Stories from a Sober Weekend

Indulge me in a scene: It's a sunny Saturday afternoon at the lake. 5 beautiful ladies in kids' sunglasses (all the extras they had at the lakehouse) take off for a boat ride with two young gentlemen. Jeanie's cousin, antsy for some outside stimulus, steers the boat in the direction of what he's heard is "a good dive bar." "This should be interesting," thinks the girl who can't drink.

Their boat pulls into a cove. A crowded, crowded cove. There are two oversized yacht-boats parked at the edge of a cram-full dock. A girl, caucasian in descent but brown in color, waves a skinny arm to signal an open spot behind one of the yacht-boats. Her cash tips are tucked into the waistband of her rolled up cotton shorts, because her bikini top doesn't afford any pockets. Billy, aforementioned cousin, steers the boat into a small spot next to a loooong, long fast boat. A glorified cigarette boat, if you will. The heroines mill about their own boat, applying sunscreen and taking in the sights.

In the long boat next to these lovely ladies, there are young men. Skeezy, skeezy young men. In the boat across from the ladies? More skeeze balls. Our protagonist has the distinct feeling of being ogled. She ignores the feeling to look out on the general chaos around her.

Inland from the crowded dock is a small swimming beach, with its own, bused-in sand. The beach is littered with children, and sits in front of the establishment. The protagonist, expecting a dive bar, was surprised to find the lake's version of an outdoor (privately owned) Applebee's. This wonder was called Louie and Dave's or something equally lake-y.

After everyone finishes their road sodas, our heroes leave the boat and walk down the long (ogling) dock to approach the restaurant. They find a table and plop into the plastic deck chairs, inspecting menus of fried goodness and pizzas. Frozen drink machines swirl sweet daiquiris behind the free-standing bar. These confectionery drinks are over-priced, but adequately liquored, or so they tell our protagonist. She orders a glass of water and pizza.

As the food is served, they notice the true ambiance of the place. A trip to the women's bathroom displays two toilets, separated not by stalls but by a single partition. A friend asks the protagonist if this is, in fact, a converted men's room with toilets where urinals should be. They wind their way back from the bathroom through crowds of bleach-blonde hair and fake Coach purses.

A one-man band is playing Jimmy Buffet covers and bad country music. There are three, maybe four women dancing and hooting on the large dance floor in front of this troubadour. Occasionally, the young children of these women join them for a dance. They wear the kind of two-pieces where the bottom piece is a ruffled skirt, and dance with drinks in hand. At a table near the dance floor, a man is holding a tiny dog. The dog is wearing a life jacket.

After eating, the group of our interest orders a drink for the road and retreats to their boat. So much for stimulus: our heroine is inundated with bad cover music, dancing ladies, dogs in life jackets, and sunshine. They motor the boat over to a deserted cove, and spend the rest of the afternoon floating on fun noodles, boat anchored safely in quiet waters.


And in other news: I stole the following link from my friend Tom Drew. Read it and you'll understand why this "gay bomb" was too good to pass up.