Sunbathing in the Great White North
While Tiresias was slaving away, making sure Hobos Inc. continues to shine, communing with the dead at the Mutter Museum, and holding down the fort at Penn, I, Cass:
• floated in the Lake that borders Troy and Canada.
• sat in a lawn chair, lathered in a white paste (that is sunblock). I alternated between reading a page, putting the book down, picking it back up, examining the back, front, and inside covers, reviewing the author’s biography to learn that he is around my age, being pissed about that. I fidgeted.
• saw The Devil Wears Prada with my mother for $12, hobo change, if you will, the cost of ONE movie ticket in Manhattan.
• buried my feet and then unburied them and reburied them.
• having total access to the Troy News and thus a detailed hockey scouting report, I planned possible lines for the team, tried to make the salary cap, and derived a mathematical formula to determine the best possible record for the Sabres next season. I wrote it on the back of a Molson Stock Ale label, popped it into the bottle, and set the bottle at sea, in the hopes that doing so might actualize it.
• ate. A lot.
• drank red, red wine.
• pretended not to assist my little nieces in the Annual Sandcastle Contest at Crescent Beach. They had decided to build a punch bug and because those are scarce, my not quite three-year-old niece thought it prudent to implement the elements of a PT Cruiser into the design. We dug, we filled and emptied buckets, we smoothed and re-smoothed the sand. My brother/their father, the good-looking one (see Cass’s biography for more on this), tried to dispose of the architectural blueprints and Texas Instrument calculator, as they clearly violated the no-adult assistance stipulation. My sister-in-law stood back from the perfectly formed tailpipe and bumper. We looked at one another, furrowed our brows, and knew the carburetor wasn’t going to fly. We immediately handed the shovels to the little girls who were actually enrolled in the contest. And we made serious attempts to destroy evidence of our unintentional enthusiasm. We hoped for a torrential downpour. We kicked at the sand. Apparently we succeeded because my nieces won an honorable mention and not first, second, or third place. Phew.
• floated in the Lake that borders Troy and Canada.
• sat in a lawn chair, lathered in a white paste (that is sunblock). I alternated between reading a page, putting the book down, picking it back up, examining the back, front, and inside covers, reviewing the author’s biography to learn that he is around my age, being pissed about that. I fidgeted.
• saw The Devil Wears Prada with my mother for $12, hobo change, if you will, the cost of ONE movie ticket in Manhattan.
• buried my feet and then unburied them and reburied them.
• having total access to the Troy News and thus a detailed hockey scouting report, I planned possible lines for the team, tried to make the salary cap, and derived a mathematical formula to determine the best possible record for the Sabres next season. I wrote it on the back of a Molson Stock Ale label, popped it into the bottle, and set the bottle at sea, in the hopes that doing so might actualize it.
• ate. A lot.
• drank red, red wine.
• pretended not to assist my little nieces in the Annual Sandcastle Contest at Crescent Beach. They had decided to build a punch bug and because those are scarce, my not quite three-year-old niece thought it prudent to implement the elements of a PT Cruiser into the design. We dug, we filled and emptied buckets, we smoothed and re-smoothed the sand. My brother/their father, the good-looking one (see Cass’s biography for more on this), tried to dispose of the architectural blueprints and Texas Instrument calculator, as they clearly violated the no-adult assistance stipulation. My sister-in-law stood back from the perfectly formed tailpipe and bumper. We looked at one another, furrowed our brows, and knew the carburetor wasn’t going to fly. We immediately handed the shovels to the little girls who were actually enrolled in the contest. And we made serious attempts to destroy evidence of our unintentional enthusiasm. We hoped for a torrential downpour. We kicked at the sand. Apparently we succeeded because my nieces won an honorable mention and not first, second, or third place. Phew.
posted by hobos in space @ 9:56 AM
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