It’s that time of year again – the time of year when you ask me if I’d like to go to the beach with you. Therefore, it’s also the time of year when I’m forced to explain to you in painstaking detail and with mathematical precision why the beach sucks.
To illustrate some of the beach’s flaws, I’d like to compare it to my favorite place in the world: my bed (awarded this prestigious honor amongst challenging competition like the movie theater, any couch, and White Castle). First of all, you know what my favorite thing about my bed is? It doesn’t have any goddamn sand in it.
I hate sand. Sand is, in its elemental form, an abrasive and irritating substance – ask anyone who’d know, like Moses or the people of Tatooine. It’s gritty and it gets in your hair and your bathing suit and into private crevices in which you would prefer not to have tiny, coarse particles. It also ruins two of life’s only worthwhile activities, eating and drinking – I ate a turkey sandwich at Jones Beach in 1993 and I still can’t get rid of the sensation of having sand in my teeth. Making matters exponentially worse, the only way to make sand more annoying is to heat it up or to combine it with water. The inexcusable presence of sand at a beach is like a personal slap in the face from God.
Another thing I like about my bed – and this might shock you coming from the type of person who writes articles trashing one of the few things universally loved by other people – is that I’m usually the only person in it. Beaches, especially the ones I grew up with in New York, are typically crowded to the point of resembling Where’s Waldo? caricatures.
This is not far off from the truth, as beaches really are populated with a Waldo-esque carnival of bizarre sights and dangerous characters – roving packs of crazed children, Frisbee-throwing bros, and people displaying parts of their body that should only be viewed by a qualified medical professional. You will probably see at least five outrageously bad tattoos, and you might even see an outie belly button or two.
Yesterday I was explaining to a friend that the only things I like doing at the beach, reading and boozing and occasionally swimming, could all be done in the comfort and sand-free environment of my apartment (sidenote: okay, maybe not swimming, but I can just read and drink in the tub). Thinking they were about to stump me with the beach’s ultimate benefit, they excitedly interjected, “But you can check out girls in bikinis!” And yes, that might be a boon if this was 1963. But it’s not, and now the internet exists, and if I’m in the mood then all I need to do is fire up the computer and head over to bikini.com.
Let me air some of my final beach grievances in rapid succession: murky water, janky bathrooms, the realization that the entire place is essentially one gigantic bathroom, sand, the movie Beaches, stepping on jagged seashells, people blasting horrible music, sand, paying to park, wearing sunscreen, once I saw a seagull take a dump on a baby, lifeguards, seaweed “not that kind of weed,” and sand.
So, I’m sorry, but I don’t want to go to the beach. I’m cranky and sweaty enough as it is, and if you really knew me, you’d realize that listening to The Beach Boys is as close as I actually get to going to the beach. So if you need me, I’ll be jamming to “Kokomo” and drinking piña coladas in bed.