Still Figurin' Out Who I Think I Am

This one's about the beach.

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"Several people have already mentioned a beach. Today our excursion is to a beach. Where are we going? What are you wearing? If you hate beaches, what will you be doing while the rest of us bask in the sun? Be sure to wear sunscreen!"

Well, here we are on the "30-Day Blogging Challenge ON HIATUS" 's Voyage Of The Magical ship, and we've decided use today as a beach excuse excursion. I am very okay with this, because if there's one thing I wish I did a lot more of in the last twenty years or so, it'd be spending time doing lots of nothing somewhere on a beach. Outside of one family cruise vacation and one trip to a local beach (yes, there are beaches in Buffalo...they're just not always available or, ahem, swimmable ) with a woman and her two small children, it's just not something that ever came up in my circle of friends. And that's odd considering the numerous amount (ok, ridiculous amount) of swim trunks I've owned throughout my life. I've even been to Savannah, GA and Miami, and managed to not get to the shore (but I blame family functions and my ex, who couldn't go anywhere on vacation without getting migraines). So yes, I'm taking advantage from here on out of anyone suggesting a day at the beach. I owe it to myself, and I deserve it.

Someone (I will neither confirm nor deny it was me ) suggested we all play some volleyball, and to my surprise most of us were down with the idea. Now, my volleyball days are about ten years, twenty pounds, and three ankle surgeries behind me...so you didn't think I actually would suggest a sport that requires lots of jumping up and down and running on a beach because I wanted to play it, did you?

Besides, the Roomba Polo tournaments were starting to get a little too competitive even for me, so maybe it was a good idea to get off the boat for awhile and engage in some other form of horseplay group activities. Yeah, that's it.

So we divided up into teams (those playing), and I offered to be a completely impartial line judge. To, you know, take the most advantage of my skill sets. And that also meant that probably half my in/out calls were wrong, because I really didn't care about what happened on the side of the court I wasn't seated on. It might even be fair to assume I had no vested interest in the gameplay or the rules...I just wanted to make sure I did enough to make it look I did. I'm just bein' honest...that's what you get when you put me in that position .

Anyway, it's all well and good until Andre ambled over in his red-and-white striped, "lifeguard from the 1930's" get-up with his super-short yellow trunks on. When the ball rolled just beyond anyone's reach he bolted over to it like it was the last banana on the planet and took off. He's a runner, that one. And because we're humans, we just kinda stared dumbfounded for a few extra seconds because a monkey dressed like a lifeguard just stole our ball. I don't think there's a rule for what to do when that happens.

By the time we caught up with him, he was reclining on his side with the ball propping himself up under his arm, monkey-chatting up a few sunbathing strangers with the tops of their bikinis, well, compromised for the sake of being tanline-less. Andre's definitely a playa. We introduced ourselves, apologized for the inconvenience, and tried to get the volleyball back from him. The girls he was talking to stopped giggling once they realized Andre was being a total dickwad about the ball, and started gathering their...things...once the tussle broke out. After some awkwardly prolonged rolling around, I managed to wrestle the ball away and cuddled it like a fat lineman who's just pounced on a fumble in a football game. I exhaled in a moment of sweet relief, and that bastard Andre got up and kicked sand all up in and around my face. He stomped off like a toddler who didn't get his way. I may never sneeze the same again.

Even in my own blog, I'm still getting bullied at the beach. Maybe it's good I've hardly ever gone to one before.

But we managed to recover and still have a nice time, sans a pouting primate who decided to get overserved at the tiki bar on banana split shots (which I've never had, but I imagine would be some disgusting combination of banana vodka, hazelnut chocolate liqueur, and strawberry something or other (and I'm not Googling it for the sake of the story because screw him). And of course he was surrounded by a ridiculous amount of ridiculously gorgeous women, like he was telling war stories about that time he was the hero in Planet Of The Apes and the subsequent straight-to-dvd releases (he wasn't). Must be good to be a monkey.

Fittingly, when it was time for us all to start heading back to the ship, no one could get within ten feet of Andre. His crowd had swelled, and not a one of them acknowledged us when we said we had to leave. There's always that one guy in every group. Of course someone (again, neither confirming nor denying it was me ) said "Fuck him...let him find his own way back!" and we started to march off. "Y'all say what you want about 'oh too bad he won't come with us' and 'he's sooooo popular!', but he kicked sand in all my faceholes. You people..." and suddenly my voice was drowned out by a screaming whoosh from overhead. A kick in my stomach's pit could only mean Andre would find us again, and sooner than later.

I guess I can at least respect that.

