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Beachfront Rantin' by Ray Printer Friendly

So I’m doing a little traveling. As I type, I’m sitting in the tenth floor of a beachfront hotel in South Padre Island. I’ve never been down here before, and let me tell you—I like it. We rolled into town around five this evening, checked into the hotel, took a couple of pictures, and then went out on the town.

If you’ve ever been to South Padre Island, you know that there isn’t a whole lot of town to go out on. During the busy season, I guess the place is hoppin’, but there really isn’t much space. We’re here on the off-season, so it’s practically abandoned. Which I totally dig. In my opinion, a place can never be too deserted.

My princess and I drove to an empty stretch on the beach—not a person, building, or car in sight—and walked along, hand in hand, listening to the roar of the ocean. I think it was the ocean—The Gulf of Mexico, that’s ocean, right? It’s all water.

Whatever it was, we listened to it roar as we walked hand in hand. I know it sounds cheesy as hell, but sometimes you have to have those silly movie moments. You look past the clichés, and you can sometimes see true poetry, you know? Plus, chicks really dig stuff like that.

Anyways, so I recommend this place. I think we’ll be back next summer, just to see what it’s like during the tourist season (all the locals say that it sucks pretty hard), but if you ever have a chance to come during the off-season, do it. This place rocks.

I know it’s weird for me to just sit around and talk about how much fun I’m having, but I’m having a blast, man. If that makes you uncomfortable, you can look away. Look at Trey with his walkin’ ass—that’s sorta funny.

Right now, I’m looking out the window, watching the waves crash onto the shore. Unbelievable. I’ve never really considered myself beach people, but I’m just not so sure anymore. I mean, I’m not a huge fan of the smell, really, but it’s not as bad as it could be. Ever stepped onto a subway train with a gangrenous bum? That shit smells bad. I was a trash man, I was a plumber, and I worked in customer service, and I ain’t never smelled nothin’ as bad as a gangrenous bum. With his foot all rotting away and shit?

Damn. And you don’t notice at first. See, this is definitely a newbie mistake—you see the empty car, you’re thinking, “Hah—no one realized that it was empty.” Because no matter that the cars on either side are packed full of people, right? They just didn’t see this one. Or maybe you even see the bum, and you think, “I’m only going seven stops—I can make it.” So you jump in, and those doors close behind you, and you suddenly realize why it’s only you and the bum in there. Because he’s over there rotting to death, and you’re all of the sudden choking back a mouthful of vomit. Bad stuff, man. You don’t know whether to hold your breath (the obvious drawback being that you have to take a breath at some point, and when you do, it will be a big one…a big one filled with rotty bum air), or take a series of small breaths (the obvious drawback being you’re breathing in a shitpile of that rotty bum air that we were talking about earlier).

But enough about that. What we’re talking about is the fresh sea air, and breathing that in. Not too bad.

To be fair, I haven’t been here early in the day—maybe by daylight, the entire place is a nightmare. But even if that’s the case, I have a huge bottle of booze and a lock on my door, so I can always just wait until night to go out, right? By the way, the big bottle of booze? Yeah, I went in the liquor store to grab a little bottle—my princess was tired from a day of traveling, and said that she was probably going to bed early, which meant that I was going to be up drinking and writing—and the guy, as he’s ringing me up, says, “Hey, you can get the bigger bottle for just a couple bucks more.”

I tell him that I’m cool, even though I’m always looking for a bargain on my booze, but he’s all, “You sure? It’s a better deal.”

I bite. “Which one?”

“That bottle on the end, there.” He points, and I walk to where he’s pointing.

The end display is made up entirely of those huge whiskey bottles, the one with the handles, and if you’re not careful, you’ll knock yourself out while you try to pour a shot. Something like six gallons, I think. It’s two bucks more.

So after a day spent with the love of my life, doing romantic things, I’m sitting here on the tenth floor, looking down at the waves, drinking from my gigantic bottle of whiskey, breathing the fresh sea air. It’d be cooler if I still smoked, but—for once—I’m not complaining.


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