

Speaking of scalpers, you can get a much better price on tickets from them when you buy them right in front of a cop. (When you read Dave's column, he'll say that we walked around the stadium trying to figure out where to buy tickets. This is not true. We walked around the stadium because I wanted to SEE it. When I pointed out this error, he said, and I quote, "Don't confuse my column with facts." There you have it. Even when it comes to journalism you get what you pay for.)

Anyway, for regular ticket price, we acquired EXCELLENT box seats between the visitor's dugout and the infamous Green Monster. It was a great place to watch Massachusetts native Tom Glavine and the Atlanta Braves thoroughly whip up on the Red Sox. The final score was 8-0.

Red Sox fans are interesting people. Depsite the fact that Dave and I were seated directly in front of a cadre of rabid Braves fans, we weren't caught in the crossfire of any airborne edible projectiles. Obviously, Boston is not New York. Red Sox fans are actually quite polite, and as might be expected, very talkative.

Another observation: In Texas we would have had to stand up five or six times to let someone shuffle their way up to a beerstand, or three innings later, to the bathroom. At Fenway, people find their seats and stay there for the entire game. They're more than happy to wait for the hot dog guy to come around if they get hungry.

After leaving the game, we drove by Boston Common and the Bull & Finch. (That's the bar that inspired the joint in Cheers.) Nifty town. Like I said, I could have hung around much longer as long as I didn't have to drive. We figured we'd had enough of the traffic, so we headed for the Jersey Shore.

Apparently fast food is illegal in Connecticut.

But that's.... okay. We ended up eating at a family diner in some small town whose name escapes me at this late hour. The food was great, and the waitress was a cutie who pronounced "Coke" almost exactly like the like the girl at the "Canadian" Applebee's.

Dave, being the no-fun, recently engaged fuddy-duddy that he is made us get back on the road, which unfortunately resulted in us arriving in NYC in time for the 9:00 Sunday night rush hour. Had we left a few minutes later, perhaps we wouldn't have been cut off by that Liquid Oxygen truck as we were getting onto the George Washington bridge.

Eventually we arrived at our destination: the once prestigious Berkley-Cadaret Hotel in Asbury Park.

The hotel definitely wasn't nearly as glorious as it was in its heyday as a subsidiary of the Waldorf-Astoria, but all in all it wasn't too shabby either. They're working on restoring it, they just have a ways to go.

Especially in room 439.

We walked up to our room and I started to stick my key in the lock. The pressure of the key was enough to push the door open. The room looked like it had previously been occupied by squatters, gypsies, the Who, or even the carnies who were operating the ferris wheel and Tilt-A-Whirl in the plaza across the street. I halfway expected to see a body, or at least a chalk outline in the bathroom. The scene was unfolding like the opening to one of the more gruesome episodes of Law & Order.

Fortunately, any bodies were well hidden.

The two old men at the front desk were quite helpful, and they set us up with a different room after 15 minutes of debating between themselves as to who had checked out the previous occupants of the room.

Sam was a tall, slender, and quite mellow fellow with flowing gray hair and a beard. The other guy, who I'll call Herbie since I didn't catch his name, was short, pudgy, wore coke-bottle glasses, and sported a comb over. (Then again, can you call it a come over if it doesn't even make it halfway towards going "over" the top of the head?) He was a nervous little guy who reminded me of Hans Moleman from the Simpsons. If this doesn't describe them well enough for you, just imagine Dave and myself in another 40 years.

The second room was decent, large, and had a good view of the ocean from its massive windows.

We were freakin' wiped out, so we went to bed.

Bo "Driving Miss Daisy Crazy" Nash

Day Nine: Next time I suggest you not underestimate the staggering drawing power of the Garden State

We slept in this morning instead of dragging our tired butts to the boardwalk. I think it was a wise move.

Around noon-ish we checked out of the hotel, saddled up, and headed to Red Bank to visit the currently prestigious Jay and Silent Bob's Secret Stash comic store. Jay and Silent Bob's is owned and operated by native New Jersey filmmaker and comic afficianado Kevin Smith.

Kevin's got a great little store there. It's everything a comic store should be: full of plenty of useless crap on which I shouldn't spend my money.

And such fine useless crap it was. There was your usual selection of comics, a plethora of official Kevin Smith-related merchandise, and countless collectibles, like a Mr. T bobble-head doll which was fortunately locked in a glass case so I couldn't fiddle with it long enough to decide that I couldn't live without it.

Had I been there by myself, I might have bought the whole store. Dave might have done the same. Together we were able to cooperatively control our codependency on said crap, and got out of the store carrying much less than we were capable of buying.

Our purchases were rung up by the pseudo-legendary Walt Flanagan. It must be pretty darned cool to run a comic store owned by a mildly famous friend who has hit it pretty big. (Dave, remember this when one of your novels bumps Harry Potter 15: Harry Casts a Spell Against the Puberty Fairy from the New York Times Bestseller list. Jason, keep us in mind when Joel Schumacher turns your first big screenplay into a celluloid pageant.)

We finally convinced ourselves to leave Red Bank, and we headed for the boardwalk.

There are two differences between the gas stations in Texas and those in the Garden State. First, in Texas you're only a stone's throw away from the nearest station. You'll pass one every three blocks. In Jersey, you could pass three kidney stones before you find a single block with a pump. The other difference is that there is a law against self-serve gas in New Jersey. This is probably why there are so few gas stations in the state.

Once we eventually found one of the six gas pumps in the state, Dave and I were ready to find the boardwalk. We actually meant to end up at a boardwalk somewhere else, but somehow we found our way back to Asbury Park.

This is probably because every street in any city on the Jersey shore is named after one of its neighboring cities. The result is that you're never quite sure which town you're in unless you happen to recognize a landmark or have a GPS unit fired up and tracking your position. (Ours was packed up in the backseat.)

Anyway, after seeing Asbury Park in the daylight I think I have a much deeper understanding of where Bruce Springsteen is coming from. This town obviously used to be one of the most posh vacation destinations in the country. Now it looks a lot like Beirut, the Gaza Strip, or even Detroit. It now stands (or in most cases crumbles) as a sad example of just how far even the mightiest can fall. After driving further down the coast, we headed back to the Turnpike and headed south.

Delaware is just as wide in real life as it is on the map. The first third of the drive is taken up by a toll plaza. The last third is the same. Everything in between is spent passing by the service area at which Dave and I ate dinner. (This is where Dave met the "funny old man" who we're pretty sure was not Paul McCartney's grandfather from Hard Day's Night.

Well, seeing as how this is the second time I've written this column tonight (due to my accidental bumping of this laptop's power button), I'm going to shut up now. Tomorrow morning Dave and I are going to make like a couple of retirees and head for Florida.

Bo "Driving Miss Daisy Crazy" Nash