The end of an era
Later this month, it will become illegal in the town of Belmar, NJ, to play beerpong on one's lawn. I can't find a link about this, but...
Oh, wait. The Smelmooo just came in and looked over my shoulder and said, "Oh, that's on Seth's page." So, not only am I unoriginal, I'm stealing, but here you go (thanks, Seth!).
Anyway, I've never actually played beerpong in Belmar, so it's not like I'm longing for the lazy afternoons out on my lawn, or that I'm personally affected by this. And part of me understands the decision to try to make Belmar a classier town -- it's like a small-scale version of Giuliani's clean-up of Times Square.
But Belmar is exactly the kind of beach town that ought to have beerpong on the lawn. It's where 20 friends rent a house for a week and cram into tiny bedrooms, and just hang out and walk to D'Jais and lie on the beach all day sleeping off their hangovers, and start the cycle all over again. It wasn't for me, but for so many people it's a rite of passage, an annual ritual, a source for a million memories and endless nights of "remember when...?"s.
There's something distinct about Belmar: if you're walking north from Spring Lake, you know immediately when you've crossed the line into Belmar (it's less pronounced walking south into town, but there's still a different feel when you hit the Dunkin Donuts on Ocean Avenue, which I love and hope to visit at least once this week).
Please don't take away the beerpong; it's part of what makes Belmar Belmar.
On a related note, I spent many a night in college playing beerpong in the KDR basement, but there we called it Beirut for some reason. Same game, different name. I wasn't really a drinker before college -- I first got drunk, on Milwaukee's Best Light Ice (wide-mouth cans, of course) -- on my eighteenth birthday, thanks to the tag-team efforts of my two roommates, one of whom had a car (thanks, Sarah) and one of whom had a good fake ID (thanks, Katie!). Anyway, I didn't know about Beirut until I got to school, but of course I had to fake like I was an old pro and I totally knew how to play and what it was. And I turned out to be pretty good at it, which is so revolting, because there are ping-pong balls that have been all over that disgusting floor IN YOUR DRINK, and you go ahead and drink it anyway. What?! How could a germ-freak like me ever engage -- willingly -- in this game? Peer pressure, I guess. I don't know; I think I get competitive when I drink.
So there's another argument for keeping beerpong on Belmar's lawns: it's much more sanitary to have the ping-pong balls bouncing on the ground outside than inside a makeshift fraternity house's basement.
But the ban's not in effect yet, so perhaps the Smelmooo and I will take a spin through Belmar this week and play my first -- and last -- game of outdoor Belmar Beirut. If we do, I'll kick some ass.
Oh, wait. The Smelmooo just came in and looked over my shoulder and said, "Oh, that's on Seth's page." So, not only am I unoriginal, I'm stealing, but here you go (thanks, Seth!).
Anyway, I've never actually played beerpong in Belmar, so it's not like I'm longing for the lazy afternoons out on my lawn, or that I'm personally affected by this. And part of me understands the decision to try to make Belmar a classier town -- it's like a small-scale version of Giuliani's clean-up of Times Square.
But Belmar is exactly the kind of beach town that ought to have beerpong on the lawn. It's where 20 friends rent a house for a week and cram into tiny bedrooms, and just hang out and walk to D'Jais and lie on the beach all day sleeping off their hangovers, and start the cycle all over again. It wasn't for me, but for so many people it's a rite of passage, an annual ritual, a source for a million memories and endless nights of "remember when...?"s.
There's something distinct about Belmar: if you're walking north from Spring Lake, you know immediately when you've crossed the line into Belmar (it's less pronounced walking south into town, but there's still a different feel when you hit the Dunkin Donuts on Ocean Avenue, which I love and hope to visit at least once this week).
Please don't take away the beerpong; it's part of what makes Belmar Belmar.
On a related note, I spent many a night in college playing beerpong in the KDR basement, but there we called it Beirut for some reason. Same game, different name. I wasn't really a drinker before college -- I first got drunk, on Milwaukee's Best Light Ice (wide-mouth cans, of course) -- on my eighteenth birthday, thanks to the tag-team efforts of my two roommates, one of whom had a car (thanks, Sarah) and one of whom had a good fake ID (thanks, Katie!). Anyway, I didn't know about Beirut until I got to school, but of course I had to fake like I was an old pro and I totally knew how to play and what it was. And I turned out to be pretty good at it, which is so revolting, because there are ping-pong balls that have been all over that disgusting floor IN YOUR DRINK, and you go ahead and drink it anyway. What?! How could a germ-freak like me ever engage -- willingly -- in this game? Peer pressure, I guess. I don't know; I think I get competitive when I drink.
So there's another argument for keeping beerpong on Belmar's lawns: it's much more sanitary to have the ping-pong balls bouncing on the ground outside than inside a makeshift fraternity house's basement.
But the ban's not in effect yet, so perhaps the Smelmooo and I will take a spin through Belmar this week and play my first -- and last -- game of outdoor Belmar Beirut. If we do, I'll kick some ass.
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