It's wearing your cheap vans with no socks and ripping jeans apart for shorts. It's balancing on the train trestle and trying not to fall in the Souris river because, ewwww. It's searching for the perfect forked stick to catch a craw-dad in the cool mud of the river bank. It's hauling ass off the Bennett's field with your beer in tow 'cause Old Man Bennett said he was going to get the .22 and I don't think he's kidding this time.
It's smoking up under the grandstand while fireworks blow up around you. It's watching the Beavers get trounced and buying licorice and Bubble Gum by the piece and pop in real bottles. It's taking off as fast as your legs will carry you across a grassy field and trying not to trip in a gopher hole. It's running until you think you're gonna bust and finally, you collapse on the ground and just lay there, gasping for sweet, muggy air, slapping at mosquitos.
It's taking your first sip of margeurita on the deck. It's renting a big, ol' raft from a sporting goods store and driving across town with it resting precariously on the back of your red, 1992 Mustang convertible.
It's taking a walk down to the ice cream bus for a cone. It's a baseball tournament in full swing and a fresh batch of road rash along your leg from where you wiped out when that cop on a bike tried to chase you off the cenotaph. It's jumping off a vinyl car seat cause it burns your white, snowy flesh. It's sneaking into the drive-in and making out instead of watching Detroit Rock City, because let's face it, Detroit Rock City sucked.
It's ultimate frisbee and cargo shorts, it's helping to plant the garden and listening to the hiss of meat hitting the grill. It's buying hot dogs from street vendors and pretending you don't know what's in 'em. It's jumping the fence to skate the pool before they fill it.
It's spending all your allowance on spun sugar and shoddy stuffed animals at the Ex. It's winning that gilt-framed picture of Motley Crue in the dart throw. It's darting into the Sev to bask in the air conditioning. Even if the air smells like fried chicken. It's retreating to the basement with your friends and watching the Golden Girls just to cool down for a minute before heading up again. It's sprinkling lemon juice in your hair and stretching out on a towel in the back yard. It's red tongues from ice-pops.
It's that first burn that's the worst one, the way it cracks and peels no matter how much aloe vera you squeeze on it. It's seeing a sprinkler on a front lawn and not being able to resist a quick run through. It's an empty beach calling out for sand castles of the grandest proportions. It's sharing your beach blanket with a cute boy.
It's a bush party at Bauche's place and everybody's invited! It's spilling coke and southern comfort on your jeans. It's a blister on your foot from your Hang-Ten sandles. It's drinking beer on the docks at midnight and floating the cans out to the middle of the lake. It's skinny-dipping and mailbox baseball and the smeared black-light stamp on your hand from the club. It's hauling those thousand dollar speakers down to the beach and listening to AC/DC at top volume. It's jumping the fire and shotgunning some Pil'. It's driving four hours to hear the Hip. It's girls in sundresses and shirts and skins basketball games.
It's mosquito coils and patio lanterns and the weekly trip to the Dairy Queen for Mr. Misties. It's windy weather and jumping on the neighborhood trampoline. It's ignoring your mom's calls to dinner that ring through the neighborhood. It's practicing hacky-sack until you're good enough to casually flip that little sack like it ain't no thang in public.
It's peeing in the bush while a buddy holds your cooler. It's flirting with the lifeguards and it's zinc oxide on your nose. It's storing the sheets in the freezer and sleeping with a chunk of ice in front of a fan.
It's summer. It's here. It's hot. Get used to it.
Feeling: like a pepsi slurpee.
Tunes: The Girl I Love (She Got Long Black Wavy Hair) - Led Zepplin
Tube: It's TARSday!
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