Wednesday, July 06, 2005
  7-3-05: Saturday, on the beach, I think it was the Third of July
The Red Sox (check!) stunk the night before. Reed Johnson, playing the role of Tino from Anchorman, served up another salad with cat poo on it for all of Red Sox Nation to eat.

I got passed over in a job interview.

My car broke en route to Rhode Island. (check!)

In short, Friday wasn't so good. Not by a long shot. But Saturday began with a little promise. The sun was shining, the weather was great, and I was headed to the beach.

I've been to a few beaches in my 30 years on this planet. For my money, nothing's better than Narragansett Town Beach. Clearwater Beach in Florida was nice. Waikiki Beach in Honolulu was terrific. Denison Beach (see photo) in Tasmania, Australia (check!) was life-altering.

Saturday did not disappoint. After hitting la playa with DB around 11:00 a.m., I received a surprise phone call from my man Pico. He phoned to say he'd be joining us, along with J-Booty and his sister Candace.

I met both of them last year during the 4th of July and they're good people. J-Boo-tay and Pico met in Colorado, despite both being citizens of the Biggest Little. The lovely Candace, who has beautiful blue eyes and a sort of Courtney Cox look to her, is a fun girl who does not mess up the landscape when she's around. In fact, when on a beach in a bikini, it's rather striking. That was the company, all the while the sun was shining with few if any clouds in the blue sky. Onto the Atlantic.

'Gansett Beach is arguably the best in the state for surfing, and ditto when it comes to bodysurfing: a TLBR summer requisite. But the sets of waves coming into shore were big, the undertow was wicked, and the current a very significant right-to-left. We entered the water in between guard chairs 3 and 4. After 10 minutes of getting tossed around by the crests of waves, I looked up to find myself in between chairs 2 and 3.

In the halcyon days of my youth, I'd get to the beach with my folks, drop whatever shit they made me carry from the Oldsmobile, and hit the water. When I was hungry, I'd go to the blanket, eat, and head back in. I spent so much time in the water, I should've been born with gills. Or taken a mermaid to the prom. (instead, I took that see-you-next-Tuesday girl Ariana, who I ended up dropping off a few blocks from her house because she was such a bitch I wonder how she's doing these days. I hope she got fat.)

Not anymore. After about 15 minutes of literally being dropped six feet off the top of the waves I tried to ride, and feebly trying to swim against the currents, I got tired. Real tired. It was the first official instance that I recognized my aging process. I needed a break. Thankfully, the others in the group also needed a breather, so I didn't feel old alone. I had some other elderly folk with me. (no truth to the rumor that we then retreated to a park bench feeding pigeons and complaining about arthritis and medicare)

Around 2:00, the waves got real nasty. Un-ride-able. A few girls ended up getting whipped out too far and the guards had to go get them. I was going to dive in with them to relive my days of being Mitch Buchanan, but I opted against it. They instituted waist-deep swimming only (of which we ignored until the chorus of whistles got too annoying).

Around 4:00 pm, me and DB headed to a local fave of mine, Crazy Burger. The premise of this burger joint - potentially the best in all the galazy - are good burgers on fresh rolls, with some sort of prefix of dementia. I choose, religiously, the goofy gorgonzola burger. DB chose the freaky fajita burger. Another solid tenet of Crazy Burger is the use of extremely hot waitresses, who toe the line between dressing for a J. Crew catalog and a Phish concert.

The burger had no chance. If it were the Pyrennees, I would be Lance Armstrong. If it were Ted Lilly, I would be Doug Mirabelli. If it were suck, I would be Jason Giambi. You get the point, grasshopper.

After a quick triple-S back at the pad, the feature presentation of the day was close at hand: Ben Folds at the Newport Yachting Center. This would be BF show #8 for yours truly. He is a genius, in my mind. His lyrics are simple, succinct, and deep. They're also fun. I liken him to a pint of Guinness - always good, never disappointing. And I've had a few pints of plain in my day.

Ben Folds also utilizes swear words in a perfect context in his lyrics. Generally, fucks and shits are looked down upon. His become necessary elements. To me, that's gotta be worth something.
I'm also a fan of piano music and he's alright at playing it. His new band, consisting of a bassist and a drummer like the Ben Folds Five days, were also particularly good. It was a good mix of new stuff from his album Songs for Silverman, mixed in with some old standards and two particularly ambitious covers of the Cure's In Between Days and NWA's Bitches Ain't Shit.

Sitting next to us, along with his wife Jeanne, was ESPN SportsCenter anchor Matt Winer, who was an all-around good guy to talk music and have a beer with. (yes, I ended a sentence with a participle; sue me.)

Capping off the night, caught the final two innings of the Sox' 6-4 victory over the hated Blue Jays (hated because they downsized my boy JJ) at Salas' Tropical Grille. It was also the last time anyone saw Keith Foulke alive, before he dropped the "c" from his title as "closer."

The night ended early, on account of the sun and the sand and the sea making me slightly exhausted.

Onto sunday. One.
on a side note, completely unrelated to my Saturday recap; MLB Extra Innings is using the Fox Sports Southwest feed for the Red Sox/Rangers game tonight. Rangers PxP guy Josh Lewin has a lisp. It's annoying. It's like if Rudy Giuliani was doing the game. "Andruw Jonessssth ssshtould represssthent ttth Antilllessth well in the home run therbee." Give me Donnie-O.
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A daily - or every-other-day - account of all there is in my head
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(I vow to attack this endeavor with an enthusiasm unknown to mankind.)

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