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I know, I know.

It’s the end of August and the rancor that I hold for tourons should have been spit out in maybe May or maybe June. But I got caught up in other things and forgot.

But that’s OK ’cause there’s plenty of rancorness left.

It’s a new rental week and another turd of tourons (and, yes, I did make that up- kinda like a gaggle of geese or a pride of lions. A turd of tourons. I like it.) has been squeezed out of the quivering cheeks of somewhere-elseville.

If you’ve never lived in a vacation community it goes somethin’ like this-

Saturday is check-in day and the flood of tourons is almost overwhelming. Soft, fleshy wantness presses up against us. Check-in to the cottages isn’t till two o’clock but a lot of tourons hit the road early hoping to dodge traffic and end up sitting in the driveways of their vacation villas waiting for them to be cleaned. It’s always fun watching whole families sitting and sweating staring at a beach house wanting their vacation to begin.

Sunday is beach day. Forget it if you’re a local. There are so many white bodies turning pink it’s disturbing. And something I can’t understand- if everybody LOVES the beach so much why do so many tourons come down and camp out under awnings all day, bitch and moan about the heat and the sand and never swim in the ocean? I don’t get it.

Miss Carol just laughs and points.

Monday.Tuesday. Wednesday. These are the settling in days, days the tourons slip into the rhythm of the beach and into their one week exercise regimen. It’s also the time when Miss Carol and me have made friends with some of them over the years. Surprisingly, some tourons are, like, regular people?

Thursday and Friday are the manic ends to vacations dreamed of and lusted after for an entire year and the tourons tend to go on frenzied alcohol fueled final flings of repressed adolescence before piling their sunburnt and bloated kids back into the car and driving home. Locals hide until they’re gone.

Saturday morning is quiet and we bask in it. We walk Cutter and Tug on the beach, we breathe the fresh salty still air and revel in our little lives.

Then, by noon, the cheeks of somewhere-elseville clench once again and a whole new turd of tourons squeezes out.

I love summer.

Okey dokey, I’m pissy.

It’s been days and weeks and months and years of hot, humid, mind-searingly crappy outside working conditions and I’m on a tear and the only thing I long for daily is the the three or four hours Miss Carol and me spend in air-conditioned comfort cocktailing and eating dinner.

So it went straight to my pissy zone when I saw this article in Coastal Living.

Why am I reading Coastal Living? Dunno. Maybe brain bubbling from the heat?

Anyway.

It was a fluffy piece about a new eco-friendly home built on Bald Head Island North Carolina and I was looking at the pretty pictures and thinking it sure would be nice to live there when it hit me.

What a shit hole piece.

Coastal Living had totally sold this house as some kinda totally green, good time feelie, big ole’ warm arms wrap around, kissy face, perfect green home.

So being pissy and being in a pissy mood I read the article.

And guess what?

Not only does this perfect child 3400 square foot home have windows that, like, OPEN to let in gentle sea breezes, maybe, possibly cutting down on A/C? It has HUGE overhangs on the decks so that the rain doesn’t somehow get into the maybe open windows, when the gentle sea breezes aren’t 100 degrees so that the twin units that cool the behemoth are turned off. If.

Not to mention the stairs have open risers letting light in so valuable electricity doesn’t have to be used. During the day.

And, of course, most of the house was constructed out of sustainable materials. Like, you know, wood?

Don’t get me wrong. I think shit’s gonna change at some point but I’m pissy and hot and tired.

And don’t tell me this happy crappy family with their someday open windows in North Carolina are on some kinda cutting edge of greeness.

They ain’t.

I’m pissy. It’s the heat.

I love these fuckers more than I like most people, but I was not looking forward to taking them with us down to the beach (a different beach) to stay with Miss Carol’s family last weekend. It had nothing to do with Miss Carol’s family and everything to do with the fact that we’d be staying in a “pet friendly” oceanfront cottage.

