Side Window

Look at these weird saps. These poor fools. A stone's throw from the Atlantic Ocean (which is one of your major oceans) and they've chosen this pool; a pool of chemicals, artificial heat and motion, hair, piss... Ironically, an unnatural body of water progressively becomes more natural with the addition of more & more herbs and spices pouring off of these Americans and Canadians with Paid Time Off.

This is the view from my bed in the Waves Oceanfront Resort in Old Orchard Beach, Maine, USA. I've come to this town nearly once a year for the past 35 years - rarely to the same living space, but always in the same proximity. It's a vacation spot - a family destination with an arcade and amusement park and restaurants and souvenirs and a beach with a pier and an ocean. Something for everyone; fun for the whole family. 

Most of the family. Take my family (please) - they're just beyond those dunes collecting seashells by the seashore as I lie here like a corpse on display. Ever since the beginning of this One Singular Standalone Never-Again Bad Summer I've been afflicted with some frustratingly undiagnosable malady that causes me to have pain in my hands and legs whenever I do things. So all of my Summer excursions have been to doctor offices and blood labs and all I got were these lousy lollipops and despair. So here I am, existing on this professionally-made double bed watching Man vs. Food on The Travel Channel. 

Or so I was. Now I'm writing, which required an overhaul of the mood in the room. Liberty Mutual commercials and self pity aren't conducive to much more than turning on the stove and letting the gas fill the building. I unpacked the wine & spirits from my borrowed luggage and proceeded to fill my temporary living space with what has ironically been dubbed as "Yacht Rock." Gone are my days of Budweiser and Black Sabbath - here are my days of Cabernet and Christopher Cross.

Old. Elderly and infirm. Secluded. Same as it ever was. 

I'd probably prefer a pool over the ocean too - the sea is too busy and unpredictable, full of aliens and agendas; which, incidentally, is why I'm not indulging in this goddamn pool - a freshwater jailhouse full of dangerously insane vacationers, bobbing around and yelling a narrow variety of incoherence. They, along with this unsightly cement pond, have molested this otherwise beautiful, quiet view. And even if I could run, there's nowhere to go; this resort, like the hundreds of hotels lining this street, is architecturally and geographically equivalent to Munchkinland: thousands of people piled on top of each other in a weird maze of hallways and driveways and stairways, all designed by M.C. Escher himself. The only true escape is the 4,000 miles of dangerous waters between myself and Portugal. Safer to stay in bed -- a chair would be more dynamic and preferable, but many important words have been written (and spoken) from hotel beds. 

There's a coastal breeze that I can feel & smell. But it's a hot one, like 7 inches from the midday sun - which is perfectly fine with me; when I arrive in Hell, they'll give me an extra chilly setup like in the 1970 Scrooge. But oooh Heaven is a place on Earth, and this heat & humidity is soothing and curing me for however long it can stay hard. No pain now, just sweat and desire brought on by cheap booze and Gino Vannelli; a brief, salty mouthful of One Good Summer.

- Paul