That New Jersey Smog Did Me Good.

This Memorial Day weekend, I accompanied my friend Edward on an extravaganza into the coast of New Jersey, to bathe in the the cool blue sea, ride through the hills, marvel at the island's wonders, and blow up stuff. I, at the time, was recovering from an awful bout of sickness, and was praying I'd not throw back my little health.

I tried to watch Casablanca on the way up, on Edward's laptop, but that didn't seem to go to well in terms of car sickness, so I instead chose to lapse in and out of consciousness until we arrived. Arriving after midnight, I don't seem to remember much through the sleepy haze I was enveloped in, but I was struck when I exited the little house in the morning. I was in an entirely different world. I had magically transported myself into an entirely different culture.

First of all. There was a yard sale. Now I'm not talking about any old yard sale, this thing was massive, as if the entire Island had put their lives on hold to show anyone who was willing to pay what made up their lives. Edward and I spent the entire morning enveloped in this bizarre form of prostitution, shopping for random items. It's truly amazing as to what objects you can find, and for what prices. We even bought a perfectly working Lawnmower (more on that later). But I'd have to have to say that our best find was a crash helmet. When I checked the price, it told me to consult the owner for a price. Uh-oh, I thought. That's what they do for really high priced jewelry and stuff, so I figured I was about to pick up an ancient and antique crash helmet that FDR probably wore to a costume party.
"How much do you want for it?" Said the Old Woman who hobbled out from under a table. I looked at Edward.
"Um, two bucks?"
"Sold!" Shouted the woman happily, and she snatched the two dollars from Edwards hands before disappearing under the table again. I half wondered if we could have possibly been ripped off as I dropped the helmet into the basket of my bike and rode off. I had thought about wearing it, but I probably wasn't going to attract many of the lovely islanders that way.

We got back to Edward's house and began to disassemble the lawnmower. Several cuts, bruises, and gasoline fires later, the motor was sitting in a cardboard box, ready to be shipped to Manhattan where we would slap it into a chassis and make a go-cart. That's why we had gotten the Crash Helmet. Barreling down the streets of NYC in a homemade go-cart is bound to send us into some fire-hydrants. I'm wondering if my ambition will ever actually let this project succeed.

So far, by this point, my image of a beach life was falling into place. We were riding aimlessly on bicycles and walking on beaches, flirting with the classical images of suburban girls. There were only two things left to do. We needed to set of lots of dangerous fireworks, and sneak out of our window in the middle of the night. Well, we did the first part. Don't get me wrong, the fireworks were incredible, and I was completely bedazzled by the Haley's Comets, but I really wished we could have snuck out in the night to attend a rambunctious party of FOX broadcasting standards. The trouble was, we had spent until one in the morning searching for a suitable water tower to climb. Unfortunately, one was right in sight of a paramedical facility, whom we highly doubted would take to kindly to us endangering our spine in front of them, and one in the middle of a trailer park, whose super patriotic decorations petrified us even more than the shotguns and axes propped up against billets of wood. An axe murderer is one thing, but a league of hill-billies allied under the image of George W. Bush's face is an entirely different subject. When my Alarm rang at 3 AM, Edward's parents were still up and I was too tired to wake Edward and fight his lethargic wrath. Our search for a midnight adventure will have to be satiated by the trailer park fear... For now...

On the way home, we stopped in none other than POINT PLEASANT! Although, instead of the floods of demons, murders, deception and sex that the afore-mentioned broadcasting company claimed existed, we discovered an excellent little lobster shop on the bay, from which we watched the cooks surreptitiously dump lobster guts into the darkened bay. That's why New Jersey is so polluted. That was the end of journey into New Jersey, and I can say I thoroughly enjoyed it. Maybe the experience of it's lifestyle will provide insight into Garden State, if I ever see it.