So, mid-morning saw us rolling into Point Pleasant, where of course THE PERKINS IS CLOSED FOR THE SEASON. Well, we'll live. There is a diner Wendy went to as a young pup, right around the corner apparently, which is called the Ocean Bay Diner. 'Cept, now, they've decided (it appears) that this name was too long and confusing. So now your car rolls up to a big ol' blue-and-white sign which reads O. B. DINER.

Do they let guys in here? And, if so, why do they go in???

Well, I'll try anything once. So we went in, and I had a lovely omelette and there were no stirrups. Or speculums.

So, like that's not interesting ENOUGH......a mere two blocks West of here is a little antique-and-curio place Wendy wishes to visit, called "Willinger's Auction." We go in. I score a couple of 45s and a New Yorker magazine from 1930. That's not the fun part. As we're waiting to pay up, the little old lady who is manning (ladying?) the counter gets a phone call. We are not snooping, mind you, but it seems to be a call from someone she hasn't heard from in a while. She finishes up the phone call and is positively gushing. Turns out the guy who called had been looking for her for years. When she was a young girl (teenager, I think) she saved a little boy from drowning by pulling him out of the canal. This was him, and he had just found her. I'll guess she was talking about roughly sixty years ago. How about that?

From there we went off into the middle of town (and I didn't even know that Point Pheasant HAD a "middle of town".....) and to one of those Antiques Mall places, where they have several floors and a billion absentee vendors and one cashier, and many or most of the Absentee Vendors have not bothered to properly mark their stuff.

We skitter into this place, and what's the very first thing we see? A venerable old Steinway, in a style they haven't used since the mid-1800s--kind of a Steroid Spinet. Hard to describe the shape of it--suffice to say that this piano is to the spinet piano as the 1949 Buick Roadmaster is to the '57 Chevy. Does that help? Aw, well, screw it--I gotta PICTURE. Feast your eyes on this sucker. And they only wanted $16,000 for it.

Wouldn't fit in the trunk, and besides we were on our way DOWN the shore.

Wendy found a 1940s/50s Mickey Mouse throw rug which she tried to talk herself out of getting, but I tied it around her head and made her take it. Also I found several almost-mint Kingston Trio and PP&M albums, nestled amidst a SEA of LP Detritus.

Also....and this will probably mean nothing at all to you, but it almost split my poor little head open: in the last little room on the ground floor--a glorified closet space, really--there were a bunch of antique dolls. AND ALSO--(and believe me, I nearly jumped out of my f***ing skin)--MY GRANDMOTHER. It was nice to see her again but it would have been nicer to have been warned first.

My sister has long maintained that Viola has been haunting her with fair regularity, and I have wondered why no one ever visits ME. Guess I asked for it.

Anyway--from here, we attempted to visit a final Point Pheasant antiques place, called "Time Machine", which is of course "Closed Wednesdays." And this is the one we really wanted to see. It was listed under "Musical Merchandise" or something like that......so we figured we'd try to catch it on the way back. Good thing we did. But I'll not get ahead of myself.

So, final score for Point Pheasant: two down, two up. Not counting the OB.

Rather than hop from island to island as we usually do, we head back toward the Parkway. Because we are going somewhere DIFFERENT.

That's right.....OMINOUS MUSIC CUE.

Shouldn't have been so ominous. We were heading toward one of those NJ places you see the big brown signs for on the Parkway: Historic Places, that your Tax Dollars Pay For. No, not Cheesequake State Park, smartypants......we were going to Historic Batsto Village. It's a perfectly-preserved mining town scattered around a big estate house, where the workers were housed when they weren't pulling chunks of iron ore out of the water. It's a ways inland, but seemed like it'd be worth the trip.

They offer tours of the estate house, the last of which commences at 3:30 PM. The grounds themselves are open till "dusk"--which, at this time of year, means roughly 6 PM. We, of course, roll into the parking lot at--seriously--3:31. Wendy asks the Evil Bitch At The Desk (we didn't know that was her name--yet) if it was too late for the last tour. She said yes, it was. But we could still walk around the grounds.

Grumble grumble, and off we go into the grounds. Although we can't go in the mansion, many of the other buildings are Walk-Through-On-Your-Own affairs, and we are still going to see those.

Not. It is, remember, 3:35 PM. And as we trudge along the trail, some Miscreant Dirtbag in a red "NJ Official" pickup truck is driving stealthily through the dust, from building to building, locking them up before we can get to them. Believe this crap????

