He bled dirty red wine, and I drank gin as the miles grew thick between us
Every other day or so, I open a tab to livejournal and start trying to compose an entry; then I think, "Nah, no one wants to hear about that," and close it again. And in this manner, nothing ever gets written.
I hope all my American friends had good Independence Day celebrations, and that no one blew their face off with firecrackers! My family nearly always spends at least part of Fourth of July at our local pool. The menu sometimes changes, the games have undergone some adaptations, but one thing remains constant: a rousing game of watermelon polo to conclude the festivities.
It's pretty simple. Two teams consisting of lifeguards, swim coaches, and senior swim team members are assembled. The teams jump into opposite ends of the diving well and hold onto the walls. Two goals are constructed with lawn chairs at these opposite ends. A large watermelon liberally greased in petroleum jelly (or Vaseline, or Crisco, or whatever adequately slippery substance the lifeguards have gotten their hands on at short notice-- one year it was the grease we use on the diving board fulcrum) is produced.
Someone gets out on the diving board that protrudes over the middle of the pool, and drops the watermelon. Both teams immediately lunge off the walls for the watermelon. From then on, it's simply a matter of manuevering the watermelon into the other team's goal. Of course, this is much easier said than done. Bastard thing is not only slippery but it's also fucking heavy, so passing it is more difficult than you think, especially while treading water and trying not to get elbowed in the gut. If nothing else, it provides some stunningly educational and entertaining examples of the laws of motion and the laws of momentum.
("What kind of man are you if you can't take a fucking watermelon to the face, Stephen!" the pool manager/referee howled from his perch atop the observation chair. I would worry about the current star swimmer of our team, and whether or not he will have a traumatic 'Nam-like flashback the next time he takes a physics exam or goes to the grocery store. But on the other hand, young Stephen now has both a life lesson in Newtonian physics and a healthy wariness of rapidly moving fruit.)
The game is over after fifteen minutes have elapsed or when the watermelon has broken into non-playable chunks, whichever comes first.
It's basically a brawl in the water meant to release all the energy and frustration of the day-- back when I still lifeguarded, the only worse day to work was the Raft Night-- that just happens to include a watermelon. Good times for all.
Fred, the homicidal ice cream man, has opened a new shaved ice stand, so now his son drives the truck more often. This is mildly sad, because Fred's son, while a nice young lad, is just not as interesting and unpredictably violent as Fred. He seems the sort who would try logic and reason with his competitors, rather than rushing at them with a baseball bat whilst screaming bloody murder. Fred's son assured me that Fred would be coming back later.
Much more to say and post later. Been eaten by life, ever since the end of May, but hopefully I'll be able to make myself write about it all eventually, in a slightly more humorous way than it has been happening to me. Or I'll just write about Hetalia, and slap up a bunch of IM conversations about fandoms.
In other news, wanna know the fucking weather?
I hope all my American friends had good Independence Day celebrations, and that no one blew their face off with firecrackers! My family nearly always spends at least part of Fourth of July at our local pool. The menu sometimes changes, the games have undergone some adaptations, but one thing remains constant: a rousing game of watermelon polo to conclude the festivities.
It's pretty simple. Two teams consisting of lifeguards, swim coaches, and senior swim team members are assembled. The teams jump into opposite ends of the diving well and hold onto the walls. Two goals are constructed with lawn chairs at these opposite ends. A large watermelon liberally greased in petroleum jelly (or Vaseline, or Crisco, or whatever adequately slippery substance the lifeguards have gotten their hands on at short notice-- one year it was the grease we use on the diving board fulcrum) is produced.
Someone gets out on the diving board that protrudes over the middle of the pool, and drops the watermelon. Both teams immediately lunge off the walls for the watermelon. From then on, it's simply a matter of manuevering the watermelon into the other team's goal. Of course, this is much easier said than done. Bastard thing is not only slippery but it's also fucking heavy, so passing it is more difficult than you think, especially while treading water and trying not to get elbowed in the gut. If nothing else, it provides some stunningly educational and entertaining examples of the laws of motion and the laws of momentum.
("What kind of man are you if you can't take a fucking watermelon to the face, Stephen!" the pool manager/referee howled from his perch atop the observation chair. I would worry about the current star swimmer of our team, and whether or not he will have a traumatic 'Nam-like flashback the next time he takes a physics exam or goes to the grocery store. But on the other hand, young Stephen now has both a life lesson in Newtonian physics and a healthy wariness of rapidly moving fruit.)
The game is over after fifteen minutes have elapsed or when the watermelon has broken into non-playable chunks, whichever comes first.
It's basically a brawl in the water meant to release all the energy and frustration of the day-- back when I still lifeguarded, the only worse day to work was the Raft Night-- that just happens to include a watermelon. Good times for all.
Fred, the homicidal ice cream man, has opened a new shaved ice stand, so now his son drives the truck more often. This is mildly sad, because Fred's son, while a nice young lad, is just not as interesting and unpredictably violent as Fred. He seems the sort who would try logic and reason with his competitors, rather than rushing at them with a baseball bat whilst screaming bloody murder. Fred's son assured me that Fred would be coming back later.
Much more to say and post later. Been eaten by life, ever since the end of May, but hopefully I'll be able to make myself write about it all eventually, in a slightly more humorous way than it has been happening to me. Or I'll just write about Hetalia, and slap up a bunch of IM conversations about fandoms.
In other news, wanna know the fucking weather?