I grew up on the Jersey shore, and I never met anyone named Guido.
I ignored the MTV show until it was reviewed in no less a publication than The New York Times, then I checked it out. The less said, the better. But this is not a "when I was a girl" rant: rather, a valentine.
We lived in a Springsteen song, though we didn't know it, my friends and I, bopping down the beach with the radio. We swam and sunned (baby oil-and-iodine melanoma poster girls) and picked up seashells and boys. We rode the Tilt-A-Whirl and cruised the Asbury Park circuit in huge American gas-guzzlers (made sure we cleaned out the bottle caps and rolling papers), listening to The Nightbird on FM radio. We played skeeball in the Casino and heard a lot of good music in cheap little seaside bars, and we thought life was soft summer nights and, always, the sound of the waves.
I grew up, moved away, and only then realized how unique my youth had been. I am forever grateful for my Jersey Shore, and on warm, hazy mornings here in the Poconos I still think, for a moment, that I smell salt in the air. So raise a bottle of Rolling Rock to the shades of sixteen-year-old girls with sunburned noses and their boys with sand in their cutoffs and fresh draft cards. We're still here.
Grilled Chicken and Lemon Orzo Salad by Brenda
47 minutes ago