The Beach Diaries #3
* (The following paragraph is from yesterday’s notes) A man sits near me that I instantly dub Big Shirtless Ron. BSR is early forties, and struts, shirtlessly as I write. He stands, he sits, he tries to look as though he’s meeting someone, while probably just hoping to catch the attention of some ladies. He periodically checks his phone with a sigh, to give the illusion of a buddy who’s keeping him waiting. Big Shirtless Ron is pretty ripped, but has a sun-baked tone that reeks of men who refuse to wear a shirt in public once the temperature creeps above fifteen degrees.
* An old woman with severe curvature of the spine sends me on an inadvertent mental detour, about the under appreciated lyrical wit of the Insane Clown Posse.
“Shaggy the clown back like scoliosis…”
“I’m Violent J, and I’m back like a vertebrae…”
* Big Shirtless Ron is back today, this time with another guy. Perhaps the buddy that didn’t call was real after all. Could it be, I have misjudged all shirtless men? BSR’s mate is younger, and also shirtless, with a Jersey Shore haircut and pink sweater draped around his neck like Carlton Banks.
The pair idly parade up and down, back and forth, this way and that. In my mind, they’re looking for women to hit on, and BSR probably refers to Carlton Douche as ‘my wingman.’ BSR yells at a passing girl.
“Hey, you!” She acknowledges, and clearly recognises him, but briskly keeps on walking. “Why won’t you stop and talk to me?” he says, with a cheeky grin. The girl shrugs, and scurries off with a smile; a smile that drops once she’s out of his eyeline.
“How do you know her?” asks BSR’s buddy.
“I fucked her.”
* A baby passes in a pram. It has the face of Fedor Emelianenko.
* A curious thing I’ve noticed over the last few summers is that if you sorted the hotness of women by their profession, the top category would be – celebrities, models, and helpers with special needs groups. Want to see a phenomenally attractive girl? Look behind the handles of a wheelchair on a day out at the seaside. Do they recruit them from a special agency, or does the Karmic goodness of such a selfless, kindly profession subconsciously add a couple of hotness points, in the way that idiocy and bitchiness knocks a few off?
* Overheard conversation snippets. Teenage girl:
“…she had sixteen kids in her stomach. And they were all twins.”
* The attractive, on-duty beach medic chick sprints over the sand, blowing shrill peeps on her emergency whistle. A lone man is swimming in the first section of ocean, next to the river, which is adorned with large, berating signs of “NO SWIMMING – DANGEROUS CURRENTS!”
Still, she blows, and still, he swims. How embarrassing, to be admonished in such a public way. In front of the whole Cool Kid section, too. Swimming Man swims past the breakwater and across to the next section, where Attractive Beach Medic is waiting, hands on hips, like an angry matron or headmistress. They exchange words, but she doesn’t seem so angry now. The swimmer strides up the beach and emerges onto the prom, dripping wet and fucking beaming.
It’s Big Shirtless Ron.
“I got told right off!”
I wonder if the whole thing was just a scheme to procure some mouth to mouth.