Tag Archives: Jersey Shore

Diner Coffee

Every time someone calls me a snob (something of a thrice a week phenomenon at its slowest), I mutter to myself: “diner coffee.”

That’s right. I’ve travelled. I’ve tasted. Hell, I even lived in Seattle. You can have your espresso-based drinks with foamy whatever-milk. Give me a steaming mug of American diner coffee. In fact, give me 3 mugs of it. No milk. I like it best when I don’t even know my mug is being filled and I can pretend its one loooong cup of coffee.

M and I were on the Jersey Shore this weekend with some friends when I fell upon this:I don’t know what makes diner coffee Jersey-style, but I do know this stuff is roasted in Asbury Park, which brings me one step closer to Springsteen. (Asbury Park, by the way, is definitely worth a visit, even if you don’t worship at the shrine of Bruce.)

The last time I was on the Shore, I ended up on TV. This time I found some coffee. I’m brewing a cup of it in the French press this morning.

Stay tuned. 

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Me on TV. (Or HOW I GOT FAMOUS ON THE JERSEY SHORE.)

M and I were on a mini break, sans enfants. But there was nothing mini about the monumental nature of a trip alone. We never do it. Ever. This year the stars were aligned, kids were at camp, sitters were game, and we took the plunge.

We plunged all the way to the Jersey Shore. We started our morning by running on the boardwalk. We started a little late, it was a hot day, and by the end of our run we were completely verschvitzed. (Sweaty just doesn’t begin to describe it.)  

 As we are walking, trying to cool off, we see three kids harassing a homeless man. 

“Beg for it,” one says, holding a dollar in front of his face.

The homeless man begs for the dollar, says whatever they tell him to, but apparently he’s not doing enough, because they tell him he needs to “work harder for it.”

Before I know it, I’m in the middle of things. I’m ranting and yelling and waving my sweaty arms, telling these three fuckwits that they should either give the man the money or move on, because they certainly can’t dehumanize him.

“Why shouldn’t he have to work?” Asked the snot-nose girl in the trio. “We work for our money. He should too.”

It didn’t look like these kids worked on anything but their tans. M quickly pipes up: “this is a You Tube nightmare waiting to happen.”

This went on for a while. The man was willing to say whatever he needed to and the three kids would not budge. M and I continue our yelling and arm waving.

A big guy approaches us. He asks the homeless man if the kids are bothering him. The guy starts to say no, but unable to shut my pie hole, I scream YES! He tells the kids to get lost or he’ll call the cops. 

As he calls them, suddenly cameras and the people that carry them come swooping in. Before I know it one of the cameras is in my face and the Shoreites around us are screaming, OH MY GAWD! ITS JOHN QUINONES

John Quinones is apparently the host of a show called What Would You Do, a show neither of us had ever heard of but was known to all the very tan people around us. This was a set up. They were all actors.

I hesitated on the post incident interview, mostly because if I know one thing about reality TV  it’s that even though Mr. Jon Quinones assured me that I was a hero, on TV I would come across as a mere asshat.

An asshat covered in sweat and clad in running shorts. No, I was not ready for my close up, Mr. Quinones, not at all. 

 

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