Jersey Shore, Bush's Birthday, and Racist Dolls

Jersey Shore
Well, I finally made it to the Jersey Shore.

This is kind of a running joke between Kevin and me that I'm sad to see die, although I suppose it was its time. For nearly five years Kevin wowed me with the bounties of Ocean City, NJ. And for nearly five years, the Jersey Shore remained as mysterious to me as El Dorado must have been to Pizarro or Cortez. After years of being told of its existence, I finally saw it with my own two eyes. Nay, I even touched it with my own two feet.

Unfortunately, it rained most of the time we were there.

But, I have proof that it exists, and that my life hasn't been orchestrated from behind the scenes, a la The Truman Show. My boat didn't crash into the edge of the set. We stayed the night in Kevin's generous aunt's house, which was very nice and looked out across the bay. It was idyllic, if drizzly.

I could see how Ocean City would be paradise for a child - the games, the rides, the food! And while I could see it's thrill, I was mostly just exhausted.

Which leads me to the top-5 things that I hate about getting older:
(1) I can't ride spinning rides, since even swingsets give me vertigo;
(2) I can't eat nearly as much sugar (in one sitting) as I used to be able to;
(3) I am acutely aware of my own mortality in an unfun way;
(4) I am made very, very nervous by crowds of people;
(5) Spending money on many types of things makes me very, very sad.

As you can imagine, each of these conflicts with the true Ocean City experience in profound ways. Let's take #2, for example: the sugar issue. I'd anticipated sampling all of the tasty treats of the boardwalk - and by all, I mean all. Unfortunately, after some "light" custard, some pizza, and some fudge, I was tapped out. Talk about depressing - I didn't even get to hint at caramel corn, funnel cakes, or Italian ice. Or Polish ice. Or water ice.

I guess there's always next year.

Bush's Birthday
Actually, what I want to say here isn't really about Bush, per se, but about the photos that come out of the White House Press Agency. A photo released today (showing a tanned and smiling Bush, in some kind of hideous Hawaiian shirt, for his birthday) reminded me of their nefarious ways.

These photos are possibly the closest thing we have to Norman Rockwell today. Really. They're just too cute. Too perfect. Too nice. And too creepy.

I was first alerted to these photos by my friend Peter, who showed me a picture of a VERY CLEARLY doctored up photo, in which a telephone had been inserted into Bush's hand, nestled against his ear and his chin. It was just Bush's head, and his hand, and that silly Photoshopped phone.

This photo, I should add, was in full color and on the front page of the NYT.

Why a phone? Do I need to see that my President is hard at work? Because, really, a telephone won't do it. A telephone makes me think that he's just trying to make sense of Pizza Hut's 5-5-5 deal. "Wait: what if I get a Meat Lovers, and Rove orders a Supreme, can Cheney get a Meat Lovers too?"

This is a slippery slope, though. What would make me believe my President is hard at work defending me from evil-doers? Perhaps a computer; maybe he should be looking at a computer screen, his hand poised over the keyboard? No, this wouldn't do, because I suspect it would be difficult to Photoshop out the reflection of the ill-strategized game of Mindsweeper in the President's reading glasses.

Maybe: the President, pencil at hand, gazing pensively up at the ceiling, piles of reports and yellow legal pads surrounding him? Nope: here, in my mind's eye, he's just aiming the pencil toward the ceiling, hoping to get it stick in, just like in his halcyon days at Andover.

I honestly believe this is the photo that would work: Bush, in a magician's cape. Perhaps with a magic wand, perhaps without. Seriously - think about it. What else COULD he be doing in this scenario?

Presto! World peace.
Presto! Health care for the poor.
Presto! A sustainable environmental policy.

Racist Dolls
While at the Jersey Shore, Kevin, his mother and I visited this cute doll store at Cape May. Apparently, you can "adopt" a doll in a bureaucratic process that puts Xavier Roberts to shame.

While at this store, Kevin and I spotted these two dolls. I should note a few things about them:

(1) They were the only dolls of color in the entire place. Well, perhaps there were a few Asian dolls. But these were certainly the only black dolls in the entire store.
(2) The photos doesn't really show this, but these dolls were a good 30-36 inches tall. They were HUGE, really.
(3) They really strike me as being in poor taste. The hair, for one. And the ill-fitting suit on the boy.

These actually remind me of these terrible statues that my mother handpainted for a distant relative's curio store. The statues played to every racial stereotype imaginable, but my mother, lost in her Type-A perfection painting, couldn't see how offensive they were. How could she, when she was just painting the wheel of a roller skate, or some adorable buck teeth?

Please let me know if my bleeding liberal heart is just too precious, or if these dolls really are offensive.