June 23, 2008
June 20, 2008
High-8-us
I've become one of those bloggers: head bursting with thoughts and witty criticisms, hands too lazy to peck at the keyboard long enough for my brain to take a dump. But I'm back from an energizing beach-heavy mini-break and ready to assume that everyone is dying to hear what I have to say. (Everyone else assumes that about me, so as a result I've acquired a palpable cynicism and a whole lot of revealing trivia about others...)
I can't think of a better mini-break destination than Cape Cod. That little crooked finger with it's come-hither suggestiveness, beckoning visitors to indulge in it's romantic coastal atmosphere and the frutti of its mare. One can smell the ocean in everything, and it is never unpleasant.
I have two categories of memories from the Cape. First: those from my days as a kid, training at Tony Kent Arena in Dennis and running amok on the Harwich beaches (trying to escape my parents' insistence that I bathe in sunblock). We stayed with my mom's best friend from college who lived in a spectacular manor in Brewster with an indoor pool and a balcony overlooking it from about 20 feet up off of her kitchen. It was there that my friend Molly's blonde hair turned bright green, and there that we chickened out after talking my skating coach into belly flopping off the balcony into the deep end of the pool. And there were the visits to the local Dairy Queen, which my mother's friend owned, trying to sneak payment for our cones but getting it gratis every time.
They are good, wholesome childhood memories, lacking only the unfulfilled desire to visit the tennis court full of trampolines on Route 28 in Harwich.
Which leads me to my second set of memories: the semi-adult ones. Those memories center around my friend Steph's Cape house in Dennis, where we engaged in every type of shennanigan known to man, from drunken games of asshole, to underground lobster fighting.
The lobster fighting circuit wasn't so lucrative this season, as the field was pretty much clobbered by this gargantuan freak of nature:
That would be a 17-lb lobster, folks.
I can't think of a better mini-break destination than Cape Cod. That little crooked finger with it's come-hither suggestiveness, beckoning visitors to indulge in it's romantic coastal atmosphere and the frutti of its mare. One can smell the ocean in everything, and it is never unpleasant.
I have two categories of memories from the Cape. First: those from my days as a kid, training at Tony Kent Arena in Dennis and running amok on the Harwich beaches (trying to escape my parents' insistence that I bathe in sunblock). We stayed with my mom's best friend from college who lived in a spectacular manor in Brewster with an indoor pool and a balcony overlooking it from about 20 feet up off of her kitchen. It was there that my friend Molly's blonde hair turned bright green, and there that we chickened out after talking my skating coach into belly flopping off the balcony into the deep end of the pool. And there were the visits to the local Dairy Queen, which my mother's friend owned, trying to sneak payment for our cones but getting it gratis every time.
They are good, wholesome childhood memories, lacking only the unfulfilled desire to visit the tennis court full of trampolines on Route 28 in Harwich.
Which leads me to my second set of memories: the semi-adult ones. Those memories center around my friend Steph's Cape house in Dennis, where we engaged in every type of shennanigan known to man, from drunken games of asshole, to underground lobster fighting.
The lobster fighting circuit wasn't so lucrative this season, as the field was pretty much clobbered by this gargantuan freak of nature:
That would be a 17-lb lobster, folks.
June 3, 2008
Snapshots
I've always been one to look at photos. Not merely look at them, but divine my own idea of what was happening at the very moment the shot was snapped. It's a good psychological study, because the subjects of the picture are frozen in their expressions, without the use of a handy-dandy facial segue.
A picture is truly worth a thousand words. And where our ancestors once used words, the digital millenial era is upon us, and we use images.
My waxing has a point, I swear. Check out the Freedom Riders gallery at Newsweek.com, and you'll see what I mean.
A picture is truly worth a thousand words. And where our ancestors once used words, the digital millenial era is upon us, and we use images.
My waxing has a point, I swear. Check out the Freedom Riders gallery at Newsweek.com, and you'll see what I mean.
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