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Summers 2001, 2002 and amazingly 2003! Dagsworthy Street in "The Perch"
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from www.ontaponline.com By Sebastian St. Croix A few years back, when I was just a na*ve young pup armed with nothing but a trust fund and a smile, some friends invited me to join them for a weekend at Dewey Beach. After weeks of being regaled with tales of Dew-bauchery, I was eager for a first-hand encounter with the Dew-me scene. Accompanied by a fellow DV (Dewey Virgin), we were skeptical that reality could live up to the Spring Break-like hype. Finally the anticipated weekend was upon us— we pulled up to the house on our first Friday night and as we got out to unload our bags, two honeys casually strolled up. One of them complimented me on my pillow and commented that perhaps she could get a closer look at it later. They giggled and walked off, telling us to meet them at the Starboard later that night. We looked at each other like the proverbial deer-caught-in-headlights – 30 seconds into the first night, and could it be that all the stories were true? And thus began a love-hate relationship between Dewey and I that rages until this day. I never believed that I, Sebastian St. Croix, could be so endlessly entertained (and simultaneously repulsed) by a place like Dewey Beach. But, like an insatiable beast, Dewey pulls me in every Memorial Day and then spits me out on Labor Day— hungover, broke and exhausted— vowing that I am done with this place forever. The following are some of my observations about this one-of-a-kind place, this Disneyland for adults. For those who haven't been before, this might convince you to come/stay at home. For those Dewey vets, I think this will inspire a knowing smile. For someone used to wearing tailored Armani shirts on casual Fridays and drinking Grey Goose martinis with Tuesday's left over spaghetti, the Dewey scene can come as quite a shock. After all, wearing stain-free, non-cargo shorts along with a "Wutchoo Talkin' ‘Bout Willis?" t-shirt is considered dressing-up for a night out in Dewey. For me, this is like traveling to a distant land where no one knows who I am, and I am free to reinvent myself. In this case, my new self is someone who sleeps in a bunk bed and catches the unwanted sight of a buddy's white ass as he hooks up with a 38-year-old single mother from Philly, but I digress. The point is, Dewey represents freedom… from responsibility, worries, and the mundane social norms that allow our society to function on a day-to-day basis. It's Spring Break for those with careers, a vacation for the id. First, there is the group house phenomenon. The group house consists of anywhere from 15-30 people, usually between the ages of 21 and 35, most of whom start the summer as strangers, sharing the cost and amenities of a house for the season. Usually the demographic of the house is "young professionals", i.e., those with enough disposable income to spend on a beach house and who like to drink themselves into oblivion to dull the pain caused by their empty, soul-sucking jobs. I have met some of my best friends-for-life at my Dewey beach house, and I have met some of my best friends-for-an-hour-at-3-AM-who-I-won't-remember-tomorrow there, as well. Needless to say, it doesn't take long to feel at home when you are new to a house—everyone is there for the same purpose as you: getting drunk, getting sun, getting drunk again, and hooking up. Which leads us to the next Dewey phenomenon—the relative ease of finding "affection". Dewey has led me to believe that, deep down, women are just like men. The only difference is that they reserve their booty-chasing to "appropriate venues"—those being Spring Break, tropical vacations, and weekends at Dewey. Yes, where else can you find a respectful, "young professional" woman coming out of a bedroom (with her shorts inside out) at 2:30 p.m. to the applauding cheers of eight or nine innocent bystanders (i.e. those who heard the walls crashing), and taking a bow. Snoop Dogg, if you only knew. And of course, there are the "Cougars". For those not familiar with the expression, Cougars are women who are…cough cough…past their prime, single, and who still party like it's 1999 (or 1989 in some cases). They are also looking for any young stallion willing to take them home for the night. A recent run in of mine with a Cougar occurred at (where else) the Starboard. After getting angry stares from Ms. Sarandon (or was it Ms. Griffith?) all night while following me around, I finally asked what she was pissed about. "I'm not angry," she breathed. "YOU'RE HOT." I thanked her for the compliment but told her that I was with someone. "YOU'RE HOT," she replied. Word to the wise fellas, Cougars are short on words but long on attitude. Another word of caution, don't get fooled by the "Botox Effect", i.e., the visual illusion of youth and beauty caused by the 8 beers, 3 Red Bull and Vodkas, and two Purple Hooters coursing through your bloodstream. A full weekend at Dewey is not complete without the Saturday afternoon tradition of Jam Session. At 5:00 p.m., the Bottle & Cork fills up to capacity and the band that is booked for that night plays a free hour-long set. For my crew and I, Jam Session is the official start of the evening. Packed in amongst the throng, drinking cans of Miller Lite, jumping in rhythm to yet another cover of whatever party song happens to be popular at the time while the lead singer of Love Seed makes his kooky faces, the Dewey vibe is at full force. There one can catch the day's first buzz, make the first love connection, and see the first glimpse of the annoying guy wearing the baby doll "I Dig Chicks" t-shirt and cowboy hat. Looking around at the collection of faces that by summer's end will all be familiar, it's hard trying to picture anyone there having an actual real life, complete with a job, family and responsibilities. That guy who is always in the front left at Jam Session wearing the Elvis wig and spilling beer on his head?: Investment Banker. Girl over there tonguing her best friend in front of a pack of cheering dudes?: 3rd Grade Teacher. It's a fun little game, and also kind of scary. Another Dewey stand-by is "Suicide Sunday" at the Starboard. Something magical—perhaps Fairy Dust—floats through the Dewey air, somehow making it possible to wake up after two intense nights of partying and immediately head to the Starboard for breakfast Bloody Maries (followed by a Red Bull and Vodka or eight). "I'll stop drinking at 4" is a phrase oft-repeated, and seldom held to on Sundays. Actually, this could be the most entertaining time at the beach, as everyone there has the "I don't give a f***" attitude about anything resembling real life. After an entire summer, Suicide Sunday starts to feel like a job. "Dude, I don't know if I can do it this weekend"…. "Come on, suck it up, it's SUICIDE SUNDAY!"…."Ok, just one drink." This is a regular conversation, taking place at 10 a.m. at beach houses all over Dewey. A summer of this habitually results in a crisis of conscience that takes place sometime around 4:30 p.m. on a Sunday near Labor Day, when one asks oneself, "Is this really what life is all about? Is this really how I want to spend my life?" This moment of soul searching is typically followed up with a shot of tequila and a beer chaser. When all is said and done, the best times at Dewey are not spent in a drunken frenzy cavorting with members of the opposite sex (well, those actually might be the best times but they are forgotten by the morning). No, the memories come from the times spent with new friends—hanging out at North Beach eating steamed shrimp on a sunny afternoon, a late night party after the bars close with all your housemates, the bonding that occurs over the first Irish Car Bomb of the night—ok, we're back to the partying thing again. Eventually however, everyone outgrows the Dewey scene (except for the Cougars of course—they never die, they just fade away). No one wants to be the balding guy in the corner drooling over girls half his age, so if it's not maturity that forces us away from Dewey, than at the very least it's shame. As for me, this is my last summer at Dewey—I swear! |
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