True, yes, we are just about the only people in the whole place, but c'mon--this was beyond unacceptable. THE PLACE DOESN'T CLOSE TILL SIX. And we drove all that way--for nothing--just so some chowderhead in a red pickup truck, who is being paid solely out of MY tax dollars, can have an extra hour on a weekday afternoon to go home to his Shack In The Woods and blast eight extra Beer Farts into his sofa cushion?????

Well, excuse ME.

So, steaming, we walked around the grounds anyway, and took a few pictures. I intend to write a long angry letter....or perhaps I'll just leave it at this and wait for Christy Twitman to enter "Batsto" into a search engine. Seriously, the nerve. I'd tell y'all to boycott the place, but dammit it's FREE and there's nothing to boycott. Just...just....just don't go there. Let 'em spend EVERY day staring out the window waiting for tourists to abuse.

So, anyway, we leave Historic Batsto Village, and it isn't till we're quite a ways down the road that I realize.......WAIT A MINUTE. We didn't "miss" the last mansion tour! We were the only ones there--at 3:31--and the place was all sealed up like Tupperware.

THERE WAS NO "LAST TOUR."

My tax dollars at work.

Well, following this debacle, we aimed for Atlantic City, and drove through the city, past Lucy The Elephant, across the bridge into Ocean City, then back onto the mainland. 'Cause, see, the Parkway is boring down there but it's cheaper. So we alternate. Sometimes we try to get all the way down to Cape May without touching the Parkway once, but we haven't quite found the solution yet. (You can't go the old "pre-Parkway" route, because part of it--specifically part of route 9--has been subsumed into the giant heaving maw of the Parkway itself. Like the swallowing of Route 66 by our fine Interstate Highway system.)

Where was I anyway? Oh yeah.....so we roll into Wildwood, the hard way, through Avalon and over a huge expanse of marshland. We check into "The Knolls", which is where we usually stay...mainly because it's next door to Wendy's dad's ex-place. I don't know if I have covered this topic in the past, but the Place in question was a house, two cottages, a "four-family", and a two-story hotel. The hotel has since been knocked down and is now a parking lot, but the rest of it's all still there. It was in a really nice central location, if you know Wildwood, on Roberts Ave, right across the street from the Boardwalk. So there you go.

We usually choose this week after Labor Day for our shore excursions, because it's not too crowded but most everything is still open. 'Cept this year, there's a lot more closed than usual, and the places that ARE open are keeping strange hours. No matter; 'Hot Spot", the place in which I wish to eat, is in fact open; and they do still, in fact, have the eminently gutbusting Gyro/Chicken Gyro/Souvlaki combo platter ($10.95) served each time by a similar (not identical, but similar) Expatriate Irish Lassie. Or, more correctly--Semi-Expatriate, or maybe Round-Robin-Temporary-Expatriate-And-Soon-To-Be-Repatriated-At-The-End-Of-The-Summer......ah, screw it.) Suffice to say you CANNOT finish this dish even if you are me. But I have not, in this instance, eaten since the O.B. Experience--right through the Batsto Debacle--and I'm READY. I left only a few french fries behind. And so much for Wednesday. Except for this:

Now, DO NOT get the idea, please, that I go to the beach with my wife with the intent of Gawking At Pulchritude. Okay? However, I must make note, and I mean it, that we had the two best bodies on the entire Wildwood boardwalk. What's going on here? Is it just because summer's over??? The place was choc-a-bloc with Huge People--I don't mean people who wouldn't miss a few pounds, now, I mean people who CAN'T WALK. People locked in a Perpetual Waddle--and they seem to do most of their waddling in and out of the Fudge Shop. Seriously. Either we're once again becoming a Nation Of Monoliths or else they just all go THERE. Very weird.

Thursday morning, we went down to Cape May, to look at the Victorians and wander through the pedestrian mall, where there's a new Atlantic Books we hadn't been to yet. We had fun. One difference this time: we're sitting, stopped, at the drawbridge, waiting to get onto the cape, while a few boats go by. Do try and picture this: two old men are fishing off the rocks below us, and here comes a seagull three feet from the car--not flying, just hovering REALLY SLOW--and on my tape deck is John Dice's Darcy Ann--well, I know you can't imagine THAT part. Since it's central to the concept, please do listen to it now. And picture the birdy. You won't be sorry. Click here.

After Cape May, we came back and vegged for a while, then went to stick our feet in Mother Ocean. We'd expected the beach to be strewn with Ocean Crap due to the big storms in the Caribbean, which indeed had been churning up our water something fierce. Yet the beach, and water, were pristine. No crap nowhere nohow. The water was real warm too.

