Just Like Summer

Summer's on it's way, but the end of Spring has been hotter than Hades here in the Sunny South, so, I decided to get a jump on things.  Here is my first Hugo Spritz.  Every woman I sent this to said it was their favorite drink.  Every guy I sent it to said nothing.  There you go.  Me and the gals.  And it was all it was touted to be.  Good.  Really good.  It is a one and done, though, I'd say.  A second would not do.  The flavor would become overwhelming, I think.  O.K. I made a second one, so I am speaking from experience.  The flavors become too overwhelming.  

It made me want to slip into a scotch.  

And readying for summer, I have chosen my first summer reading book as well.  I'm going with James Elroy. 

I’ve spent twenty-eight years in this fucking hellhole. Now, they tell me I can memoir-map my misadventures and write my way out. All that religious shit I disdained and disobeyed has played out true. There’s Heaven for the good folks, Hell for the beastfully baaaaaad. There’s Purgatory for guys like me—caustic cads that capitalized on a sicko system and caused catastrophe. I’ve sizzled in my sins for two decades plus. I’ve relived my earthly life in dystopian detail. My cunning keepers are currently dangling a deal.

That's the first paragraph of "Shakedown."  I'll have to say, so far the novel has been alliterative.  I'll give it that.  

If only I could be sitting in the shade by the pool overlooking the ocean with a cold spritzer at hand.  I thought of driving to the beach today, but I don't have it in me.  It would just be a grind as I'd have to get back in time to prepare dinner for ma.  It would be too much of a sprint.  

So maybe I'll just go to the mall and buy those sunglasses and smell that Bloomingdale's scent.  That would be a little summery.  I'll bet the entire mall will have white sand and blue beach umbrellas on display.  Halter tops and summer shorts and wicker picnic baskets and fun plastic cocktail glasses, too.

Hell, yes. . . better than the beach, really.  

Oh, lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz.  My friends all drive Porsches.  I must make amends.  

They DO all have beach condos.  Except for CC.  He's spending the summer in Ohio where he is doing Summer Stock.  He sends photos of Vacation Ohio. 

Everybody's somewhere.  

Sky is spending the summer in Amsterdam. Red seems to be living in Vegas.  My Miami friend is constantly in NYC or at the Versace Mansion having fabulous meals.  Their lives are illustrated.  

Maybe I'll buy an ice cream maker and a new grill and an inflatable pool and some cool deck chairs.  I'll sit with my feet in the water, a Hugo at hand, as the hamburgers grill and the ice cream maker whirs.  I'll put on some scented oil of frangipani and wear hibiscus in my hair.  I'll let the old neighbor ladies run their fingers through my golden locks.  

That'll show 'em.  That'll show 'em all.  

Yea, I know. . . this blog gets dumber every day.  All I have is the inside of my shrinking skull most days.  Maybe I should only write after some big event or luscious affair.  But then I would be writing only once a month.  At best.  What would I do with the rest of my mornings?  

Let's slip into some fay summer music.  What do you say?  Something pop, something that sounds like a young girl's trashy daydreams.  No, I'm not kidding.  At some point in my life, I put this into my music mix.  Whatever, dude.  Just trying to make it up to Q for yesterday's post.