Springsteen was good when he was singing about the working man. The working man don’t give a crap about wiretaps. He wants to come home, wash up and go racing in the streets.
At that time, it was a virtual ghost town, pretty much deserted until the weekends.
I drove down Monroe and Kingsley in the wee, dark hours of the night.
I drank and danced at the Stone Pony and Park Place [before it “mysteriously” burned down] and heard the best Moody Blues cover band, ever.
I wandered around the old empty convention center and wandered the boardwalk for hours, checking often to see if Madame Marie was still alive.
The arcade was in ruins as was most of the boardwalk amusement park but it suited me as such.
The melancholy atmosphere was poignant and haunting.
It was somewhat like being the last person on earth.
I had the best surf & turf at a little roadside eatery called “Some Other Place”.
There was a corner bakery downtown that made the best corn and blueberry muffins and I snacked on them, happily, unaware that even stepping out of my car in “that part of town” was tantamount to suicide.
Naturally, I visited Freehold and Red Bank, just because.
I sat under the boardwalk and watched the gray waves rolling in.
When Bruce “went stupid”, I just stopped going.
Someday, I'd love to go back but I read that it's become a summertime homo-Mecca.
So, I probably won't ever go...the memories of being alone with the ghosts and faded glory of a seaside resort are probably best let be.