This week, I am on vacation in lovely Cape Cod (winner of the Mid-July “Joey’s Excuse About Why He Is Late With An Entry” award). I am here with my girlfriend, who is of Filipino descent.
Now, normally, I don’t notice this that much. Where I live, there are so many people of so many different ethnicities that a person’s ethnic background is pretty much ignored. However, here in Cape Cod, we have managed to go four days already without seeing anyone with dark skin save those with horrific skin cancer.
Indeed, if you are pale white (as I am) you basically only have one shade of skin between pale blue and horrific skin cancer, that shade being “lobstah red.” At the moment, due to poor application of SPF 45, my skin looks like some sort of nightmarish cow pattern of red and white. The occasional blue vein pops through my skin, which gives me something of a patriotic tinge, like an American flag designed by Wes Craven.
Skin cancer actually killed my grandmother. She spent her youth on the beaches of Massachusetts and her twilight years with an increasingly wealthy oncologist. Indeed, we look at her cancer doctor as something of a relative since he received most of the family inheretence.
The odd thing about being here for me is that many people in stores stop and ask me questions like I live here. I have been asked about the price of Diet Pepsi, the relative sound quality of Slipknot vis a vis Nickleback (conclusion, they both sort of suck, but Slipknot sucks with more volume) and how to get to Hyannis (answer: head back to the highway). Why I would look more like a native when I am traveling with the only person in all of Cape Cod who is clearly not a native is somewhat baffling, but perhaps they are assuming she is my picture bride and that I am a Gulf War One veteran and, thus, very local. Hard to tell.
We’ve also been amazed at the age of people in restaurants. Since we’ve been going to them with my two and four year old nephews, we were worried that we would be getting dirty looks from people when they cried. Fortunately, most of the other patrons are so old that they either can’t hear the boys when they emit the occasional wail or just assume that their cries are the familiar screams of the banshee of death sweeping in to claim another one of their pale friends.
When I used to come down here as a child, I came down for the sealife. I am pleased to say that, thansk largely to the Reagan years, we don’t have to worry about all those pesky critters anymore.
No, children no longer need to fear the threat of largish crabs. Fortunately, the danger posed by crustaceons has been replaced with a new kind of terror. I am refering, of course, to the morbin obesity of most beach goers. I was worried that I was going to be the fattest person on the beach, but I was pleased to learn that I am just on this side of “svelte” compared to most of my beach fellows. Joseph, the four year old, keeps pointing at especially wide individuals and proclaiming “ooo, look at that one!”
He tried to fit a few into his bucket, but they were not coorperative.
When I was a teenager, I came down here for the young ladies. They are here in abundance and look about the same as they did when I was here as a youth - which is to say under dressed. This is not me being a prude (though I have a tendancy to be a prude sometimes, too), but me being logical as the term “warm beaches” do not apply to Cape Cod. Indeed, I would apply the phrase “ice fishing” to the beaches first.
This week, I still need to make some time to visit Rockgrrl and some of my other old friends from the Cape. For the record, Rockgrrl is a babe - primarily because she wisely moved away for a number of years, thus protecting herself from whatever strange sun rays turn most of the other residents into chowder chomping mutants.
Anyhow, time to run. Rumor spread around the Cape that we have a pizza at our apartment and now a hoarde of overweight tourists coated with melignant melenomas are trying to tear the shingles off the place to get to its cheesy goodness.
Joey Michaels writes at his livejournal and you can find him writing at The Dead End every week where he tends to focus on satire - which means that he tries to write topical comedy. He lives with three cats, including the notorious Kitty Michaels, who has his own livejournal.