There is absolutely no shortage of music that triggers beachy feelings, and this was the first one that came to mind today- even though it has nothing to do with a beach. But when I picture myself among friends, guzzling beer on a super-nice Saturday afternoon at the beach, there's a giant old-school boom box on a blanket struggling to crank this up over our conversation.

"And we don't need the ladies cryin' 'cuz the story's sad...
'cuz the Rocky Mountain Way is better than the way we had."
Lyrics.  

You guys remember when FOX had that sketch comedy show In Living Color? Maybe not, because it was around almost from the time FOX launched, which makes me sound old, but you might've seen reruns or whatever. Anyway, Grantland ran an interesting article today basically pitting it as the winner   accolades-wise statistically against Saturday Night Live. While I've made no secret about how much I love SNL and have for years, regardless of the cast or the "it's a down year" chatter (that seems to happen pretty much every season), ILC was also a groundbreaking show and convinced me at an impressionable age that if their were still racial divides in the early nineties, comedy was gonna at least bridge (if not fill in completely) the gaps. With ILC, it came on early enough that I didn't have to set the vcr, and there were musical guests I'd only be able to see otherwise if I went to my grandmother's house (she had cable, so I could watch Yo! MTV Raps! when I went there). I still wish I had that vhs copy of the Michael Jordan/Public Enemy SNL episode I probably watched a hundred times, but ILC spawned more talent across the board as far as accolades received by regular talent in a few years than SNL did over 40. Truth. Homey don't play dat.

I'm a spoiled wreck again. Finally broke down yesterday and found/purchased a stylus I could use for my tablet to replace the one I lost months ago...and by the first paragraph of typing this entry, I knew I was in trouble. My fingers were so back into the muscle memory of having one that my words were all over the place and out of sync, expecting the stylus to replace my right hand. And that's weird, because I'd never written an entry on this while also having a stylus, which makes me wonder how screwed I'll be for a little bit once I get my laptop back (and I need to call on that repair claim tomorrow, because I haven't heard from the place since I dropped it off). But it's funny how quickly readjustment can happen when circumstances forced you to make do with something lesser in the first place...I can't imagine how stuck I'd be trying to readapt to crossword puzzles if my building no longer came with free wifi. When I was laid up for awhile and couldn't get access I rediscovered my crossword magic for the time, and there was a few hours a month or two back where the router was being switched out and had to rely on some newspapers I had...and I was all of the sudden the worst crossword puzzle person ever. And while I do enjoy them, please please please let me never have to rely on them again for my intellectual stimulation. I'm now too dependant on spell-checkers, and my pop culture knowledge is nowhere near on par now with someone who does challenging crosswords on a regular basis (the NY Times or LA Daily News or Chicago Tribune...the syndicated ones). I almost miss world disconnectment.

And finally, I was bored late last night, not ready yet for bed but not wanting to get into heavy lifting word-wise, so I started thinking again about tattoos...more specifically, putting my first one on me and where and when, so long as I don't have to pay a buttload for it or my laptop. Came up with a couple ideas (based on what I'd forgotten about that I'd liked before}, and slept on it. Today, while browsing Facebook waiting to get hungry enough to consider maybe getting a breakfast sandwich, more than once did I come across this:

And I'm not one who jumps on the first god damn sign I see, but I fucking love it. That's it. That's what I want. And I don't care. I'm good...the Public Enemy logo  ; the Chinese translation of balance  ; that "716" above my heart. Those can wait if I waited so long already. Got my life together enough this afternoon to get a sesame bagel with bacon, egg, and cheese from a place I don't always go to and wasn't my first choice today but that's where I found myself at, and this unassuming otherwise (besides cute as all get-out) girl had it on her outer upper arm. No need to stare, no need to scrutinize her for scars, no need to ask if it was a tat or well-done Sharpie. No questions asked, and maybe I should've but I also know sometimes you just don't ask. But it was fucking amazing. And sometimes you just want food so you can GTFO and they want you to GTFO. But I saw it. And I had that "ommmmm" moment where the earth above and below me collided in unsaid mutual consent. My story wasn't ended by a period. There are still semicolons going on. No one tattoos a period and lives to tell about it. Now, I just have to do it. And I don't care if the pic says "2013" or whatever. Share it with anyone you want, any way you want. Just spread the freakin' word...your story isn't finished yet; if you're here it isn't, and you've still got work to do for someone, somewhere, yet to come. I hate the idea of omens, but fuck me if this day hasn't been all one big day-long neon "get your fucking life going" sign.

Ok, well, I think that's plenty enough from me for another day. Peace, time to change, and GOODNIGHT NOW!!