My favorite beach game – Who Can Spot the Worst Tattoo? – is off to a slow start. There was a man who walked by the pool with the words “Morte Inevitavel” written across his back in some Gothic looking script. I kind of liked the self-referential aspect of putting that phrase on a medium that was dust and will return to dust, but it’s likely some dipshit gang thing.
Another man had a fairly well done Celtic cross. His is currently leading the worst tattoo contest not because of the artistry or questionable taste, but because it was a tramp stamp. On a guy.
For the most part the tattoos have been merely unintelligible cursive nonsense, unoriginal dolphins or armbands, or minor desecrations of the American flag. Still, there have been some interesting people watching moments.
From the deck of a seaside restaurant, while I was noting mentally that the idea of a frozen pina colada is usually much better than the reality of a frozen pina colada, a man walking along the beach stopped in front of a group of girls, one of whom had spindly little anorexic arms, got down on all fours, and put on a horse head mask.
I’m not sure I’d know what to do if a man walking down the shore dropped down in front of me and put on a horse mask, but these girls sure did.
Two of them sat on his back while a third took a picture of them. Then they dismounted, the horse head was removed, the girls went back to sunning, and equus took a seat a few yards seaward from his former jockeys. As far as I could tell, they didn’t speak to each other again. Which is completely normal.
Back to the pina colada. I’m much happier with the Scotch and soda, which should more properly be called a Scotch & soda, that I’m enjoying right now. The beach does things to your thought processes.
People who appreciate the smoky delights of a decent whisky or the subtle notes of graphite and vanilla in a good Cabernet Sauvignon get one whiff of salty sea air and start thinking that all drinks should taste like a Jolly Rancher. Women who understand the devastating allure of a simple black dress choose outlandish neon peach bikinis with strips of unearthly blue to advertise what they barely contain. People also suddenly pretend that modern aviation, trucking, and every other means of high speed transit don’t exist and grow giddy at the idea of fresh seafood.
I blame Jimmy Buffet. At least partially. He took a holiday from work and infused it with an ethos. There is no more reason to assume proximity to water has a relationship to the appropriateness of flowered shirts at Mass than for labor unions to stand politically with abortionists and anti-war protesters; for free market laissez faire types to caucus with school prayer advocates and strong military law and order types. But we are accustomed to bundling, and Buffet sold us a package.
Sorry to veer into the political (those that have read my stuff before know how completely insincere that statement is.) When I started rambling I had no intention of heading in this direction, but for whatever reason, here we are (Scotch & soda?).
This is a fractious political time. Bonds are being tested and allegiances questioned. We have two very divisive candidates running for president. I’m seeing people distance themselves from the parties, from the bundles. It’s liberating, but in a sad, disillusioned way.
I’m disassociating from the Buffet party view of the beach.
I’m drinking dry wines and stout whisky. I’m wearing non, to my knowledge, noble gas colored clothing. It’s my night to cook later this week. I’m thinking rigatoni with meat sauce. None of that will interfere with my enjoyment of the waves, the air, and the company. Suck it Buffet.