The Weather


Up here in Kennebunkport, summer has arrived with a curious intensity—name taking and ass dispensing at all-time highs. Itemized evidence of carnage: beer at the beach tastes like tepid apple juice garnished with sand? Summer is here. Long lines at the 95 toll booth giving you a front row seat to the Friday matinee of Honda Civic Driver Picks His Nose Again? That’s summer, bud. Got that fresh new beat-the-heat Crispin Glover cut at the local barber? You guessed it—summer. Magazine ink from the gratuitously dark-colored ad on the back of The Economist got your fingers all smudgy and your face looking like a coal miner? SUMMER. Oh, you got heckled by the bouncer (fisherman?) at Federal Jack’s for what you presume to be not wearing cargo shorts, and now you’re “inexplicably” blamed for stealing a beer mug with a killer design that you’re profoundly certain will make a great companion to your Pier 1 collection back in the city? Summer is all up in your shit. Exasperated sounds of air emitting from your buddy’s mouth after you’ve pontificated on the inner workings of the coming and going of tides, creating and destroying shore line, for the millionth time? Summer is here, and she’s mocking the size of your endowment. Found yourself the proverbial ant in the incandescent eye of the fire god’s magnifying glass? No sweat (pun clearly intended): your dad bought Walgreen’s SPF 50 sun block, excellent at repelling UV rays and women alike. Mosquitoes biting sun-burnt back tats, baby blue breezes, G&T’s, unfurled sails, watching whales. Summer, summer, and more goddamned summer. Winter is coming? HA. It’d better bring some fucking friends, bro.

Has spent an inordinately large amount of time in school. He now lives in Boston/New York.