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August 28, 2001

and the living is easy

I am the first to arrive at the club swimming pool.   I stake out territory around the best lounge-chair and ratchet it flat.   I cover the plastic chair straps with my gawdy beach towel and I get seriously supine.   Eyes closed. Sun toasting.   Breathing rhythmic.    I begin to relax.

Then I hear it.   Encroachment.   Water sounds.   Sounds of young humans.   I open one eye and survey the scene.   The intrusion is deemed tolerable until....

MARCO!   Both eyes snap open.   Sweet Jesus, say it ain't so.   Maybe there's only one of them.

POLO!   Goddammit!   Okay, calm down.   Slap some psychic lamb's blood upon my mental lintel and pray for a Passover.


I can't stop the wet little idiots now.   They're on a Marco Roll-O.   I surrender, sit up and watch.

Look at them going through their wretched charade, acting like sunburned bats reacting to sonar.   Only the sonar isn't silent. It is loud and incessant.   And they're NOT reacting to shouts of POLO to find their prey.   No, they're peeking like glistening madmen.

I begin to loathe them and I look for one of those Thunderball underwater trap doors behind which swim really hungry sharks.   I'd open it and watch the water churn red.   Then I'd lie down again and close my eyes and let my breathing slow.

©  2001 by the beastmaster