Memorial Weekend has come and gone, and as always, it marked the traditional official start of the summer season. Hundreds of thousands of eager weekend warriors sat for hours in long columns of traffic just to come to our quaint little beach town to abandon their inhibitions and sensibilities and blow off steam all in the name of fun in the sun.
Last week I started telling you about the telltale signs in the forms of sights and sounds that make us realize that the summer season has begun. Just when I was getting on a roll though, I exhausted my allotted space. I touched briefly on fashion and behaviors, so now I’ll pick up where I left off.
First, let me say that when I wrote the sarcastic comment last week about hunting and eating tourists, I had not yet heard the story about the bath salt snorting Florida face-a-vore. It was strictly coincidence. What’s that all about? Now, I enjoy the splendid combination of a good buzz and a nice slab of meat as much as the next guy, but I would much prefer it came in the form of a couple of martinis and a nice steak. Certainly not in the form of a few finely ground lines of relaxing aromatic bath salts and my buddy’s face. That’s all I have to say about that.
I witnessed one of the first true signs of summer last weekend on my way to work. I was sitting at the light at the east end of the route 90 bridge waiting to turn on to Coastal Highway when I was inspired. A pack of about a half dozen or so teen to twenty-something boys blazed by on their rented mopeds. Each was shirtless with their white “wife beater” shirts partially tucked into their front pockets flapping in the wind as they tackled the open road which is our bus lane. They all had their hats on backwards, presumably for aerodynamic purposes and were leaning as far forward as they could in a desperate attempt to get their respective rented vehicles up to their full 28 miles per hour and beat their buddies to an imaginary finish line. They each wanted badly to win this sea level race because, let’s face it, what’s more impressive on a young man’s resume than the bragging rights to say that you were the fastest dude on a canary yellow Fisher Price toy with a lawnmower motor attached and a big sign on the back that reads: “Rent Me”. I couldn’t help but giggle audibly in my car as I watched the buffoon Grand Prix speed by me at twice the speed of smell. I like to think, at least for their sake that this is far from the coolest moment in these boys’ lives, and yet they are hell bent on drawing attention to themselves by incessantly beeping the miniature horns found on the handle bar of these geek hogs. The entire tribe beeps constantly and in unison as they pass. This sound is incredibly annoying to everyone except the operator of these lightning bugs with wheels. It sounds like a cross between a chorus of hummingbird farts, and a swarm of drag queen locusts buzzing by while rehearsing their insect rendition of hits from Broadway musicals. In any event, they looked like they were having fun so who am I to judge?
Just a half a mile later, I witnessed another of the textbook, telltale signs of summer. A quartet of attractive young ladies was standing on the corner returning from their daily sojourn to the beach. I’d say they were about in their early twenties and all still bikini clad as the sun started its gradual descent. They were awaiting safe passage across the busy highway to return to their crappy, grossly overpriced condo in which ten of them will dwell for the next four months. Up pulls a car five deep with teenage boys three of whom felt inexplicably compelled to emerge from the windows of the vehicle all the way to their waists. At this point they began shouting what their feeble little underdeveloped minds deemed to be complimentary phrases at the young ladies. They bellowed in unequivocal terms how attractive they found these girls to be and what their intentions were if in the extraordinarily unlikely event the attraction was mutual. Apparently, where they are from, spewing borderline obscenities from a car widow is how you find companionship. The fact of the matter is, that not one of these boys had even a remote chance of getting any “action” had they sat naked on a bench in the foyer of the Curves in Little Rock Arkansas on the Monday after Thanksgiving. In their bong resin and Milwaukee’s Best clouded minds though yelling something off color to a pretty girl who’s way out of their league is the same as obtaining carnal knowledge, so they viewed the event as a victory. Drunken, under age, without a seatbelt, leaning and screaming out of a car that has soaped up windows that read; “Class of 2012 Rules” in the middle of a Friday afternoon is not exactly the way to fly under the radar boys. Good luck with your future.
I am by the way, completely aware of my penchant for run on sentences. It’s just that when I get excited and on a roll with something I tend to write like I speak. Ah, what the hell, I was going for entertainment, not an “A” in English. Though I feel I may have under shot on both counts.
Just a block later, still on my way to work, I experienced another of the sights and sounds of summer. As I sat in my eternally cool, proud parent of whatever the hell she did bumper sticker clad mini-van, I slowly got an odd feeling in my chest. It began as a dull vibration, and gradually escalated to a firm pounding. At first, I thought I may have been having a heart attack or at the very least, palpitations of some sort. Then I looked in my rear view mirror and saw a car approaching and I realized that the steadily increasing reverberations in my chest were the direct result of the bass from the stereo in this car. It was one of those cars that probably cost about $8,000.00 new but now had $35,000.00 worth of accessories added to it. Evidently, this is what is now regarded as cool. This kid’s stereo was turned up so loud that it could be heard, or at least felt, for several blocks. And to think, I once got a noise ordinance violation for using my vacuum cleaner after 11:00 at night.
The car that now sat next to me at the light was actually vibrating convulsively from the bass, and needless to say none of the music’s lyrics were discernible at all. It was one of those cars that when the light finally changed and it took off, it sounded just like a balloon that had been blown up to its fullest capacity and then released without tying a knot, and now it was flying around the room. I couldn’t help but glance over at this car because I just had to see who was in it. With my chest pounding so hard that my internal organs were switching places, I needed closure. Alone in this car, seated well reclined behind the wheel was a young boy, roughly the same age range and demographic as the previous two examples. He too was adorned in the official uniform that is the plain white, “wife beater” tank top. He had the build of a rescued grey hound, and the skin color of the sock on the left of the posterboard in the Clorox bleach commercial. Not the one under the caption that read “Leading Brand”. He wore a pair of freakishly oversized white sunglasses as if he were playing the role of the welder in a porno. Draped around his skinny little bicep was a freshly inked tribal band tattoo which was no doubt paid for with the money he got from cashing his graduation check from Aunt LuLu. She was so proud that he did it in only eight years. Ah yes, yet another shining beacon of light giving me hope for our future as a species.
Well I’ve done it again folks. I got on a roll and ran out of space with still so much to say. There are so many sights and sounds indicating that summer is here that I haven’t even touched on yet. I guess I’ll have to pick this up again later.
Thanks for playing along.
Until next week,
Syd Nichols
