It was Labor Day 2009, the end of the summer and i innocently thought, why not celebrate it by having a little barbecue, a little Frisbee and some much needed cathartic time taking notes dismantling the residents. That's always a favorite family pastime.
My idea of beach outing preparedness is a cooler packed with beer, grabbing a hoodie, snacks, and some stained sheet no longer usable for the dog bed.
But for the greater majority of well-to-do Westport residents, a typical families pilgrimage to the beach for a 'Casual' Labor Day bbq becomes this elaborate setup that Martha Stewart could masturbate to.
There's tiki torches abound, matching flame heights of course...your basic run-of-the-mill pop up tiki huts , coordinating beach recliners made from biodegradable sea grass, tents pitched whose sizes would rival Barnum and Baileys elephant wing, brandy snifters, smoking jackets, William Sonoma barbecue sauces, Clap-On gas grills, and loud obnoxious discussions about the Dow. Talk a little louder please. My aunt in the far corners of New Zealand cant quite hear you.
All this affected celebratory competitiveness, as they proudly sip their wines from only high lead crystal wine glasses overflowing with wine that is exclusively set aside for the Vatican church but with one phone call is air dropped to Compo Beach from Italy that morning.
And to top off the afternoon festivities, thanks to the added convenience of live-in nannies, ( hmmm, live-in...guess the Dow Jones is doing better...or so i fucking HEAR... ) I've been reminded that all of Westport's offspring are irritatedly named Zachery and Skyler. I know this because I heard it in yelled across the beach in Ecuadorian, Venezuelan, Brazilian, Trinidadian, Polish, Hungarian, Peruvian, and Michigan. I am now fluent in Zachery and Skyler.
It certainly does challenge my childhood memories of family beach bbqing at Coney Island... where we'd sit around and talk near a fire that was made by tossing some homeless persons stray articles of clothing into a stolen beach garbage pail and setting it on fire with gasoline we siphoned out of someones car. Those were the days.
So there I was, at Compo Beach, Westport CT, hellbent on relaxing and trying to feel somewhat welcome... with my stained broken cooler, the beach provided pre-seagulled-shat-on picnic table (you know, to open my beer) and my spider web enshrouded lawn chair I dug out of the mildewy shed. (I know how to blend. I'm super chameleon-like.) The more I look around, the more desperately I need a beer, my hoodie and come to think of it, a semi-automatic paintball gun.
To make myself feel completely invisible, I thought playing some Avenged Sevenfold out of my Jeep would be a nice backdrop for the adjacent family with the Foie Gras, Braised Ostrich and Frog Legs beach entree. I was doing my best.
When I get out of my jeep, at first glance I thought I got the wrong directions and inadvertently drove to the coast of South Africa during an active migration of the Puna Flamingos.
But much to my chagrin I was unfortunately right where I set out to go. Compo Beach, Westport Ct. 06880.
And the chaos of pink I witnessed before me wasn't in fact something as awe inspiring as the tropical flamingo, it was rich men in pink shorts. Pink. Linen. Shorts. Everywhere you looked.
Lets just call it the garden variety of hubris you only see with financially able Westport residents of the male gender.
Who else wears bright pink or powder pink linen shorts but Westport men and the mannequins in the window of Banana Republic Fag (a new division).
As far as the eye can see, upon this long expanse of sand and blue skies is a sect of full grown men dressed like they raided their daughters laundry basket. Is this perhaps to.... show their softer, more feminine side? If so, please give me some helpful pointers seeing that the only thing pink in my closet is a package of Hubba Bubba bubble gum, strawberry flavored Astro Glide and my Breast Cancer Awareness ball and gag.
See, I call rich men wearing pink shorts "Sailboat Arrogant". The message is clearly..."I don't get dirty." "I wont get dirty" "I don't do dirt."
Oh trust, you will Hendly... Before this day is over, I'll have you begging for camo shorts....once i trip you and cause your glazed Labor Day catered meatballs and red wine to careen off your turned up nose and cascade onto your crotch. You need some balls down there anyway, sir. So I'm expecting some flowers, or at least a thank you, or at the very least, an all knowing nod and grin. And my apologies for tripping you.. I didn't see you standing there, I was temporarily blinded by an abundance of sun-reflected fuchsia into my retina. You're so getting my Dr's bill.
And then of course, to compliment the flowing pink shorts , we have to have the 'I'm enjoying the good life" effect....also known as the Sweater-Tied-Around-The-Neck look. Taken right out of a vitamin commercial for retired bicycling seniors with osteoporosis. I'm guessing the "Tied around the neck" thing is an attempt to cajole female onlookers into believing that he's 'casual', yet aggressively prepared. Always ready to quickly shimmy it over his head, you know... in the event of the earths sudden shift in polarity.
He thinks aloud in a bellowing voice: "I'LL BE ONE OF THE FEW TO SURVIVE....BECAUSE. I'M WEARING MY FUZZY CAPE OF PREPAREDNESS. I'M ALWAYS THINKING. ALWAYS ON CALL. I AM SUPERMAN. IN PINK SHORTS."
And we can't forget the absolute completion of this runway disaster by wearing sockless, tasseled, leather loafers....Damp feet in dressed up wedding shoes. Very sexy. This clearly is the subconscious message...." Who has time for all this sock nonsense, putting on socks takes TIME!!! TIME I don't HAVE!! I'm too important, too on the go, too busy....dry cleaning Liberace's shorts here...."
Or is he's simply thinking, well, since my shit doesn't stink, nor will my hairy, sweaty sockless feet.
I say get some real shorts, grab a t-shirt, and get yourself a damn pair of sandals. Sandals are for sand. Loafers, are for loafs.
And I'm sure they sell them, somewhere, in pink.
And I'm sure they sell them, somewhere, in pink.
