30 "do you have any openings this weekend?" hotel calls, and a quick skim of an
article on east coast party hotspots did nothing to prepare me for the
"Animal House" antics that awaited in Dewey Beach, De.
Dewey, for those unschooled in debauchery of the sort best left to
drunk state school freshmen, is a pothole size town on the east coast
of Delaware. Its year round population is lower than the capacity of
the L train and the main businesses seem to be motels, pizzerias and
bars. In short, this ain't your Gossip Girl's beach town.
A weekend at Dewey starts as soon as the first over worked Capitol
Hill staffer pulls into town. The two main bars ruling the scene are
Bottle and Cork and The Starboard. Lines form early and snake onto the
sidewalk. There is no real police presence and certainly no designer
decked Wass Stevens look-a-like manning the door. Jean skirted girls
and and polo(no relation to Ralph Lauren) shirted guys wait good
humouredly for the early arrivals to vomit, pass out, or in a few
memorable instances, don their birthday suits, and be escorted out by
an old friend or new love interest so they can file in.
There are no bottles to buy or low slung banquettes to gyrate on;
though the vip crowd enters through the kitchen and is asked to
display their cards, Eldridge style. Once in, the starter drink of
choice for many boils down to two options: a Jell-o shot from a
passing waitress or an Irish car bomb downed with great ceremony to
herald the arrival of another lost weekend. From there its on to beer,
cover bands, and meeting as many other visitors as possible.
During my weekend there, I was introduced to people from Boston, Philly,
South Jersey, Maryland, and of course Washington. The points of origin
were varied, but our goal was common: we came to lose our dignity and
return to our pre-full time job, metro card toting
selves.
Around the time a true Manhattanite would be headed out, it's last
call in Dewey and by 1am the bars are cleared and the after hours
pizzerias are full of new couples deciding on whose place to eat the
pie. I had a summer's worth of tan to accumulate in 3 days time so I
made a solo journey back to my hotel, weaving past other revelers to
curl up in my motel bed right next to the city limits sign proclaiming
"Dewey Beach, It's a Way of Life"
Prior to a mid-1990's ban against alcohol on the beach, the sand was
dotted with kegs and bikinis. Now, sunburns are acquired on the decks,
patios, and courtyards of the early to rise bars along Highway One.
Being a Dewey virgin, I foolishly awoke early to secure a prime
location for my towel, only to find the beach occupied solely by
families, life guards and dolphins. The party action takes precedence
over swanning in the sun here. "Suicide Sunday" started at 9am and the Starboard's
deck was packed and the crowd was blitzkrieged by brunch. The hardcore
don't even break to eat, choosing to turn the local crab shack into a
b.y.o.b flip cup extravaganza complete with an ice filled dunk tank
for those who emerged less than victorious. This violation of open
intox laws was informally sponsored by a local Bud Light rep who's
rumored to have "an even sicker ski house" lined up for the winter.
Vermont, prepare your slopes.
Eventually aimless wilding gives way to the main event: Jam. That may
well not be the proper title for Bottle and Cork's afternoon parade of
cover bands, but in Dewey you'd be hard pressed to find someone who
didn't know what you meant and wasn't already on their way. There's a
nominal cover charge and a half hearted id check and then it’s a free
for all of spilled beer, half hour long bathroom lines and whole
hearted sing along fun. The party goes until last man standing, and by
8pm few are. The sun, pizza and copious amounts of cheap booze make
even the most stalwart wino long for the sandy sheets on their sun burnt
cheeks. I was no exception and was snoring into my "GoDewey.com"
beer koozie(carrying ones own koozie at all times being de rigueur for
any self respecting partier on the shore) by 10pm.
While longtime regulars swear by staying an extra night and crossing
the Bay Bridge in time for a 9am work meeting, I was a tenderfoot in
town and so my last day was spent slathering on tanning oil to soak up
a bit more color then meeting new friends for lunch and checking out of a motel with nightly rates lower than a ride on the Jitney.
Swapping overpriced drinks, name dropping and Hermes beach towels for
beer in a can, mosh pits and Old Navy flip flops is a recessionista's
dream. While Dewey doesn't have a Pink Elephant owned satellite
location and the the local liquor store sells shots in plastic bags,
the small town is full of friendly 20 and 30-somethings striving to
make each weekend the wildest yet. It was a great time but once I was
east of the Lincoln tunnel I was grateful to return to my 400 square
foot apartment and meet my friends for wildly expensive drinks at
Rose Bar. Dewey might be a way of life, but I’ll take Manhattan.
