"Let's run away to Atlantic City, let's feel the wind in our hair. "

In response to one of my lethargic posts a few weeks ago, Em borrowed some lyrics from Ragtime to suggest a trip "down the shore." It was kind of a joke, but I think she knew that even bringing up the Jersey shore would make me come speeding across PA for a visit.

This sounds bizarre, but I love the Jersey shore. It's all so tacky and 1950s: the boardwalks with their tourist shops, wax museums, and trattorias; the overpriced carnival rides; the retro motels dotting the beach; the murky, syringe-laden sea. Oh my God, it's fantastic.

Em and I have a long and rather hilarious history of driving down the shore. The best (and worst) of these stories happened three years ago, in the middle of a string of ill-fated visits that each ended with me vomitting pathetically in Em's bathroom--and not from a stomach flu. I vomitted on this particular visit because I had sun poisoning. Hailing from upstate NY (where the sun seems to never shine) and being half Sicilian, I became cavalier with sunscreen during a long day of wave-riding at Wildwood. After six hours in the sun (!) and a beer or two at a pub, I realized that I probably had skin cancer. Blisters formed on my cheeks and thighs, and I was so uncomfortable on the way home that I took my pants off. But then we got lost--I think we somehow wound up in Trenton--an almost ran out of gas, and the gas attendant totally saw me (and my sun blisters) nekkid. Oh the horror, the horror.

The next time we went to the shore, I covered myself in sunscreen; unfortunately, at one point while I was bodysurfing, sunscreen was the only thing that covered me: there was a swimsuit top malfunction, and a handful of prepubescent boys innocently dallying in the ocean that day may or may not have seen their first pair. Again, the horror.

So, you can see why I love the shore: vomitting and nakedness plague me when I'm there. It's heaven.

But, it's winter (in case you hadn't noticed), and Em had a cold, so we decided to stay away from the shore this time and head into Philly instead. I am equally enthusiastic about Philly. The row houses, the nasal accents, the good Irish bars: what's not to love? Em and I also have a history there, including long hikes across town, into historical sites, across bridges, and into various bars. My favorite of these excursions happened a few years ago, when Mike, Em, Mark, Amy, and I found this crap bar with a great jukebox in the Old City, drank pitchers of cheap beer, and became pleasantly tipsy while we sang along to Van Halen & co.

This time, we went to a vegetarian restaurant in Chinatown, church in Fairmont, a diner near the art museum (where we sat uncomfortably close to four Philly dudes who kept staring at us and talking about "pussies"--a tried and true pick-up line, I don't doubt), the art museum, macy's (for some retail therapy, of course), and finally to an Irish pub just beyond "gaybarhood"), where we had Irish coffees and talked (loudly? hypocritically, after judging the dudes for the same thing earlier?) about sex.

And throughout the day, I realized that I could live in Philly pretty happily. All I want is an urban rowhouse with ironwork, a balcony, and a roof garden. There were plenty of those in Fairmont, where there's also a really spooky abandoned state penitentiary that hosts haunted houses for Halloween. I wonder, does the penitentiary raise or lower property value in the neighborhood? Because I would LOVE to live across from such a place.

Tomorrow I'm heading home, but I don't want to. I want to stay here and pretend everything in my life is fine. (Except for the vomiting and inadvertent nakedness that would inevitably occur if I were to linger a few more days.) But since I have to go back, I'll keep humming:

Let's run away to Atlantic City, let's feel the wind in our hair.
Sharing the day in Atlantic City, sea and salty air.
Let's run away to Atlantic City, no one can find us there.

Tony Soprano and Me

Mike and I are currently making our way through season 4 of the Sopranos. Since we consciously avoid television, we're more than a bit behind with most shows that we love--especially the Sopranos, which is, like, over.

But oh, how we love the Sopranos! It combines so many characteristics we value in entertainment: dark humor, murder, miscellaneous debauchery, psychoanalysis, dumb Italians: you know, all of the things that make us feel warm and fuzzy inside. And let us not forget its quasi-literary value: there's actually a collection of essays entitled The Sopranos and Philosophy. Um, awesome.

Of course, one of the things I love the most about the Sopranos is its internalized portrayal of the stereotypical Italian man. Tony Soprano, on the surface, is my dad reincarnate: callous, uneducated, chubby, hypocritical. And I'd like to believe that the show's investigation of his interior life--as shadowy as it may be--reflects my dad's anxiety, bizarre sensitivity, and inability to process the depth of his actions.

And, of course, I'm rather fascinated that Meadow Soprano mirrors ME in some ways: she's smart, cynical, an English major, interested in social justice (perhaps in reaction to her father's disinterest in any kind of justice?), and caught between shame and pride for a father she resembles in many troubling ways. Toward the end of season 3, Meadow and Tony have a late-night conversation filled with the unspoken feelings between them. One thing that is spoken, though, is that beneath their surface disagreements, they are alike.

(The next time I saw my therapist, he helped convince me that my similarity to my father did not necessarily mean that I would make his mistakes.)

But my favorite thing about the Sopranos BY FAR is Tony's surprising sensitivity toward the plight of animals. During the show's first season, Tony's obsession with the geese in his backyard becomes a main subject of the conversation between himself and Dr. Malfi. He sits crying in her office because he is so worried about the geese, and it becomes clear that his panic attacks are related to the geese in some integral way. Three seasons later, Tony murders the sinister Ralphie because of his responsibility for a horse's death, and sees the need to send Christopher to rehab because he accidentally kills Adrianna's dog while high.

This love and concern for animals is comic, but also an integral part of Tony's character. It reveals his rather complex contradictions, and becomes a major way that viewers can build sympathy for him. Or, potentially, it could motivate viewers to feel less sympathetic toward a man who can chop someone up with a butcher knife but can't stand to see an animal suffer.

If you read my "Tagged" post below, you know that this characteristic of Tony's makes me feel sympathy for him, as I share a similar trait. I don't necessarily consider myself a misanthrope, and I certainly don't chop people up with butcher knives (insert sinister laughter here), but I do regard humans warily, because they knowingly perpetuate all manner of evil things. Animals, however, are victims to human folly and the cycles of nature.

And so, that is why I feel sympathetic toward them AND Tony Soprano, whose love for animals complicates his relegation to the "evil" side of the good/evil binary. And possibly my dad's--and my own--as well.

Etc., whatever.

Things have not improved since my previous depressive post. I've become mired in office politics at school. My mom claims she's in love. I'm buried under a load of work. And it's only the first week of the semester.

When I started this blog, I told myself that it would not simply be about my problems; that while it would certainly be about me and my experiences, it would not read like my high-school journals (currently being stored in my creep-tastic basement): I wouldn't "pour my heart out" in a trite, angsty way.

But sometimes, sometimes, life has no literary merit. Sometimes life really is just angst and melodrama. And one of those times is now.

So, I would simply like to say that things are glum. Everything seems to have changed, but I had very little say in any of the changes. And, when I did have a say, I was totally and completely wrong, or speaking in another language, or depressingly self-interested.

There are no safe places. And I like to have at least one.