Friday, July 16, 2010


You can have your Las Vegas penthouse suite with piles of cocaine and hoards of strippers giving free lap dances to anything with a pulse, or your exclusive downtown New York City nightclub packed with free-flowing champagne, caviar, and supermodels, or even your more traditional forms of amusement, like sitting around the great table after the hunt, savaging huge drumsticks of meat, throwing the bones to the dogs, and playing slap n’ tickle with the serving wenches; but for me, when it comes to good, clean fun, nothing beats riding bikes with a bunch of familiar faces to the local lake on a clear summer night, quaffing quaffables and munching pretzel rods, then swimming around in the surprisingly warm water while the sun slowly sets over the city and you bask in the glow that emanates not only from the exterior world but also from the interior experience that lasts so long you can still feel it the next morning just by sitting still and letting the images wash back through your mind’s eye.

Bungie-jumping, Formula One racing, hang-gliding from the Golden Gate Bridge: they’re all great to be sure, but in my experience—as with the aforementioned celebratory thrills—all pale in comparison to floating on your back in the water, paddling forward to the rocky shore for another swig on your beer, while folks stand around waist-deep in the wet sharing stories and telling lies and eventually have to have chicken fights complete with costume-chicken head; and while I’m sure Brad and Angelina, not to mention Barack and Michelle, would really have liked to see me at their party on Air Force One, frankly, there was no place on earth I’d have rather been; and I’m sure that had they had the opportunity to pedal and swim around like I did last night, they’d have understood why I had to turn down their invitation.

That fun is fun to be sure, but nothing like this.


Post a Comment

<< Home