by Buck

A co-worker recently had a baby. I overheard her having a conversation with another person in which she referenced the term “play-date”. What in Sam Hill’s pit of Hell is a play-date? I know every date I was ever on, I was hoping for the chance for some playtime, but I don’t think that’s what she had in mind for her three month old. I’m supposing this is a get together among kids to play, while moms drink gin and talk about how their husbands can’t satisfy them anymore. I just don’t know.

I recently wrapped up a beach vacation. I really hate the beach, but sometimes you have to man-up and do what has to be done. It does have its advantages. I mean, who doesn’t like to see freshly tanned boobs harnessed up in a ridiculously small rigging of nylon? I guess it’s the fact that every beach I’ve ever visited is almost exactly the same. Here’s my general assessment of qualifications for a beach town:

-- There’s always a boardwalk with various forms of “gift” shops. There may be 500 shops, but they all sell the same shit. You’ll find cheap t-shirts with R-rated phrases screen printed on them. These places also sell all manner of beach junk for play and leisure.

-- There are always restaurants and bars with overpriced food and booze. They use scantily clad barmaids to lure you in, soak you out of all your cash, then leave you broke on the Boardwalk. There was a time in my life I would have been okay with this, but as I start to age—I’m starting to understand the scheme.

-- There is always a chain of candy stores. What the fuck is up with that? How did somebody make the connection that fudge is best made near the sand? Perhaps it’s an ingredient, I just don’t know.

-- There will always be 100 places to rent a bicycle. Generally these are 1950’s vintage Schwinn bikes. The beach is the only place you’ll find a four-wheeled bicycle.

-- There will always be a collection of high school kids, away from the watchful eyes of their parents, who will act like complete assholes. They travel in packs. All of them are hoping to score some tail, far fewer are actually closing the deal. Their packs are always made up of a cuppa-two-tree jock types, an obese guy, a couple of pretty boys who are the financiers of the party and one or two girls. One of the females is always the girlfriend of one of the jocks or financiers, the other female is a best friend or cling-on who’s hoping to be noticed by somebody other than Obese Guy. The guys are generally shirtless, or wearing t-shirts sporting their high school mascot with the sleeves cut out. Obese Guy is always wearing a shirt that says something like, “Heavy D” or “Harley Davidson Fat-Boy.” The girls wear shorts, clogs, and a bikini top.

-- There will always be a collection of college guys who have a slightly altered pack mentality. These will be guys wearing cut-off Dockers, deck shoes, and be either shirtless or wearing a polo with the tail hanging out. Regardless they will all be wearing a filthy ball cap sporting their college logos. They are all in fairly good shape, they all have daddy’s money. Generally, they have great confidence they can score, but don’t necessarily need to do so to prove themselves any more. Rarely do you find females with this pack. Usually they have their own pack—more on that in a moment. These guys are generally obnoxious. There is generally a designated clown who’ll try anything. He’s the dumbass you usually see walking the Boardwalk railing like it’s a balance beam. He’s also generally the one that winds up at one of the 10-clinics posted one block off the beach for balcony divers, jelly fish encounters, swimmers’ ear, and bouts of Chlamydia.

-- College girl packs are high maintenance. You’ll find them roaming the board walk decked out in high dollar beach clothes. Usually, if they have it to show, they’ll be bearing their cleavage down to the nipple, but will wear full-on shorts. They hang tightly together, much like a bait ball in the ocean. There’s a fear that if one strays even a foot away from the cluster they risk being swept up and whisked away to a hotel room for regretful sex in a drunken haze.

-- There will always be a loser with a metal detector roaming the beach for buried treasure at the end of the day. This person will get NO ass while on vacation.

-- There are always rednecks at the beach. You’ll see him in cutoff jeans (swimming trunks), a ratty NASCAR tee-shirt, and a matching bandana and beach towel with the Confederate flag. This is a beach truism whether you’re at Daytona or Martha’s Vineyard . I believe they stock these in each beach—just to meet a requirement.

These are a few of my observations at the beach. I’m sure I’m leaving plenty out, but those are standards I’ve noticed in every beach town I’ve visited. This may come as a shock to you, although I’ve been to quite a few beaches—I’ve never been to Myrtle Beach…. I’m fairly certain I’m the only person in West Virginia who can make that claim.

...and finally, a downer to end the day.  This happened about 200 yards from my house last night. Holy Shit.

Buck Out


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