DOO WHAT?

The M.T.A.S. Visits Wildwood, NJ

: : For a brief moment I felt a twinge and a chill ran up my spine. As I stood on the corner framing the Caribbean Motel in my cheap disposable camera, a little tyke with a brush-cut scurried barefoot down the hovering, curvaceous “Jetsons” ramp to the grove of artificial palms that sheltered the pool. Since it was twilight, the off-kilter recessed lighting twinkled like blue, green, yellow and red planets above each and every little efficiency unit where his mother and father sat watching his gleeful descent. The long, low banana-coloured building complete with leaning plate-glass windows and baby blue neon sign cradled the entire scene like the flannel-clad arms of a pipe-smoking, Vitalis-smelling Dad from a 1950s advertising graphic. Had I stood there any longer, I could have convinced myself that it was 1959 rather than 1999. The Americans had just won the war, invented the suburban middle class and had such grand expectations for the future that they decided to build it early… in Wildwood, New Jersey. : :

: : Wildwood is a narrow sandbar off the southern tip of New Jersey that hasn’t changed much since the builders rolled up their blueprints and zoomed off in their rocket cars 35 years ago. It’s endured Flower Power, Nixon, Yuppies and Post-modern angst; it’s resisted the temptation to reinvent itself for each new generation, hoping that sun, sand and a clean room would suffice, and so far that’s been true. Wildwood boasts that its 5 miles of wide, sandy beaches are among the safest in North America; this combined with the geographic proximity to New York and Philly means sunbathers will continue to fill the Kona Kai, Bel Air, Casa Nova, Astronaut, Biscayne, and Pink Champagne motels for decades to come. Wildwood may be pushing 50 and graying around the edges, but it’s as successful as ever. Most motel owners continue to paint using original colour schemes, make only the most necessary of renovations, and a few have even rebuilt their sagging neon signs to original specifications. The artificial palm trees are so plentiful around the various pools that one wonders if there's a plantation on the outskirts of town. Wildwood is so wonderfully untouched, the only question that comes to mind is how long it can all last. : :

: : The Memory Motel may be the beginning of the end. With it's film-strip motif running around the roof-line, amateurish airbrushings of Hollywood celebrities and Rolling Stones "tongue" slide into the pool, the Memory Motel is the pride of Wildwood's Doo-Wop Preservation League; it's also the ugliest monstrosity in the entire town. Our tour guide had nothing but praise for the owners of this abomination during our 90-minute trolley tour of the Doo-Wop League's favourite buildings. She stressed that this type of "fun" renovation is what Wildwood is all about. How taking the 50’s aesthetic to the extreme will surely attract new tourist dollars. It is the official policy of the Doo-Wop League to encourage motel owners to then take those extra dollars and continue exaggerating the "fun" fifties look, thus sealing Wildwood into its ultimate death-spiral. All I kept thinking was that in about 10 years the Disney-fication of Wildwood would be complete and the tour would start like this: "Welcome to Fabulous Fiftiestown, USA, please extinguish all cigarettes, put on your complimentary Wayfarers and remember to have your picture taken with our George Jetson mascot." I wanted to run screaming or beat our tour guide and take over the microphone. These people actually thought Wildwood could be made more “retro” – that's akin to saying you've found a way to make your wife more pregnant. : :

: : The charm of this little seaside resort is that it never tried to do the glitzy thing to attract tourists. Working class folk from Yonkers or Hoboken didn't want Vegas – they had Atlantic City for that – they wanted a nice beach, comfortable rooms and a place to buy pizza for the kids (Mack's, on the boardwalk, in case you're wondering). Sure, there was room for modernity or exotica as far as motel names or motifs (there had to be something to distinguish these nearly identical low-rise post-and-beam structures from one another), but not the blatant tits and ass flash and sizzle of Vegas. Beach towns are all about relaxation, a slower pace of life and funnel-cakes along the boardwalk. That's exactly what Wildwood still is, and should continue to be. Well-meaning as they are, the Doo-Wop Preservation League and their army of naive architecture students (whose bizarre and hackneyed post-modern "ideas" for the town line the walls of the league’s office) are threatening to irreparably damage a gem of a town that ain't broke. : :

: : But that's not to say one shouldn't go to Wildwood. Quite the contrary, getting there as soon as possible is the best advice. For Tiki-philes like the Montreal Tiki Appreciation Society, it was a dream come true. From the majestic Royal Hawaiian Resort Motel with it's flying saucer protrusion to the Tahiti, the Casa Bahama, the Ala Moana, and the Waikiki's restaurant overlooking the beach, Polynesian decor was in evidence everywhere. The Kona Kai Motel, a modest 3-storey affair in Wildwood Crest, was our accommodation and we were not disappointed. It was clean, pleasant and a 2 minute walk to the beach. The pizza and fruit trucks stopped right out front several times a day and the Philadelphia Enquirer was hanging on the doorknob every morning. The water was warm, the natives friendly and the Sands Hotel and Casino just a day-trip away. : :

: : Wildwood is a time-warp. It smells of sea-salt, salt-water taffy, suntan lotion and sunshine. At night, blinking neon signs flick jumpy red and green shadows along the sidewalk like cigarette butts, making it seem like you've walked out of a 3-D movie with the glasses still affecting your vision and cutting into the bridge of your sunburnt nose. Cars packed with noisy teens glide up and down Ocean Avenue and dogs still leap for frisbees or pieces of driftwood like they've done for the last 50 years. Fading jaunty letters sing out: "Air conditioned" "Vacancy" "Color TV" and "Reasonable Rates" to the bleary-eyed traveller. Lobbies are like lanterns shining their wares of modernity and comfort through huge panes of glass. This is the language of the 50’s beach town. A language Wildwood speaks well. A language that is still understood today. The Doo-Wop Preservation League speaks another language: the language of ignorance. : :

Dave LeBlanc © 1999

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