Tuesday, September 7, 2010
We're on the Road to Nowhere
It is that time of year again, when you notice the sun going down a little sooner, the mornings a little more chilly. We make the annual Labor Day trip to Bayville to officially close out the summer. We consume enough crustaceans, meats, pork and beer to make Anthony Bourdain blush. With culinary experience from the Caribbean, France and the firehouse, we feast on smelly cheese, cured meats and whatever we can create from last night's pasta. We play music, try to remember the words to the songs we always seem to forget, tell the same stories and wish that time didn't fly so damn fast.
This is always a rite of passage to the fall. We begin our summers at the same location, when the water is too cold for non-polar bear swimmers, the sun too harsh for the spring virgin skin and the pants a little too tight from the hearty winter solstice meals. No matter what time of year (and this includes Christmas) we always have music on the beach.
Music and Bayville kind of go together. It seems everyone either plays it, sings it or enjoys it. If the music isn't on the iTunes, it's being played live while we all sing along. Yes, a sing along. Sometimes we don't even know the words, but we all sit together on the deck and laugh (and drink) and sing (and drink) and drink (and drink) and eat and tell Jasper the dog to stop barking.
A few songs and artists have become the staple: Ripple, some Cat Stevens, Johnny Cash and for some reason, the Talking Heads We're on the Road to Nowhere. Whether it is just fun to sing WOO and HEY at the freaking top of your lungs while the neighbors watch, I don't know, but it's cathartic and kind of like primal scream therapy. It's also enjoyable to watch people walk down the beach and look us with amusement. Music, friends, laughs - it doesn't get any better than that.