I spent some time last summer at Revere Beach, just north of Boston, and a wee bit west of 1985.
Revere Beach is tied for the grimiest beach on the planet with whatever unfortunate body of sand that’s currently being corrupted by the douchbaggery emitting from the feet of any particular Jersey Shore cast member. There was so much hairspray in the air you could actually see the ozone crying. Instead of reciting the national anthem, little kids in elementary school hold their hands to their hearts while they sing along to “Living on a Prayer”.
I witnessed a hermit crab that had outgrown his shell only to take subsidized housing in a used syringe. He had an almost finished bottle of red wine in one claw with the other claw free to pinch unsuspecting beachgoers in the booty. He was drunk and making lewd comments to passer-byers such as “You ever been with a crab before, baby cakes?” “Yo hotpants, this will be the first time you’ve gotten crabs that didn’t make you go to the free clinic for itchy-cootchie ointment.” and “Heyyyyy… I’m so hungry… I’ll suck your d@ck for a cheeseburger.”