Monthly Archives: July 2008

It’s 7:45 on Sunday, and I’m off on my morning wanderings in Cape May. Maria sleeps later than I do, so our ritual is that I sneak out like a reverse cat burglar.

I know that the nearby Congress Hall will have the Sunday Times, so that’s the first stop. Along the way, as do all early risers, I find unique morning activities. First of all, everything is wet, because it’s just been watered by automatic systems or the ocean and breeze have taken care of it. My car, I find, is drenched as usual. The humidity is calling for gills.

Then there are the screeching birds. These aren’t gulls, but purple martins, which reside in dozens of 30-foot aeries constructed by the Sandpiper condo management. They are famous for eating mosquitoes, of which it is difficult to find even one. I’m still not sure whether they are efficiently devouring them or the insects have simply been scared off by their ferocity. “Eat like a bird” is an oxymoron. (I arrange to trade my parking space each year for that of the superintendent, so that I’m tucked in a small cavity next to the building, where the martins cannot gather. Occasionally, a seagull, believing it is a B-52, accurately bombs me, and I keep a strong cleanser in the trunk for these raids.)

Uncle Bill’s pancake house is already three-quarters packed. It’s one of those place that is chaotic with mediocre food, but is a tradition among families. Brand is everything.

At the “boardwalk” (these are the stretches that abut the beach along the Jersey shore, but in Cape May it’s a misnomer, since it’s actually a macadam strip running for miles along the beach), I sit to drink my coffee and observe “the runners.” Prior to 10 am, you may bike or run along the boardwalk. It is already over 80° and the humidity must be the equivalent of walking under water.

There are runners who look like runners; people power walking; people very heavy who are doing their best to engage in healthy pursuits; and then there are the “skeletons.” These are almost always women, with poor running form, who have not an ounce of body fat and who are determined to stay that way. Elbows and knees obtrude, and their entire musculature and skeleton are readily visible. It is the converse of “health.”

There is a difference, I believe, between regimen and compulsion. The former is a healthy way to organize your life, and the latter is a behavioral disorder.

It’s time to head back and awake the lovely Maria, a part of my regimen.

(Click on image to enlarge)

© Alan Weiss 2008. All rights reserved.

Yesterday we left the garage at 8 am and tore south, arriving at Caesar’s Palace in Atlantic City at 1, a one-night way-stop on the road to Cape May, which is 35 minutes south. Our condo check-in is today, but we didn’t want to face Saturday traffic. (And, by the way, gas prices or not, Jersey shore traffic remains heavy.)

I leave I95 as soon as possible and head over to the Merritt Parkway in Connecticut, a 1930s project, canopied by trees for great stretches, with huge hills, breathtaking descents, winding curves, and great grand touring-kind of driving. The GTC devours it. (Interstate 95 is a multi-lane megalith charging down the coast. The Merritt is sleek and deceptive. The former is a rip saw, the latter a scalpel.) We are disgorged onto the Tappen Zee Bridge and, thence, the Garden State Parkway. (EZ Pass is built into the front of the car, we slow for nothing but stalled traffic.)

Our main reason for Caesar’s is that Tony Bennett is opening his show at 10 pm. We scored tickets (The traditional: “Are you kidding, they’re sold out for months”; the effective: “Let me make a few calls….”) in the tenth row. So, after the beach, and dinner at Nero’s Grill (of course) overlooking the Atlantic, we headed to Circus Maximus (of course). (They slather the Latin on the place like IHOP pours syrup on pancakes. I half expect the doorman to greet you with an open hand and, “Ave, caveat emptor.”)

Now here’s the thing: At PRECISELY ten o’clock, the lights dim, the curtain rises, and Tony Bennett walks on stage between a four-piece band and 2,000 screaming gamblers. He sang for 80 minutes, often hearing someone yell a song choice from the audience (this IS Atlantic City late at night, big heels and bigger jewelry) and turning to his musical director at the piano, saying, “Okay, let’s do “Because of You.” The band would play solos and extended riffs to give him some breaks, but Mr. Bennett is north of eighty, in fine voice, as relaxed as a spa patron, and obviously having one hell of a great time.

We saw Sinatra in his last years because we wanted to see the iconic personality one more time. The musicality was gone, and he read from teleprompters, not-so-subtly placed all over creation. (Don’t laugh, Barbra Streisand read her lyrics AND her “patter” from a conspicuous Jumbotron when her big-deal concert played Boston, and I was rather disappointed that she didn’t bother to put more effort into the production, which featured $1,000 seats and too much political garbage. Shut up and sing, already.)

Bennett used no aids at all, remembered every word, and exhibited some pretty marvelous breath control. No false encores, either. When he had finished his set, he politely received the applause, and left. It was a wonderful evening. (The assembled throng then poured down into the casino like, well, Vesuvius erupting on stilettos.)

Earlier, when Bennett launched into, “I Wanna be Around….” my wife nudged me and said, “And YOU’RE thinking you should retire some day???”

Caveat emptor.

© Alan Weiss 2008. All rights reserved.