Joisey Summer Nights!

In which the author goes back to her guidette roots on the Jersey boardwalk

It was summer at the New Jersey Seaside Heights boardwalk, and everything was in its right place. Videos of the Boss flickered on the TVs up for grabs at a game booth. A little boy—not more than four years old—cruised the planks wearing a thick gold chain around his neck. And yours truly donned a bright pink T-shirt embossed with the word "Italian" tricked out in glittery fake crystals.

I was going back to my Joisey guido roots (Amy Sacco, holla!), so my hair was properly puffed up to early-'90s perfection. Except I was horrified to learn that Jersey girls don't do their hair big anymore—the boys do. In the vein of Gotti, a typical teenage guido's hair resembles the crispy spikes of a porcupine, puffed out in a flawlessly spherical arc. With their perfectly manicured eyebrows, orange tans, waxed chests, and glossy lips, they more closely resembled the buffed boys of Chelsea than the mafioso, though I didn't have the heart to tell them. I'd probably get whacked for saying that.

I was there with my family, all 600 of them (as they've taken to breeding lately), and trying in vain to experience authentic New Jersey nightlife. We were staying in Mantoloking, one town over from Bayhead, itself a stone's throw from Point Pleasant Beach. I was advised to try the bigger, "crazier" Seaside Heights Boardwalk. It would be more happening. After going to both, I can only report that Seaside (a) is bigger, (b) has more cops trolling the grounds, and (c) also has more teenagers. Crazy!

Clearly, this guy is livin' on a prayer
Tricia Romano
Clearly, this guy is livin' on a prayer


See also:
  • Hot Nights Summer in Jersey
    Scenes from the Seaside Heights boardwalk
    A slideshow by Tricia Romano
  • There at Seaside, I met a security guard, some teenagers, and Danny Riamer and his family, who were getting matching henna tattoos. They were from the city, sort of—Orange County, about 60 miles north. Riamer had grown up going to the boardwalk. "Um, it was a little bit more family-orientated when I was a kid, 25 to 30 years ago," he said, a little embarrassed. "Now, it's a bit more . . . I don't know . . . " I finished the sentence—"Cheesy?"


    Later, I met Nikolina ("Everybody calls me Nikki,") a 23-year-old Bulgarian girl who had only been in the country a month. She came on a student visa, filled out her paperwork at a job fair to work at the Jersey Shore in the summer, and like many other foreigners—including Russians, Colombians, Poles, and other Bulgarians—landed a six-day-a-week, 12-hour-a-day minimum-wage job convincing strangers to shoot water in a clown's open mouth so they could win a stuffed teddy bear wearing a Steelers uniform.

    "I was born on the Black Sea so I wanted to be near the ocean, but I still miss the Black Sea," she said with a little laugh.

    An aspiring modern dancer and performer, Nikki hadn't seen a performance yet in the city, though she'd made it to the Big Apple for requisite tourist duty. "I like it," she said of the boardwalk, "but some people told me this is not really New Jersey, this is not really America, I have to go and visit other places to learn more about the culture and what the people are, really. This weekend I went to Philadelphia, and the people there were, I'm sorry, more beautiful than the people I meet here."

    Besides being astute, Nikki was lovely, but I still needed to find the party. Any party. A true New Yorker or a complete idiot—you decide—I've let my driver's license lapse and am thus converted into a helpless baby when traveling outside NYC ("Auntie, will you drive me to get a latte, please?"). This meant convincing Das German, my cousin Denise's hubby, to drive me home after the DelSordo clan and their two million very cute spawn had gone home at a more reasonable hour. There was one problem: It seemed that the rest of the Jersey population on a summer Thursday night at Seaside Heights Boardwalk had also gone home at a more reasonable hour—that hour not having yet reached midnight. Except for smashingly drunk French Canadian volleyball player Jessie Cooper, who had lost her match at the boardwalk's AVP tournament that weekend, no one else seemed much up for it at E.J.'s, the place we settled in after a long stroll peeking into various "hot spots"—including one Aztec Sand Bar advertising the skills of the not very uniquely named DJ Unique—and leaving unfulfilled.

    I had done my research. My Aunt Patti told me to look at, which precedes by a few years (it started in 2002), posting party pics of drunken clubgoers long before Merlin got his wig on. The main difference is that instead of everyone showing off their pale tits, black eyeliner, and hipster-retarded outfits, the Jersey counterparts show off their healthy, glowing physiques—oblivious that their fashions are not very fashionable.

    It was there I learned that Merge was the place to be, but it was in Seaside proper, off the boardwalk. Also, the big party was on Sunday (we were kicked out of the summer rental on Saturday) and would require a car and/or bribing of Das German to get there. Das German said "Nein."

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