The Bridge or the Tunnel Crowd?

If you want to hit the beach from Manhattan your choices are pretty simple. Either sit in fumes in the Lincoln Tunnel for three hours on your way to the Jersey Shore, or sit in fumes on one of the East River bridges for three hours on the way to the Hamptons. Like everything in Manhattan, there's no arbitrage. If you were about to say the Blade that's not true, because 600-buck one way transaction costs are a legitimate limit to arbitrage that doesn't invalidate efficient markets hypothesis.

You probably could have beaten Daddy here by a good hour or two with that dual horsepower engine.

First stop on a back-to-back weekend beach double header, the Jersey Shore. You can tell because there's a monster truck patriotically crushing some Fake News in front of the Star Spangled Banner.

Keep your Montauk Summer Ale in your Yetis boys, this is Bud Light territory and proud of it.

Even the biggest Long Island snobs would be hard pressed to find fault with this fine patch of sand. Especially when they see the property tax bill is about the same as one hedge trimming out east.

Oh look, a handy built-in floatation device.

Kids these days have no appreciation for culture, how can you have no reaction to Jaws theme? Too much time on the Instragrams, let me tell you.

Cheers Jersey, through a rosé-tinted glass you're right up there with the best.

No Teslas in sight. If you don't have a NASCAR bumper sticker you maybe should have taken the bridge not the tunnel.

These dunes will make a handy bunker when those IPA-swilling liberals come and try to trod on our God-given right to bear Buds.

Keep running kid, you'll make it back to the city a lot quicker than braving the Sunday afternoon traffic.

Or you could crush your way to the tunnel entrance. It's ok, it's Jersey, they'll probably cheer you all the way.

Fast forward one weekend and six traffic hours and you're in Sag Harbor, one of the most picturesque hamlets in all the Hamptons.

Daddy, I didn't see any wind power down on the Shore, just Raptor F-150s hauling dune buggies.

I don't get it Daddy, this beach is just like the one last weekend.

Daddy, those kids over there told me my monster truck was a tool of oppression used to subjugate the free will of underprivileged cars. I told them to watch out, because monster trucks don't really do microaggressions.

Goldberg's Bagels of East Hampton is surely the only place where Bentleys and Ferraris wait in line with everyone else for a poppy bagel with lox.

Speaking of institutions, it's not summer unless the line at Jack's Stir Brew in Amagansett goes out the door.

It's tiring trying to keep up with all these Porsches.

Two Mile Hollow Beach is empty on a windy day; I think it's safe to pull out Grave Digger kid.

What, scored an actual table at Eleven Madison Park's Summer House? That's what happens when you fall from #1 restaurant in the world to #4, suddenly you're overrun with riffraff. Why rumor has it these folks were spotted on the Shore last weekend!

Trying to act like a cool New Yorker and not gawk at Neil Patrick Harris' son who is also testing out the swings.

Back at Goldberg's. Gold probably doesn't cut it around here, perhaps Platinumberg's?

Oh the joys of being a kid. A beach is a beach is a beach. There's sand and surf and sky and that's all you need.