Twistin' by the pool

I might be grey bearded, old school, balding and better than you but I haven’t abandoned the modern world altogether. There are a few things/devices/cons that I don’t mind in this modern, technological, I spy, its gotta be digital and bigger and better and 36 months interest free, world - like the internet for a start – it sure makes looking at porn a hell of a lot easier and I can always check boxing results from damn near anywhere in the world as well as keeping up with TNA rasslin’ and other shit like that. And I got an mp3 player and I’ve got limewire (though I had some help from my 11 ½ year old daughter beezlebubby to get that damn thing workin’) so now can I download music off the wires… it’s just that I’m searching for Molly Hatchet, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Hank Jr., Joe Walsh (pre Eagles softcock era) cos I’m putting together files of pure redneck country southern boy blues for the Sunday arvo lounging at the pool sessions while beezlebubby and her friends frolic in the over chlorinated manmade waterhole where the boys bomb and dive, ducking each other’s heads and generally being loud and stooped trying to get the girls to notice them while the girls play cool and pretend not to notice but secretly giggle and nod and smile to themselves at the attention.

And I’ve got ZZ Top and Trace Adkins buzzing out of those tiny tinny speakers in my ears while I keep one eye on the beezlebubby and the posin’ boys ready to step up if need be to scare the little jack-offs away and the other on the mamas, still crammin’ themselves into the two piece bikini though they mighta gained a little more weight over the winter since they bought that little green number at last year’s post xmas sale. Not that I mind cos I’m at an age where the waif like, smack whore, bleach blonde and ribs look does nothing for me anymore anyway – gimme a woman with just a little to hold onto, a woman who fills out the top shelf, spilling some flesh o’er the edges of the (straining) elastic, someone who’s maybe lived a little, knows what it’s like to wake up swearing never to do tequila shots again before cracking a beer cos it’s the only thing that’s gonna take the edge of the morning. A full bodied, life lived type o’ woman in last year’s colours but who’s still got the know how, despite the hangover and the kids nagging to get going to the pool as soon as the sun is up, to pack some sandwiches, chips, watermelon and two bottles of softdrink into the jim beam esky that was a give away when you bought two 700ml for 52 bucks from some beer wine and spirits barn in the burbs and the bourbon wasn’t even for her last boyfriend, the one who fathered the little redhead boy who’s running around on the grass right now, no way, that jim beam was hers for Friday night when the girls get together while the boys are at the club picking Sunday’s team or when he’s on arvo shift at the car factory, and when the men folk get home the women folk are buzzing on spirits and coke and laughing lewdly, watching Friday night footy and that young gun full forward in his tight shorts or already asleep, snoring blissfully and that little smile on her face ain’t for you, oh no, that’s for the young gun full forward, who, in her dreams, is peeling off those tiny shorts.

And I watch those women from behind my $10 mirror shades cos I refuse to spend more than a blue note on something I know I’m gonna lose sooner rather than later, and they seem so relaxed, so ready for whatever comes there way, whatever gets thrown at them and I wish I could relax like that, just take what comes, step over the bad, soak up the good and truly lounge like I want to. Cos I’m still too fucking uptight despite the mp3 full o’ loungin’ country redneckin’ music and the ability to waste a full day at the pool (hell a whole week) without barely moving except when my foot or my arse gets numb from sitting in one spot too long. It would be something to pass on to beezlebubby who has all the technological know how already at eleven and a half but still can’t peel an apple properly and is only just working out how to make me a decent coffee. She needs some lesson in redneck lounging, hell her whole generation does! So me eyeing these women, watching them as they pour the drinks, one bottle sugar free, colour free for the kid the doctors have decided is a.d.d. or a.d.h.d. or some other bunch o’ initials but who really is just full o’ beans and bored by the rules… watching as she plunges into the pool, or lays in the sun, all that extra flesh glistening with sunscreen and water, the scraps of cloth straining in defiance of her winter bourbon and cokes and lunches with the girls – all that is just research, is just me studying the true loungers, just me learning to really let go and relax so I can pass those lessons onto beezlebubby, help her to chill a little and to roll with it. Of course, that vague idea I have of that internet site with the MILF’s that’d probably do it for the 2 for 52 bucks deal and cooler or maybe even the commemorative tin shaped like a car, is still fermenting in the back of my head too but, hell I still cant’ work out how to download music properly let alone set something like that up so I can’t see that getting off the ground. Anyway sounds too much like work and I ain’t goin’ there again. No, this is research pure and simple so we can all learn to lounge it redneck style and do it properly. And some song just came up on the player that I sure as shit didn’t download – who the fuck are fallout boy anyway?! BEEZLEBUBBY!!!

Damn I gotta learn to chill...