Write Anything!

Someone once told me the best way to be a writer is to sit down and write. While I don't aspire to be a WRITER, I like being a writer here when the mood is right. Problem is, the mood hasn't be very right the last few months, so sitting down to write isn't working very well. While I try to avoid the "here's what I did today" style of blogging (my life is not very exciting) that's what you're going to get today because, hey, a guy needs to write, sometimes. Right? Or is that write?

So it was a long, strange trip of a weekend - much of it was spent in the local beach community of Grand Bend. Billing itself as "Ontario's West Coast", it's a place to be when you're young, uninhibited, and don't mind sand getting into awkward places. Obviously, I don't fit the demographic even if I'm somewhat tolerant of sand in my Speedo.

It's a subversive tradition in my town for high-school seniors to celebrate their prom by taking over Grand Bend for a weekend. Like lemmings to the sea, these under-agers make their way towards Lake Huron in the wee hours of the morning after tuxes and gowns are traded for beachwear. While parents mostly indulge this tradition, even renting cottages and bus transportation, the local constabulary is kept on their toes as these Citizens of Tomorrow learn that blackouts and sleeping on the beach are not as fun as the Hangover-American Pie-Superbad movies seem to hint.

So there I was, with three other middle-aged friends, trying my damnedest not to look creepy amongst the 17 and 18 year olds who had overrun the town for a weekend of post-prom celebrations. I was only there to help kill time. Two of my friends had kids spending the weekend attempting (and failing at) debauchery, so their excuse was some light chaperoning. Somehow this translated into my own presence and a weekend spent drinking and golfing in this resort town (neither being something at which I particularly excel). Outside of my alcohol bloat and wandering through the woods looking for golf balls, my only actual chaperone duties involved driving a few sleepy teens back into town when Sunday decided that a good thunderstorm was the best solution to scrape the town clean of vomit-scented promiscuity.

So you would think the highlight of my weekend was the chance to take a little holiday and do all the unhealthy things I never get to do. You might believe that the chance to actually touch local celebrity, Princess Coco, would be a most memorable moment. You might even wonder whether spending two nights at a cheap motor inn with other other middle-aged guys might produce some stories worthy of re-telling.

But I'm going to be honest: the highlight of the weekend was none of those things. The highlight would wait for the comfort of my family room on Sunday night - beginning with a phone call for help and ending in the darkness of a farmer's woodlot. But I think that's some writing that will wait until another day...