I try to immerse myself in the beachy milieu, I really do. Well, not enough to remove my long pants and Members Only jacket, or to wear sunglasses, which I consider twin discs of hostility--Cool Hand Luke, hello?--or to remove my shoes and socks, which would run the risk of promoting stampedance among the crowds of water buffalo within eyeshot of the unleashed multi-colored horn-like growths protruding from the ends of my toes, which a podiatrist with decades of experience might recognize as toenails, and by the way, that felicitous "multi-colored" descriptor comes from my pal Wayne, who, residing in the same age bracket, knows whereof he speaks. And it's true, I wisely refrain from shuffling out onto the burning sands and collapsing on the hardpan, roasting in my own juices, slowly lapsing into a coma, until I'm aroused by an overzealous nearsighted whale rescue volunteer. Think about it: if it weren't for the presence of the toxic brew of sodium somethingtrate lapping against the shore, teeming with nightmarish creatures whose only goal in life is to sting you and die, or perhaps lay their eggs in you and die, then we'd be stranded in a desert, and crying piteously for rescue, iinstead of basting ourselves with noxious ointments and listening to the worst music in recorded history. So, as I believe I've adequately demonstrated, I try, I really try, but I remain unpersuaded.