Poseidon and four dollar beers

March 20, 2005

It seems like the more I experience, the more I’d like to sit in my room with my movies and music and booze and just pretend my little chunk of the world is the only thing that really exists. I guess it wears me down knowing that some places and some people are indeed out there. I can’t really say that experiencing new things broadens my mindset or views…unless you want to include the broadening of my bitterness and cynicism. Seems like socializing is almost exhausting to me some times.

I spent most of yesterday in Destin with Michael and Hannah, which was great. Hannah shopped, Michael and I drank beer. After that we met up with friends of theirs and some how ended up half drunk, in some rich couple’s minivan, equipped with DVD player and automatic sliding door, being transported to some strange gated community called Sandestin. I think my eyes might have glazed over at some point. I really had no idea what the hell was going on.

We entered through the gates and after some driving, ended up in a section of this “community” called Baytowne or the Village or something (I was looking for the poison-laced Kool-Aid or the applications for cult membership, but found none), which was designed to look something akin to Bourbon Street, complete with clubs and restaurants and shops, the one major separation between them being that Sandestin was created for middle-aged, rich, white people and “trust fund babies,” as Michael put it. On this Bourbon Street, you don’t have to brush arms with the filthy commoners.

I don’t think I am capable of describing the gyrations and dances the 50-somethings were executing in front of the sub par classic rock band that was playing, as the only “dance” that could truly be recognized was some form of a drunken Hand Jive. I don’t think I can justly communicate to you the vicious air guitar brought down upon us by a gray haired city council member or mayor; I would only fail you. And I don’t think I can describe accurately to you how all of the youth present looked like they were snatched out of the OC or 90210 set and were forced to walk around, looking shallow and intoxicated. So I won’t even try.

I was certain we’d be detected and the secret police, clad in tight white shorts and striped polo shirts, would be sent forth from a patio deck somewhere to find us and whisk us away in their golf cart. We would be tortured and interrogated to great lengths. “Who brought you here?” they’d shout in our faces, demanding to know exactly how we penetrated their complex. After a thorough going-over and a swift kick to the ribs our cell doors would slam shut on us and we would be enveloped in darkness. “Our leader has plans for you, scum,” they’d bark.

That didn’t happen, so Michael and I bought two $4.50 cups of Killians from an incredibly bitter waitress and the girls got some margaritas. We watched the freak show from a table.

We didn’t have a camera handy, but what a thing that would have been if we had. I doubt I’ll ever really see anything like that again…and I’m not entirely sure I would like to. That, and going from Crestview where I work almost every day with people who live in trailers, people who are scraping by, and then going to an orgy of the shameless and wealthy with beachfront condos was almost too much to handle. But hey, it was an experience.

Aside from that, there’s not much else that is noteworthy. I bought a pink shirt, some sheep and pig boxer shorts, and I got my shoes wet and sandy while on a trip to the beach, which angered me greatly. I bent over to fold up my ever-so-trendy faded jeans so that they wouldn’t get wet, when a rogue wave shot up around my legs and soaked my shoes and socks which were placed next to me. I cursed at the sea god and Michael and Hannah mocked me. I moved down the beach to fix my pants again, and again it happened. At least I had a witness to back up the claim that I am not a complete and total god damn idiot, because I wasn’t really standing that close to the water.

The lord of the sea was forgiven later after I had found a pair of socks to buy, but I’m still a little sour over the whole incident. We will meet again, Poseidon, and should I happen upon your Sauconys lying on a beach some day, let it be known that I’m going to fuck your shit up. Watch yourself.

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