After an hour or so of this, we drove to Ocean City. Their boardwalk contains TWO "Atlantic Books" stores to Wildwood's one, and Cape May's one-and-a-half. Also, a very neat Memorabilia Shop where, last year, I procured the elusive July 1968 LIFE magazine--with Jefferson Airplane on the cover and a long article about Ars Nova. This year, we didn't find anything but it was fun looking. Also, I note that, probably due to the aforementioned Caribbean Weather Patterns, Ocean City's beach is GONE--again--and I mean GONE. Right up to the boardwalk. Their island seems to receive the most beach erosion of all of 'em. Just last year Uncle Sam had rebuilt the entire beach with megatons of Wayward Sand, and now every last speck of it is gonzo. Anyway.

We were going to meet Wayne Momyer (who lives in OC) but it was later than I thought by the time we called, and his answering machine was on. So we went back to Wildwood and got some ice cream and got back to the room JUST before the rain. How about that?

I should point out that Wildwood hosts several "events" during the season. The second week after Labor Day every year, every member of every fire department in New Jersey is in Wildwood for a convention, a-whoopin' and a-carryin' on--Hey, Arsonists! Take Note! Set all your inferni THAT WEEK--but only somewhere above Exit 4.

Anyway--on this particular week, we did not have any firemen to deal with. Instead, there was a convention of--yes, that's right--Harley-Davidson owners. Yee-haw. It wasn't Wild In The Streets or anything like that--they seemed, for the most part, like nice folks--but ya can't really Sneak Into Town on one of those things, yes? So sleep was sort of fitful, I'll say.

Here's one cute little thing: there's a diner we always go to when in Wildwood, called "Big Ernie's." It's all 1950's-decor, but the food's good. So we go there for breakfast Friday morning, and expect the place to be full of bikers and their "wimmins" in full regalia, which of course it is. But get this:

The smoking section is nearly empty. What a pisser!

So, let's review:

• Everybody's really fat. I mean, REALLY fat.
• Bikers don't smoke.

Okay, got it so far? Let's move on.

We go to a very neat used book store in the middle of town, called "Hooked On Books", where we always go--last year we scored the last in the elusive Eyebeam series there--and got a few things. Then we headed out to the mainland where there's an excellent Xmas shop called Winterwood. Then North on Route 9--where you eventually pass, of course, the "Tuckahoe Inn"--(punch line: "...and read her a story." No charge for that one.)

So, Northward--and to "Wendy's Island"--the island that contains, among other places, Seaside Heights. On whose boardwalk Wendy worked as a College Pup, and where Our Girl Kate (she's not actually "Our" girl, but I feel protective) works in the summers these days. She and her family have already f***ed off back to Mokena, Illinois ("where the cows are as big as.....well, cows") and we didn't get a chance to see 'em this year, (Kate and her family, I mean--not the cows. We saw cows.) but I thought we'd at least try to find the place she had worked ("Stonelore", whatever that means) so we could tell her we sniffed out her aura, or something.....but there was neither Lore Nor Stone, so I'll assume it was one of the many Shuttered Locales on the boardwalk, which were in the majority despite the nice weather and proximity to Labor Day. Guess without Kate the place couldn't function.......by the way, just in case I'm not yet in enough trouble, you will find the 1984, 85, and 88 versions of Stonelore Girl on the Baby Page. Along with sister Aimee and brother Chris..... I won't embarrass the girls (you know how girls are) by removing the anonymity of their pseudonyms, but I don't mind saying that Chris does duty as the Ritalin-Deprived Animated Figure in the upper corners......and so much for them, right? Someday I'll have to write a Family Thumbnail Bio Series on them and REALLY piss 'em off....but another day for that.

We left Seaside and drove to Lavalette to stick our toes in the water again. Much more debris here, but not so very bad. Back in the car and off again to Point Pheasant, and our Rendezvous with the store we missed on the way down, "Time Machine."

There are, as you see, no real significant markings on this place--we in fact drove past it twice on the way down without seeing it. But once you get inside, lordy.

What you see through the window is mainly 50s and 60s kitsch. Every board game you had as a kid, if you were a kid when we were kids. Stuff like that.

There is, however, a back room--same size as the front room--literally FILLED with records. All in strict category and alphabetical order. The prices, however, put us off--they seemed to be way out of line. Still, we started looking through the (huge) comedy and children's sections.

