[ I don’t wish to be too shameless here, but I’m closing in on 3,000 visitors to my little blog here. Can we get there? Kindly pass on a reference to people you think might be interested; if I matched my most-popular-ever day I’d reach 3,000 tonight easily. ]
I’ve lived almost my entire life in New Jersey, which has its effects on my world view; for example, it produces an extreme defensiveness about the state — really, has there been a fresh Jersey Joke since Benjamin Franklin’s quip about it being “a barrel tapped at both ends”, and they’re not even sure it wasn’t James Madison who said that instead, if anyone ever did? — and a feeling that one should refer to Bruce Springsteen as “Bruce”, as if we’d ever knowingly been in the same zip code simultaneously. Add to that not understanding what is wrong with other states that you’re forced to pump your own gas, and not being able to get a cackling laughter and a voice-over announcer wailing “Rrrrrrrrraceway Park!” out of the head, and you’ve got a first sketch of my personality. (I seem to have missed going to Action Park. My father insists he took me there; I grant he may have taken my siblings, but I don’t remember ever getting there, and the fact I have all my limbs suggests I never did go there.) But there are some other impressions that one gets from growing up in New Jersey.