Friday night saw me back at the scene of the Neil Young kegger. I'd walked six miles in the punishing humid heat earlier in the evening, so I was wobbly and thirsty. I drank myself stupid without embarrassing myself in any unique ways. I think I managed to convince several people that the beer spills on my pants were intentional fractals, not drunken mishaps. Neil arrived at three in the morning, and I was placed on strict quarantine from him to avoid an ugly confrontation. One of his bandmates gave me the evil eye all night long while I snickered about his black nail polish.

Sunday arrived smeared in cilantro and garlic. Across the light of an endless afternoon, my friends and I grilled about 20 pounds of shrimp, steak, burgers, chicken, fish, and potatoes. Twenty people strong brought beers and wines and boozes and carcasses. Ice cream sandwiches were mashed to faces. Sandals squeaked from spilled barbeque sauce. Beer was guzzled. Marijuana was smoked with a magnifying glass. I shed my clothing from the waist up and let my skin drink ultraviolet radiation. Melatonin rose. I'm peeling today. Summer is here. 11:50 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm