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Life’s a Beach and Then you Fry

Sunday, July 8th, 2007

Sunday

Quote of the Day: “If God had really intended men to fly, he’d make it easier to get to the airport.”

- George Winters

My brother-in-law is in town with his family and when you are in San Diego, what do you have to do?

No, Tijuana aside, what ELSE do you have to do?

Since you are obviously flailing for an answer, let me help you out a little.

Beach! You have to go to the BEACH!

Must I walk you through everything here?

As you can imagine, I’m not a HUGE beach guy…I guess in every interpretation of that statement but what I MEANT was that going out to a huge expanse of grainy sand next to a cold body of salt water to watch the general fatness of the American population is not what I would put at the top of my “to do” list.

I’m just a big ball of joy sometimes, ain’t I?

I guess it all started when we went down to the beach and parking was, let’s say, a bit challenging. And you know what makes it even more challenging? When Big-Truck-Jackass thinks he should take up two parking spots on the road because he thinks he’s that much more special than everyone else trying to cram their car in an overpopulated, popular area.

It took all I had not to key the piss out of that damn thing.

We found parking and hauled all of our crap stuff, to the beach and set up.

Now I’ve been running outside every day at lunch so of course I have a golden brown tan.

Sun screen?

Puh-LEASE!

Yeah, I burned like an albino straddling the equator.

Why? Every time I fall for it.

But my chest was only exposed for like an hour! It shouldn’t..

There just is no justice in this world.

We I finished burning our my skin (maybe only me but I can’t confirm that) and headed home to get ready which involved taking a shower that might as well have been shards of salt blasted at me at light speed.

It was time to take our guests to the OTHER must-go-to in San Diego.

No, NOT TJ. Again, can you get past your fixation?

It was time to take them to Casa Guadalarjara’s.

I swear I should get a kickback from this place because I bring them more business than Oprah’s assistants bring her Ho-Hos.

The food isn’t even all that good but it’s the atmosphere. It’s “authentic” only as far as the most cliché of all clichés about Mexico goes. It has the elaborate costumes, the guys roaming around playing their little guitars, and all the flora and fauna that you would expect to see on a movie set if someone who has never actually been to Mexico wanted to dress someplace up to look “Mexican.”

But it’s fun and Carrie likes the margaritas. It didn’t take long before I realized I would be driving home. It was about the point that the waiter brought out a bathtub full of margarita for my wife.

Keys, please.

As if on cue, I chipped out and was in no shape to attack a chimichanga when it arrived. I ate about ¼ of it and suddenly it looked like a big hairy turd sitting on my plate so needless to say, I was done.

Looking over at my bro-in-law, I knew he was in the same big bloated boat.

Much like the lifeless chimichanga laying on my plate like so much fecal matter, I was stuffed, fried, and ready to go home. OK, maybe that last part has nothing to do with a chimi but I am too tired to stretch the analogy.

We went home and for the second night, everyone assumed their roles as computer geek, video game-heads, and clucking chickens.

When I went to say goodnight, all I got was “Oh, you just got POWNed!” and “ba-GOK!”

Free Advice for Today: “Use a favorite picture of a loved one as a bookmark.”

- H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

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