Some days at BC are heaven--you meet the coolest people with the best dogs, share a beer, and relax. But sometimes you see things that make you doubt the inherent goodness of humanity. I sensed trouble when what appeared to be a pregnant man, two googley kids, and a miserable-looking woman stumbled up the creek bed. He had some of the worst tattoos I'd ever seen: baby footprints (presumably his own offspring, which if you think about it metaphorically is just said) on his chest, just off matching shamrocks on his "pecs." A paint splatter surrounded by the words "Got Balls?" on one shoulder, a Notre Dame leprechaun on the other. His back was covered with a horrible mess of green, orange, and black--nothing discernable. Now I'm not going to judge a person for getting bad ink...much. However, he was dragging a sweet and terrified puppy through the water--he later pushed the poor thing off the rock, its claws extended like a Halloween cat and panic in its eyes. His lumpy wife (who most likely wore baseball caps with pony-tails through the back and glasses with snazzy white sneakers to look "hot" in her pre-child years) carried a bag in one hand and held her cigarette aloft with the other as she yelled profanities to her hapless boys. Later when Dana and I jumped in again I commented on the shame of litterers, saying we always carried out twice as much trash as we came with, and she agreed wholeheartedly as she flicked her butt into the water. I growled, wanting to steal the poor puppy and give the children to Oprah.
Nevertheless, the sky was big and blue and full of sun, and we exulted in it. Bella drank some beer and we read Redbook, learning the secrets of happily married women, recipes, and 21 spicy sex moves we already knew. The creek banks began filling up, looking like shantytowns in some spots with large families with grills and chairs setting up shop. An older guy, probably early 40's but the kind that probably lies and says 30's, began jumping in next to us again and again, doing backflips and climbing up higher to show off, egging his 6 year old to do the same. I gasped when the back of his head skimmed the rock wall, and giggled inwardly later when he gulped a mouthful of pee/dog water.
By two, the place was packed, and my drinking was constantly interrupted by having to give two persistent and incompetent middle-school girls a hand in climbing back up the wall. We decided to split, slightly incredulous at what shitheads some people are but still in good spirits and happy the day was still young--only 2pm.
Keeping with the day's theme of recreation and leisure, PBS had on a documentary called Great Old American Parks. Here. Watch.