There are a few Mort Sahl records that still elude me, y'see--and also a couple of long-gone childhood artifacts, which I have no hope of ever finding in stores or at garage sales, but which I always look for in a place like this one....'cause y'never know. One of them, Songs Of Yogi Bear, is a hallowed prize--not because of Yogi Bear or the dopey Yogi songs, but there's some truly weird ancillary stuff on there. Seems Hanna-Barbera came up with some characters that they rarely or never used...but they had pictures, and voices, and theme songs for 'em. I certainly never saw any cartoons starring Alfy-Gator the Alley-Gator (who sounded like Peter Lorre) or "The French Gentleman Wolf, Loopy De Loop." It's the latter that interests me most, and here's why: like any eight-year-old retard in 1962, I liked to play records backwards to see what they'd sound like.....I never found any Satanic messages, mind you, but the Loopy-De-Loop song did contain one notable bite, to wit: before Loopy himself starts singing, he is introduced to the audience by some other guy, who sings:

Charming and bright......always polite,
It's his delight....to do everyt'ing right
He's da Good Wolf, Loopy, Loopy De Loop
Wid his Frenchy Frenchy Flair, he's so debonair
Now dat is da scoop, onnnnnnn LoopydeLOOP
'Cause Loopy is a gentleman WOOOOLFF-ahhh!

So what, right? Ahhhh.....but when you play the song BACKWARDS, that first line is transformed into something truly marvelous:

Nyaaahh, boopsie bawl........nyahhh footie mosh

So you see I simply MUST find this record again. My sister (3 years old) destroyed it, or ate it, or sold it for crack money or something.....and whenever I go into a place like Time Machine, I search (in vain) for this record. We always come across tons of records of the same vintage, but never that one. AND......

We also never find the children's record that I crave even MORE.....the OTHER one my sister sold for crack money......the one I miss so much I'd sell my SOUL to hear it again. I did some catalog research back when we worked at Sam Goody, and I believe this record to be the ONLY album that was ever deleted by Disneyland Records, where nothing EVER goes out of print, except THIS. We look and look and NEVER FIND IT.

Till today, that is. YEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

I have described the cover to Wendy in painstaking detail in case she ever sees it and I'm not there. So, I'm burrowing my way through several huge milk cases full of Pat Cooper records, and suddenly I hear "Oh, MIKEY....."

Wendy, of course, who can name every Steve Goodman song, has never HEARD of Ludwig Von Drake. Cultural Lacuna. What are you gonna do with some people? But....she's.....HOLDING......IT......IN......HER...... HANNNNNND........

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Well, this may not mean much to you, after all....but it should. This is not just another dopey children's record. When I was a kid I ate it up, of course.....had every line memorized.....but as I got older (long after I lost the record) I realized how amazing it really WAS. It's pretty much just a case of Paul Frees being let loose in a studio, with very minimal scripting, just letting his brain drip out into a microphone for 35 minutes or so, in the character of L Von D. And it's stunning. There are songs, of course--but even in the songs, he ad-libs his ass off. It's probably the guy's finest hour and NOBODY KNOWS ABOUT IT.

If you remember Ludwig, you'll recall that he was Donald Duck's uncle, and that he was the Top Genius of his era--obviously modeled after Einstein (same hair) and Von Braun. Disney let him fade away in later years--shuffled off to the same horrific Cartoon Limbo where Violet and Patty (from Peanuts) have lived since 1962 or so......Shudder! Shiver! Shriek!

Well, I should say the odds are fairly slim that you'll ever SEE this little artifact, but if you do, GRAB IT.

So, anyway, it was marked at $45--where am I, anyway, Colony Records? ("Oh, goody--I can get this Jimmy Roselli album for only t'ree hunna dollizz"--WHAT???) But the nice lady who owned the place chose this moment to walk on back and tell us that there was a sale on records and that the marked prices would trickle down to something much more palatable. So, in addition to Ludwig, I nabbed one of the aforementioned Pat Coopers--the only one I was missing--a Buddy Hackett and a Flip Wilson I had never seen.

Nice lady. Nice place. Do go there. Tell her that the Mental Patient who bought the Ludwig Von Drake album sent you.

To wrap up our day, we headed to Interlaken to see Mike and Sue and their fifty-three cats (sneezo) but it wasn't late enough, so we parked the car in Allenhurst and watched the water in front of some rich guy's house.

We went with Mike and Sue to a huge neon diner they recommended, (name? I forget. "American" Something.) where I parked my car next to--all true--a pair of Red Shoes in a puddle. What kind of a hurry could the poor girl have been in? Anyway, I had something called an "Alpine Chicken Sandwich" which appears to have contained an entire chicken and a goodly slab of an Alp as well; marking TWICE in one trip that Mr. Bottomless Hole was unable to finish his dinner. And then we had a nice visit with Mike and Sue and came home.