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2003-07-21 12:33 p.m.

I spent my sunny Saturday swimming in the river and lounging on its sandy shores, sipping lemonade mixed with vodka. The NO ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES sign posted on the path was clearly malfunctioning. Someone better call the city about that one.

But, let's get back to swimming. Now, there are so many great things to be said about swimming. And, I try to say them as much as possible—especially when I'm swimming. The second you put me in some water, I become this annoying looped voice, a crazy child that you can't get to stop saying "this is so fun!" and "I love swimming!" See, for most people swimming is simply the act of propelling one's self through water using arms and legs—preferably one's own. For me, swimming is more this thing where I splash around in water with the pure, wide–eyed joy of a retarded child opening a mountainous pile of Christmas presents in his front row seat at the Special Olympics X Games. We're talking about a serious joy and love for swimming here.

But, as much as swimming rocks my fucking universe to the point that I want to send it love letters or get the letters SWIMMING tattooed on my stomach in old English lettering, I must admit that the highlight of my Saturday may have been a conversation that I didn't even land a speaking role in. I overheard Lisa ask Trisha and Andie, "Have you ever puked on a guy's cock?"

I don't remember how or if Andie or Trisha replied. Considering what Lisa said next, it wouldn't have mattered anyway. See, she went on to explain that whenever she pukes on a guys cock she just swallows it again. God, the words sounded so perfect together—lined up into a spoken sentence like train cars, carrying cock vomit cargo through the air to my ears. The sentence had all the makings of History's Best Sentences, what with words like puke and cock and swallow all together in one place.

Half hypnotized by the moment, I almost forgot to be disappointed by the realization that her vomiting was on accident—an involuntary gag response.

I splashed around in the water some more, squinting at the sun, taking it all in, silently observing how excellent my life was. I couldn't have even imagined that life was about to get even better.

Lisa asked the other girls, "Have you ever shit on a guy's face while he was going down on you?" Now, right then I knew for sure that there was no limit to how great life could be. I sat half–submerged at the edge of a tiny waterfall, paying attention to how the water moved over my hands on either side of me. The moment was just so right. Although, just like with the vomit, I must admit was a bit let down when Lisa admitted that this too was unintentional and due to some food–borne microbial infection.

[I have an analogy that helps me to explain the difference between accident and on purpose, and it seems appropriate to include it here. Think about incontinent little children. When they urinate in their little pants while sitting in their desk at school, sure it's kinda funny. But, think about how much funnier it would be if they were doing it on purpose!]

But, whether the original act was on purpose or not, to hear my friends talk about these sorts of things really was music to my ears. Not like my favorite album by my favorite band rocking out kind of music, though. This melody feels to me more like really good elevator music—unobtrusive background sounds engineered to soothe and calm. This kind of music doesn't require active listening or much attention at all. It's engineered for passive ears. The body and mind attached to the ears can continue about their business—feeling at peace, all actions slightly lubricated by the sounds. Soothing. Just right. Imagine the babbling of a brook, only the occasional subtle sound of water whirlpooling around a stone or the chirping of a nearby bird would be replaced with a familiar voice cooing "puked on a guy's cock" or "shit on a guy's face while he was going down on you". If that's not beautiful, nothing is.

More Saturday highlights included playing truth or dare on the sandy shore of the serpentine river. There were the usual truth or dare antics—kissing, fingering orifices, probing questions about sex acts committed. I can't tell if the game took a turn for the better or for the worse, but all I know is that I got dared to masturbate with a handful of brie as lubricant. I sighed out loud. This was very silly, and I only agreed to do it because I had never done it before and it seemed like it might be something I would be Happy That I Did When I Was Younger.

Ah, brie. Read the label on brie and you will be amazed to find that its fat content—grasse, in French—is often over 60%. By fat they mean oil. Now, oils have very interesting and dynamic lubricating qualities. Or, I should say that the fact that they are dynamic at all is what makes them so interesting. By dynamic I mean changing, and we all know that the viscosity of oil changes dramatically with temperature.

So, at first the brie was quite solid, and it felt like I was mashing a handful of stale peanut butter—creamy, not chunky—up and down my not–entirely–erect–because–I–was–a–little–drunk penis. I looked down at the mess between my legs and sighed again. At that moment my world felt clumsy and futile and messy and smelled a lot like cheese. There were chunks of brie entrenched in my public hair and smashed under my nails. I could stand the cheese in the pubic hair, but not under the nails. I really hate having things under my nails. My giggling girl friends were very pleased. They were loving it.

As the heat transferred from my body to the cheese, the feel of the brie changed dramatically. It started to approach the texture of body–temperature cocoa butter sun lotion, a popular and very familiar sensation for any male who can remember their adolescence—that time before the knowledge that there were actually specialized lubricants that didn't leave your hands smelling like your sister or sting so much when you got them in your tender 12 year old urethra.

I couldn't continue for long, though. I was too busy laughing and trying to not get cheese on anything. It all turned out OK. I did my dare, and then it was my turn to ask someone else "truth or dare?". The game went on for a while and I don't remember how it ended, a sign of a perfect transition to Whatever Came Next. The hours rolled forward, the day slowly segueing to sunset and then closing with a warm, lazy–feeling evening where the air smells like trees and summer–dry fields.

What have I done to deserve such a beautiful life full of days like this Saturday? It makes me want to hug the world and send every living thing a thank–you card.

Thank you.