By ‘strosrays

Apocalypse Now Well, Pretty Soon!

Dodgers (55-44) at Astros (42-56)
Minute Maid Park, 501 Crawford St., Houston, TX  77002
a/k/a “The Juice Box” 

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▪Monday, July 23 (7:05 p.m. CDT) – FSN

▪Tuesday, July 24 (7:05 p.m. CDT) – FSN

▪Wednesday, July 25 (7:05 p.m. CDT) – FSN

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I Stood Upon the Sand of the Sea

This one won’t be winning any literary prizes, I’ll say that up front.

Not that any of the previous efforts would, either, but this one is being written 1.) at the last minute (actually, nothing new there); 2.) with no major overriding theme in mind (ditto); 3.) about halfway through a cooler full of brewskies; and 4.) from the beach.  Literally.

That last is something I’ve been wanting to do for awhile.  In the great SE Texas tradition going back at least to my father’s time, we have moved down to the beach for the summer, at least the last half of it.  In the old, pre-air conditioning days, families did this to escape the sub-tropical heat and mosquitos back in town, as much as anything else.  The whole household would be carted down to the Bolivar Peninsula, lock, stock, and barrel for three months, and the dads would commute.  It was great for the kids, of course, and among other things it caused my own father to be a lifelong stone beach bum at heart.  So, I come by it naturally.

My family and I have been staying down here a three weeks so far.  And it has kind of sucked, actually.  Torrential rains, a rape-murder just down from the cabin a couple weeks back, flesh-eating bacteria in the Gulf. . . but it still beats the hell out of being back in town, and it is supposed to be clearing up now.  I’ve been driving back-and-forth a lot, but it is only a 45-minute commute.  My brother in Kingwood has a longer one than that, to his job in downtown Houston.  So I have no reason to complain.

Today, we’ve been sitting out on the beach.  We just switched over from the Astros game, where Woody Williams of all people shut down the Pirates, 1-0.  Great game.  Now we are listening to the KLOL-FM clone, whichever station it is the aging stoners and heads moved to when the legendary 101.1 went Tejano a few years back.  The Cult’s “Wildflower” is playing right now.  Extended 12” version.  I’ve got a spiral composition book I am writing in, sitting in my old-style beach chair.  My wife is stretched out on a chaise lounge lawn chair next to me, on the other side of the 64-gallon cooler sitting between us.  She is sunning, and acting like she is reading a book, which I know she is not, actually.  The cooler has a couple of cases of Miller Lite (hers) and Natural Light iced down in it, along with some water and soft drinks.  I’ve had a few beers by now, and the old lady is starting to look pretty good.  She turned 43 this summer, but except for a few gray hairs she attributes to being married to yours truly (which she covers up with a product called Beautiful Brunette, I believe), she looks ten years younger.  I have to hand it to her – I am sitting here looking at her backside, and she has kept her shape, mostly, and, well, I am thinking, um. . .

My ten year old is out in the surf, having swum out to almost to the second sand bar.  He is an excellent swimmer, but I have been keeping one eye on him.  He said he felt a sand shark bump his leg the other day.  Fairly common in the surf down here, and some people kind of freak out when it happens.  Even a small shark, moving at cruising speed, can whack you pretty good when he hits your thigh with his snout (which they do intentionally, by the way. . . a shark has an excellent built-in navigation system.)  My son told me he knew what it was when it happened, and so he just sort of calmly started swimming for the beach.  He’s been playing out in this water since he was two or three, and it takes a lot to faze him.

My fourteen-year-old is down the way, sitting on the tailgate of the F-150, listening to the stereo, looking cool.  He has on a pair of tan canvas OP surfing shorts, a puca shell and turquoise necklace, and silver mirror shades, teardrop Aviator knockoffs.  Dark-tanned, he has broad shoulders, and a narrow waist.  My boy is growing up, and he is starting to look a lot like his old man at the same age, people tell me.  :Sigh:  Makes a dad proud.  He has got down the ‘ability to leer at passing lovelies without being obvious about it’ thing, too.  I taught him that.  In fact, I’ve been practicing it a little bit today, myself.  It takes a certain amount of talent and persistence to be able to move one’s eyes from extreme east to extreme west, across the entire panorama of the beach, tracking some underage honey wearing not much, while never moving one’s head at all.  Protected by sunglasses, one appears to be staring straight ahead the whole time.  I wear a pair of twenty-year-old black Wayfarers all the time normally, but sitting on the beach I usually opt for a cheap pair of mirror shades much like my son’s.  Cheap because I’m always losing them or breaking them on the beach, and mirror shades to conceal what the eyeballs are really up to.  I had a pair of green-tinted ones awhile back I really loved.  I think I backed over them with my truck.  Anyway, I’m really good at it, I’m telling you.  The old lady says she has known exactly what I’ve been up to, all along, but I think she is bluffing.

So, anyway, that is the scene as I compose my Series Preview.  I just dripped some coconut oil off my forearm onto this page, for authenticity.  The plan is to compose this, then transcribe it over to the laptop when we get back to the cabin.  Then sometime this evening I’ll wander down to Bob’s Restaurant and Bar in Crystal Beach proper.  If you sit in the third booth on the left, facing south, and order a pitcher of Michelob, you can get wi-fi reception.  Sometimes.  I’ll post this then.

If that doesn’t work, well, I’ll still have the pitcher of beer as consolation.  And I’ll post this Monday sometime, from work.Read More