The last time we had Cutter and Tug in a “pet friendly” motel we’d awoken in the middle of the night to Tug peeing on us.

Here’s what happened-

A couple of years ago, Miss Carol decided we needed to take the dogs to Hatteras and go camping so I loaded up everything, stuffed Cutter and Tug into the back seat, and we headed to Hatteras. About fifteen minutes into the three hour trip our retards decided they’d had enough car travel. Both were squirming and wrestling all over the back seat, snarling and growling and barking at each other, at passing cars, and at Miss Carol and me.

I was trying to drive and scream at them to shut the fuck up and Miss Carol was trying to soothe all of us into enjoying the ride. Before we even crossed into North Carolina I’d had enough and wanted to turn around and go home.

But Miss Carol persisted (’cause she’s patient like that) and we made it all the way to Manteo (about halfway to Hatteras) before she too had had all she could take of the three of us and threw in the towel- (I always like it when Miss Carol finally gets mad- it makes my childishness feel somehow justified.)

I was looking for a place to turn around when she saw a motel along the highway with a big PETS WELCOME sign- so we decided we’d bag Hatteras and camping and just check into the PETS WELCOME motel instead. I sat in the hot car while Miss Carol checked us in, bouncing around as Cutter and Tug attacked one another, and then we went to a nearby beach.

And it was fun. The dogs got to get out of car prison and run in the surf and we got to chill out over beers and cocktails.

Later on, we went back to the motel and as soon as we got into the room the dogs immediately found a scent that needing marking. I dropped what I was carrying and started yelling at them while Miss Carol grabbed some paper towels.

That’s when we made the connection that PETS WELCOME means other dogs have BEEN HERE. AND PEED HERE.

But it was too late to leave so we got it cleaned up and I turned on the TV and cracked a beer. Miss Carol took the car keys and left, saying she was going shopping for dinner.

I think she just wanted, or maybe needed, to get away from Cutter, Tug, and me.

During the two hours she was gone the dogs found a couple of other places that needed marking and decided that being cooped up in a motel room wasn’t much better than car prison and started attacking one another AGAIN, so I walked them for a couple of miles hoping to wear them down. It didn’t.

Finally Miss Carol came back with a pizza and the dogs seemed to settle down so after dinner we laid down on the bed to watch TV and promptly fell asleep.

A couple of hours later I awoke with a start, realized that the lights and TV were still on, and that Tug was standing over us, staring intently at me, and PEEING on us.

I can’t even fathom what might have going through his little doggy brain to make him do such a thing, but honestly?, it made me laugh- he was just so seriously bent on making a point to me about something or other. Trust me, the look on his face was effing FUNNY.

But I pushed him off, we got cleaned up, slept on the floor for a couple of hours, and left for home before dawn, sneaking out of the PETS WELCOME motel and the mess we had made.

So, yeah, I was a LITTLE concerned about spending the weekend in a “pet friendly” cottage with Miss Carol’s family, but I needn’t have worried. They were fine. Maybe the cleaners clean better or maybe Tug and Cutter are better behaved or something, but they were fine.

Which is good ’cause I’m not sure anyone in Miss Carol’s family would find getting peed on very funny.

Turds.

“My name is Tucker Max, and I am an asshole. I get excessively drunk at inappropriate times, disregard social norms, indulge every whim, ignore the consequences of my actions, mock idiots and posers, sleep with more women than is safe or reasonable, and just generally act like a raging dickhead”

Yup, that about sums it up. This was the second book I read on The Trip and it is heterosexually hilarious. I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell chronicles in lurid and sordid detail the depravity, debauchery, and all-out drunkenness that is Tucker Max’s life.

And it is one fun ride.

This raunchy romp of a book is a collection of his partying adventures told in loosely chronological order in an almost blog-post fashion. Or maybe it was his blog once and he figured out how to get it published. Whichever it is it’s frickin’ hysterical.

