Remember Dirt Nasty’s comedic video, posted last week, which pokes fun at everything eighties? The vid took Youtube junkies by storm, but now seems to be influencing real life fashion decisions.
I, for one, didn’t know whether to scream in delight or horror when I saw this young gentleman at Hampton’s Dune Saturday night wearing the gold chain a.k.a. Donkey Rope that Dirt Nasty wears and continuously references in his rap lyrics. Who wants to holler, “’I’m radical, T-shirt say party animal,” first? [Note chain similarity!]
Did our Dune dude wear the chain to the club as a joke? As a Simon Rex homage? As a reference to the video? Or is that really just what he considers a classy look to pick up broads on Long Island?
Who knows!
Also under the category of crazy, I felt it appropriate to exhibit this delightful photo. I’m deeming it the ultimate share house lifestyle photo of the month, complete with ‘guy passed out on couch.’
I woke up this past Saturday at 10 am still drunk from Friday night at Cain and instinctually knowing there was no way I’d be spending the rest of the weekend in the city. My Hamptons escape house would be too crazy for my hung over mind to handle so I eliminated Long Island as an option (last weekend the house was overcrowded and loud to the point that sleep became an impossibility. Girls with cars actually drove back to Manhattan to flee the madness at 3, 4 and 5 AM in the morning – it was that bad.) So without leaving bed, I lurched for my cell phone and dialed an ex-boyfriend from college who I knew had a share house in the fabled Jersey Shore.
After we caught up on each other’s Friday nights, I discovered he happened to be at Penn Station heading to the shore as we spoke. The proceeding conversation went something like this:
Me: So, any chance of you inviting me?
Um…well, you should definitely come out another weekend.
Why not now?
It’s only my second weekend out there myself. I haven’t been since Memorial Day. I don’t even know how to get there with the train.
That’s a dumb excuse. Obviously you’re going to figure out how to get there with the train. Why can’t I come?
[Really awkward pause.]
Me: We don’t have to sleep in the same room. You don’t even have to make-out when we’re get drunk. I just want to be poolside. I need to leave the city.
It’s not that, it’s –
You won’t even have to talk to me. I’ll bring a book.
I definitely want you to come out another weekend –
Other weekends you’ll be at weddings and I’ll be in the Hamptons. Seize the present moment.
I just –
It’ll be more fun with me there goddammit!
Well, I can pick you up at Spring Lake…
DING! DING!! DING!!! Victory!
Children, take this as a lesson as to where persistence can get you.
I’d write about my psychological theory ‘the crazy girl approach to love’ that came into play here, the theory that men really just want to be told what to do, but I already wrote that article here.
It wasn’t until halfway there on the train an hour later that I sobered up and became fully conscious of what I’d done. I was entering the land of frat boys, Guidos and sideways baseball caps without mental preparation or body armor. New Jersey Transit was propelling me directly into the jaws of the New York summer destination famous for its lack of class.
House party activities that ensued included beer pong, quarters, consuming Coors Light, eating Dominos, and this endlessly amusing game called cornhole with which I became obsessed. After defeating every person in the house and their guests, I wanted to continue playing. When I started envisioning myself conquering the cornhole sport at the next Olympic games while wearing one of those beer dispenser helmets with a wrap around straw, I knew I’d developed a problem and made myself stop. For more information about cornhole, I suggest viewing this highly entertaining video.
Ala’ Hamptons, drinking in the Jersey Shore begins around noon and continues throughout the day. The only difference is you’re drinking from a keg instead of a bottle Stella Artois and downing jello shots instead of vintage Patron. With the average age being twenty-five instead of thirty-five, the snood factor eliminated, and any form of pretentiousness or self-respect out the window, the possibility for childish fun is quadruple what you’d experience in the Hamptons. Since there are a lot of college or fraternity/sorority reunion share houses on the shore, maturity is minimal.
Unlike the Hamptons where posh nightclubs are the 1 AM after dark activity, in Jersey you venture to spots that sport cheap liquor and seven dollar lobster, like the Parker House in Sea Girt. Five dollars gets you in, then the wrap around porch with hanging plants, softly spinning antique ceiling fans, rowdy, upstairs, Top Forty dance fest and theoretically quieter downstairs, are all yours to enjoy. The place is at full force with the energy of Pink Elephant by 10 PM. The place shuts down at 12:30, making the shore an “earlier” vacation destination than the Hamptons, which I appreciated.
Lack of cabs and lack of people who remembered to stuff their ID into their beach sarong prevented us from exploring Edgars, the lone club in this area which adopts Parker House patrons post midnight. While I’ve never considered myself a Jersey Shore type of girl, my strong craving to play cornhole again might get me back there and reporting on Edgars sooner than I think. Stay tuned.
