Of Models and Men

With the cruel summer readying itself with each passing day, routines are quickly coming together as vacation days are marked on the calendar and (again, for the Caucasoids in the audience) colorless limbs are thrust into the public eye. With our seats in the upright position and tray tables safely secure in the seat in front of us we relish a well thought-out plan like a security blanket. Because without order there is chaos, and with chaos there are no two-for-one drink specials or free t-shirt giveaways. Like so many others though, I have been slow to get a sense of how my summer will pan out, though in jumping to hasty conclusions (see my previous entry) I have prepared myself for the worst. With that being said, I could never have imagined what this past weekend was to bestow upon my troubled brow, and God only knows if it shall become routine.

In what has to be the biggest shock in recent recorded history, the basketball dynasty of which I poured the foundation and fostered to full maturation, is now a shell of its former self. Aided by my athletic skills that peaked in 8 th grade and subsequently degraded since, my home court at 1 Tufts (not to be confused with 1 Tuff, my digital home) has been desecrated by the likes of vagrants and physically challenged philistines previously relegated to life’s loser bracket. With a constantly rotating cornucopia of teammates and opponents, CmcD is mired in the worst roundball slump of his once-favorably-remembered career. Sure, I’m out of shape, my vaunted first step is now but a first toe wiggle, and my sneakers aren’t nearly as flashy as they once were (note: I once launched an aerial attack on someone who insulted the appearance of my beloved Nike Air Foamposites), but can’t a cracker get a break? Frustration cannot even begin to describe this feeling of absolute destitution. But alas, I would go (and have gone) on and on about my inabilities and inefficiencies if it weren’t for a spectacular display that tore me away from yet another defeat on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. And what better topic to pontificate on than a horde of bikini models on a desolate beach?

Unfortunately, the grounds for this finding was not the photo shoot for the 2005 1 Tuff Place Swimsuit Calendar (though we’re always accepting headshots for said publication), but some sort of Amstel Light Bikini-ed Babe Blowout. Myself and a few testosterone-fueled associates of mine promptly ceased all basketball activities when the call came in that a number of these nubile swimsuit models were down at the local watering hole. We disregarded all elements of XY chromosome refinement and chivalry, instantly reverting back to our primal Id-driven selves. Freud would have said we had detached relationships with our mothers. I would say we’re horndogs.

A cross between giggly school girls and dogs in heat, we sped down to Centerport Beach (more or less a sandy reserve on a dirty harbor) with dreams of insipid Coors Light commercials pervading our every thought (only, this being an import, the product placements were a little classier…the beer drinker’s light beer and all). Our fiery libidos ready to detonate within our loins, we arrived upon the beach with a mixed fanfare. Before our eyes were the subjects of our throbbing fantasies; easily fifteen ripe women clad in what may be termed “exotic swimwear,” standing before us as an oily SPF enclave. After painstakingly studying their “personalities,” I emerged from my ogle-fest to come to a sad realization. Apparently, we were not the only ones in town equipped with Doppler 3000 GPS-tracking codpieces, as throughout the parking lot overlooking the beach stood a gaggle of meatheads, johns, and general would-be felons.

As a Long Islander, this overabundance of persistent man meat rarely comes as a shock to me, but under these circumstances I was witnessing atypical behavior. There seemed to be something restraining these otherwise confident braggarts as they watched the women oil each other up from a distance. Sipping cans of beer, undoubtedly cursing up a storm, and showing off their abundantly tattooed torsos these were the types of guys that accost you in a bar for looking at them the wrong way. These were exhibits A through M for the government’s case for State-mandated male castration. With the level of posturing and feigning present, one would expect them to callously saunter up to one of the aforementioned beauties and somehow get in their pants. Perhaps it’s the old “badboy” credo, who knows, but these hardened mimbos continually have a hot number on their arms. Sure, you can’t carry a conversation with their ladies (nor with the meats themselves), their looks are fleeting, and their relationship will ultimately end in a flurry of restraining orders and holes in walls, but there’s always something to be said about a nice rack.

Pardon the digressions, but as I stepped out of my friend’s car I soon felt overcome by the same inhibitions that restrained my fellow XYs. It was as if to our Clark Kents the bikini models held two large heaps of Kryptonite on their chests with thin patches of neon pink, yellow, and blue lycra. Devoid of our superhuman libidinal powers, we could only stand there gawking as the women went about their business. Perhaps this is the epitome of our fast food, ADD, instant gratification culture, but there remains nothing more crippling in the Western world than a horde of beautiful women.