If you’re a regular guy this is probably the funniest book you’ll ever read. And even most chicks, if they’re honest and don’t hide behind the ooh-that’s-so-gross-I’d-never-do-that-crap, will find the book laugh out loud comical.

But if you’re one of those namby-pamby metrosexuals with manicures and pedicures and carefully groomed six o’clock shadows, or if you’re one of those silly girly-girls that think sex is something to be endured only after marriage and blowjobs only happen in porno movies you’ll never watch, you probably want to give this book a pass ’cause it’s gonna get your panties in a bunch.

Everyone else? Into the pool!

I can’t wait for Miss Carol to read it.

Each summer, The Admiral (yup he’s a real Admiral) and his wife take Miss Carol and me out to dinner. We mow their lawn and watch over their place in the off season and they pull our trash cans in and, for whatever reason, they feel obligated to feed us.

They shouldn’t, and don’t have to, but it’s become a tradition- kinda like Christmas without all the lights and presents and stuff.

And last night was the night. Which is cool and all, but.

They chose one of the local restaurants that throws it’s doors WIDE open and screams COME ON IN ALL Y’ALL AND REALLY? BRING EVERYBODY WITH YOU ‘CAUSE WE WANT ALL THE TOURONS RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW.

Miss Carol and me avoid these places like the plague during the season, opting for the less traveled places, the locals-only joints that stay low key.

But there we were.

And as wave after wave of tourons surged in around us, washing up against us with their loud voices and tiny touronites screaming for food or sleep or maybe slaughter? – I sat and wondered WTF? How did I end up here? How’d this happen?

But then I remembered that Mr and Mrs Admiral were and are very nice people and neighbors and it’s not like we coulda lied and said we’re busy. And honestly? After a coupla beers and a magnum of wine things were lookin’ up.

The screeching of little touronistas and the northern accents were blending and smoothing out and I found myself actually enjoying dried out snapper fillets, french fries, and our dinnermates yelling at us to be heard over the cacophony, spewing food and spittle.

Life’s good, right?

I’m cowering. I’m holding up my hands, fending off hatred of the obvious. Don’t throw shit at me.

But hey.

Fat chicks should not be wearing bikinis. Sorry.

I know this is horribly politically incorrect but it needs to be said.

I’m not talkin’ about chubby chicks or even chunky babes- I’m talkin’ about girls whose weight is north of 160. You can call yourself a BIG GIRL, but you’re not. You’re fat. Which is fine. You like sedentary and doughnuts more than we do. So sit at home and eat and eat some more. It’s OK. It’s cool. Just don’t, please don’t, put on a bikini and come down to the beach.

And hey, if the urge to waddle down to the shore becomes overwhelmingly irresistible, do heterosexuality a BIG favor and just cover up, you know, like maybe a burqa or maybe a pup tent?

Thanks

Oh, and by the way?  The tattoos? Nix ’em. They don’t make you look edgy or cool and, trust me, a bleary tramp stamp  ain’t taking off any of the pounds.

Just sayin’.

Sorry, but this is crazy-  a something named Justin Bieber, at the ripe old age of 16, has signed a deal with Paramount Pictures to make a movie about himself.

Let that one sink in for just a sec.

SIXTEEN? AS IN LESS THAN TWENTY? AS IN CAN’T DRINK AND DRIVE?

I mean honestly, WTF? How much life history can there possibly be in a little sixteen year old wingnut?

Then, to further cloud sensibilities not only does this Justin thing have a movie coming out about his short little life, HarperCollins is releasing his MEMOIRS in the fall. Memoirs of what? Wearing little sailor suits and burping up on himself?

Give me an effing break. But I was intrigued and curious so I checked him and his music out, not wanting to be Mr. Cynical Dickhead Old Turd, and ya know what?

It was more awful than I’d feared.

Quite possibly the worst shit I’ve ever listened to- and that’s coming from someone who had Pink’s Mizzunderstood running through his head for a week. It was just terrible-picture an overindulged 16 year old chirping in a little girly voice and pouting like he’s 13 and you about got it. I scrolled through a half dozen teasers of his latest 2.0 offering before clawing my ears off and killing the dogs.

Crap.

And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, I read recently that there’s this new decline in civilization spurred on by our lawyerly friends -surfing litigation-two words I never thought I’d see in the same sentence. Even a  poorly constructed sentence.

According to the article, aging “surfers” are starting to sue one another over stuff like hogging and flailing ineffectually at waves or being nailed by the errant unleashed surfboard. You could almost hear the coolness being sucked out of surfers by the middle-aged “surfer” blimps wanting their fair share of everything. Pretty soon and I’m guessin’ surfers are gonna be signing disclaimers and waivers before paddlin’ out.

But, hey? Who amongst us doesn’t like seeing spring suits in XXXXL?

Fuckers.

So it made me think, and I sat and I gazed out the window and I wondered why the self-important little kids and the XXXXL self-important little lawyers can’t just leave the rest of us alone.

I had lots and lots of time to read on our trip.

So I did.

One of the first was Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential. I’ve never made a secret that I love Anthony Bourdain and would let Miss Carol have his child.

So it’s really no surprise that I loved his book. Gosh, dude, honestly? I mean WTF, right?

Kitchen Confidential is an autobiographical jog through Tony’s early years. Through his young chefness and debutante days- moving from restaurant to restaurant, living in dumps and honing his cooking craft and his storytelling.

It’s also a book about his drug and alcohol use, his coming of age, his becoming the Tony we know and love and watch, drooling like coke addicts a coupla hours short of a fix.

Or maybe that’s just me.

Anyway.

As a writer, Anthony Bourdain has one of those rare voices that’ll pull you in, that’ll wrap you up right and tight into his story. It’s magical.

I hate that he can write AND cook but, hey, the book is damn good and well worth the fifteen bucks and the time spent.

Catch it, baby.

Yeah, so anyway.

I’ve been tryin’ to post at least three times a week ’cause? umm, er? Hmm. Honestly? I’m not quite sure why. But I’ve been trying.

And so- I had the best of intentions on Sunday. But one thing led to another and time slid away, slithering aimlessly, and before I knew it, the weekend was staring over the fence at Monday and I realized I was Mr. Lame and I’d failed yet again.

I’m thinkin’ more mediocrity will come barreling along soon, but then again maybe I overestimate myself.

And just like that it was over almost like it’d never happened.

There’s a certain bittersweet longing remembrance that clings cloyingly to these kinda vacations and the enforced closeness that jams us all together and rubs us up against one another, peeling away layers.

For all of it, I know I’m gonna miss living with and being with The Queen Princess Cruise Director, The Captains MoRon, and chirpy little Hennifer. And honestly? My friendship with these friends has deepened and broadened. It’s taken on a whole new level and color.

I poke fun but I realize how deeply I like these people.

I got up at 4:30 and finally took a shower. After seven days of blissfully salty decadence it was time. I HAD to do the marine shower thing. I’d avoided it- not because I long for a dirtier and stinkier me but because I hate me a marine shower.

Imagine standing, hunched over in a tiny cramped little closet bathing with the little shower gun from your kitchen sink and that’s exactly what it’s like. It’s like being peed on. Gently.

But I knuckled down and did it.

And then, while Miss Carol slept on, I joined Captains MoRon in the predawn darkness on the bow and we three stood thinking long deep thoughts on the week past. Or maybe just ticking off the minutes of another hangover and staring retardedly.

It’s always so hard to tell.

And then Captain Ron said, Let’s go.

And that’s what we did, we yanked the mooring and headed over to Cane Garden Bay in the early morning light and Captain Ron dinghied us over to the dock and the waiting taxi and that was it.

We were gone.

Would we do it again? Nah. And not because of anything but because of everything. We’ve done it, and done it twice. Life’s too short to repeat.