Greetings from The Garden State

Lately, it ain’t easy being from New Jersey.

Perhaps I should clarify.  It’s never been easy being a native of The Garden State.  I endured many jokes about living in the “armpit of the nation” long before Joe Piscopo created his iconic Saturday Night Live character who asked, “Are you from Joizey?  I’m from Joizey too!  What exit?”  As if citizens of that state are defined only by their proximity to the New Jersey Turnpike (I’m exit 9, by the way…)

People used to get a false impression of New Jersey based only on the scenery that abuts the aforementioned turnpike.  Newark, Elizabeth, Bayonne and Trenton are all ugly, industrial areas that would leave anyone with a bad taste in their mouth (not to mention a sharp stink in their nose).  But whenever anyone argued about the state’s ugliness, I would counter with the fact that there are beautiful parts of the state as well, including the Jersey Shore.

Thanks a lot, Snooki and Jwoww, for ruining The Jersey Shore for us too.   The words “Jersey Shore” used to evoke images of white sandy beaches, warm surf and lazy summer afternoons, walking along the boardwalk and eating funnel cake and grilled sausages.  Now those words are synonymous with drunk, obnoxious twenty-somethings who divide their time equally between the gym, the tanning booth and the bar.  When these characters aren’t vomiting in public they’re starting brawls or hooking up in germ-infested hot tubs. 

Without New Jersey, we wouldn’t have The Sopranos”; a brilliantly executed television program which made household names of James Gandolfini and Edie Falco, and gave Little Steven Van Zandt something to do when The E Street Band wasn’t touring.  But the show gave the impression that all New Jersey residents of Italian descent were “connected” and the series finale was a real letdown.  Another show that doesn’t do any favors for New Jersey Italians is The Real Housewives of New Jersey.  I admit, I’m fascinated by the antics of these crazy women, but they certainly don’t represent the friends I know from that state.  My Jersey friends don’t live in gilt palaces, drop thousands of dollars on designer children’s clothing and use words like “ingredientses” or refer to nor’easters as “Norwegians”. 

As if all this isn’t enough, in recent weeks my old home state has suffered even more indignities.  Perhaps you’re familiar with Patricia Krentcil, New Jersey’s very own “tanning mom”, who was accused of bringing her 6-year-old daughter into the tanning booth with her resulting in sunburn.   I’ve you’ve seen pictures of Krentcil, you’ll seen that her skin has been tanned to the point of looking like a cross between an Oompa Loompa and a baseball glove.  This woman puts the “nut” in Nutley, NJ.  In interviews, her skin is shiny, as if she primped, not with makeup, but by rubbing a stick of butter across her face.  Although she’s been banned by more than 60 tanning salons in New Jersey, we’ll soon see more of her, as she’s expressed a wish to pose naked in Playboy magazine.  And you know what that means: we’re going to need a lot more butter.

Then there was the Camden couple who decided to play New Jersey-style “Peek-a-boo” with a child they were babysitting: they put him into an industrial sized washing machine and closed the door.  To their surprise, the door locked and the machine automatically started.  It took a quick-thinking Laundromat employee to cut the power to the washer and rescue the toddler. 

Last week, I read a story about a New Jersey man who had a confrontation with local police.  The man injured himself with a knife, and then proceeded to throw bits of his flesh at the police.  I wont get into any greater detail than that, other than to say that it’s appropriate the man was from Hackensack. 

It’s getting increasingly difficult to defend my home state.  If we didn’t have 24-hour diners, traffic circles, Atlantic City, blueberries, the Jersey Devil and Stephen Colbert, what would we have to fall back on?

We have Bruce Springsteen.  So rock on New Jersey.  Rock on.