V2 N16

Page 44 Exit Zero
August 27, 2004 August 27, 2004 Exit Zero
Page 45
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WALKING AROUND
Ä Continued from Page 42
fifty cents cheaper. There’s just no way that a profit will be made
by either group. So both groups will pout and eventually pass the
blame of the spiraling decline in “trinket sales” on to the organizers
of the event, rather than carefully looking at their “trinkets” and
realizing that the only outstanding difference between both
booths is that one group’s trinkets are painted red and the other
group’s trinkets are painted blue. And neither group’s trinkets are
worth buying.
And then there are the Heritage Celebrations. Things like
Oktoberfest and Irish Pride Weekend and Hungarian Hullabaloo
Holiday bring out tons of people, strutting around with national
pride – just so long as the booze is free. Once the keg is blowing
air, a good majority of people start chanting “U.S.A.” as they go
walking off to find another “Heritage” that they can celebrate.
People go to bars or clubs. People go out to the movies or see
a concert. People go out just to go out. There’s nothing wrong
with it. It’s just that the neighborhood feeling seems to have been
pushed aside. Except, that is, for one place that seems to do it once
a week. There is no marquee. No neon signs or searchlights. No
fliers or posters are printed. Yet every week, a good time is had by
all. It is called “The Clam Bake”. Not “A” clam bake. “The Clam
Bake”. Now before anyone else who happen to show up to The
Clam Bakes on a weekly basis (you know who you are) begins to
get nervous, I’m divulging no big secretes here. All I am writing
about is a weekly party. Well, it’s not really a party either. It’s more
like a get-together. Parties are planned. Get togethers happen
by accident. And so did the clam
bakes.
The clam bake started in June
of 2001 when my friend Michael
came to town to take the reins
of Cape May Stage. Michael had
first arrived a few weeks prior to
put things in order and handle
the looming shadow that was the
passing of the former artistic director of the theatre, Michael
Laird. And anyone that knew Mr. Laird knew that that was no
small feat. But after several weeks of meeting and greeting, and
being remindedof who he had just met and greeted, Michael
needed a break. So he got in touch with a few of us and said that he
was having a get-together. “ Nothing fancy. I’ve eaten out so much
lately that I want to cook for everybody. I’m thinking about a clam
bake. I’m from Ohio. I’ve never had one before.” So Michael went
out and bought come clam, mussels, shrimp, corn-on-the-cob,
and ingredients to make a killer hot sauce that he calls “jungle
juice”. He stewed, grilled and served it all with some homemade
corn bread. We were the guinea pigs because he had never baked
it before that night. We ate, drank and talked about the future
season and what needed to be done.
The next week, people who weren’t able to attend the
clambake rued that fact that they had missed it. So many people
were depressed by it that Michael said that he would do it again
the next weekend. So he did and a few more people attended. A
guitar or two was broken out and a few people found the courage
to sing along. Some sang without even having a drink in them.
The third week, I went over to get Michael to take him to see
Bluebone for the first time. As we opened the front door to leave,
several people were walking up the sidewalk asking, “Isn’t there a
clam bake?” And thus, the legend was born.
Continued on Page 46 Ê
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