At the Beach

Am at the beach. Blogging at the beach. Is that cool? Or is that pitiful? I'm ambivalent.

The Beach, in this case, in all cases concerning me and my family, is Gulf Shores, Alabama. One doesn't have real beaches in Louisiana--just bayous and marshes, teeming with leeches and alligators and such like. Then comes Mississippi, but its beaches pre-Katrina were rocky and dirty, and post-Katrina, well, let's say they remain a work in progress. One could bypass Alabama and continue down the interstate to Pensacola, but as soon as the car crosses the state line into Florida the prices rise, as does the socio-economic status and the physical fitness of the beach-goers, and the quality of the goods in the shops and restaurants.

Since we don't like to go out when we're at the beach, we prefer Gulf Shores. Decent prices. White sand. The appropriately uber-tacky souvenirs. And, the absolute essential of any beach break, lots of obese Americans in all their glory--the guy with the gigantic beer belly curling over his belt like a generous scoop of ice cream on a cone, his buddy with the tattooed eagle proclaiming "Liberty or Death," his amply proportioned girlfriend who sports a string bikini all the same.

My, but we are an ugly people.

Yet the sun is shining and the breeze is fresh and the laughter, like the waves, rolls up and peaks and diminishes and crescendoes again; the beer belly guy leans over and gives his girl's broad shoulder a gentle kiss; the tattooed friend walks over and offers us a beer and a chicken wing.

Easter weekend. All things made new.