SPRRRAAAANNGG BRRREEEEAAAAAKK!

About nine, ten years ago, I was having a bit of a breakdown about my career and what I was doing with my life in New York. Real quarter-life crisis shit. So I went to a therapist for a free consultation—couldn’t afford anything regular.

In the hourlong session, she was basically like, if all bets were off and money weren’t a thing or you or others didn’t have any expectations for yourself, what would you be doing? My knee-jerk answer: Probably tending bar at some beach shack somewhere on the Gulf.

My ideal state of being was Tom Cruise in Cocktail. I wanted life to be the second verse of a Jimmy Buffett song, just before things go off the rails.

Maybe I’d just really needed a vacation. Or maybe I am most at peace in a spring break state of mind.

It is in this endless March where I find myself, again, dreaming of beaches. Truly. I’ve been having dreams of beaches for weeks now. It’s fucked up! So, since V and I didn’t plan any getaway this winter, much to our chagrin, join me instead on this mental spring break journey to my own private Florida—which is essentially the 100 yard radius of my grandparents’ old condo in Marco Island.

But first….

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-RIP Barrac…. You know what, I can’t this week. After writing that intro, my brain can’t get past the idea of a beach chair, a coconut La Croix with a slice of lime and a healthy splash of rum, and getting about 150 pages into a Dennis Lehane mystery. And this track:

Fuck it.

-OUT: March IN: June and July

Sometimes being a Nice Boy™ means not seeing the fruits of your effort come to bear. Instead, you must rest in the smug satisfaction of just having done the Nice Boy™ thing alone.

Even if I’m a paying customer of a hotel and someone is being paid to clean up after me, I still want to be thought of as a good guest. So, yes, I’m collecting all my trash in the bin instead of leaving it strewn about the room. The towels will be thoughtfully piled in the tub. Unused soaps will stay lined up in the corner.

In the intervening days of the stay, the bathing suit will be hung in one corner of the bathroom. Toiletries will be composed on the vanity. I want the housekeeper to come into the room and be like, “Wow, a pleasant person is staying here,” and not, “Who in the hell lives like this?”1

I’d, ahem, uh, recommend you do the same. If only for the personal sense of accomplishment.

The way I float out of a hotel room or AirBnB buoyed by the notion that I’ve made things “easier” for the clean-up crew by just putting the used towels in the bathtub, you’d think I’d make it to the airport without my feet touching the ground. It’s the Nice Boy™ way to start the return trip.

Last year, V and I did a Spppprraaannnngg Brreeeeak trip to Vieques, Puerto Rico. Stayed at a cute, cottagey AirBnB behind the host’s main house. I did my requisite tidying before taking off. I even went so far as to sweep the sand off the porch.

Our host messaged us before we even got on the flight back to San Juan, something like “Wow, you left the place immaculate! Come back any time!” I think that little prop plane flew us back to the city on the fumes of my self-satisfaction alone.

One of the beautiful things about SPPPPPRRRAAANNNGG BRRRRREEAAKK is how often it coincides with the NCAA basketball tourney. And one of the beautiful things about the NCAA basketball tourney is the way that it platforms chicken wings.

I have a sense memory of spring breaks down in Marco Island that consists of hot sun and cold beer, an overblown TV speaker playing basketball over lapping waves and a blender, and salty air wafting with buffalo sauce. It is a memory of buzzed-up, sunscreen-slick peace, cut through with the astringency of buffalo.

- - -

“Okay, but what is buffalo?”

It was V’s first question when presented with a buffalo chicken dip at my brother’s house once.

“It’s buffalo,” I answered.

It was one of those cultural exchanges when someone from outside your midwestern bubble calls into question your entire being because of sheer curiosity/confusion. I don’t know why we call it pop and I don’t really know what makes buffalo buffalo. It’s just the way it’s always been, damnit. WHO AM I!?

Okay, but what’s in it? He asked. Buffalo.

And cream cheese. And ranch. And maybe sour cream?

I went on an existential journey. I’d taken for granted my entire midwestern-college life that buffalo sauce is flavored like buffalo sauce. I never took the step further to break it down.

Well, it’s day-glo orange. It can be spicy and it opens up my nasal passages. So, therefore it’s buffalo.

…Am I to go further?

Uh, it’s vinegary. Maybe? And I do know it’s pepper based in some way, because there’s a pepper on the Frank’s Red Hot bottle. But what kind? I do not know. Cayenne?

See you get trapped in a loop. It’s like asking what fire is. It’s just, like, energy sitting next to you? I don’t know. It’s fire.

For all it’s mystery and permutations, I’ve come to think about buffalo and how it is presented on a matrix. From True Buffalo flavor, spiced distinctly of Frank’s Red Hot, to Bullshit Buffalo Flavor, wherein someone just through some random fucking hot sauce on something. And from wet, like soggy sauce-laden wings, to dry, like spicy dust. You’ll find that matrix, and some shout outs to Marco Island’s seminal wings, below.

Buffalo is buffalo. And I like it, okay? Primarily in its originally intended form as a sauce on a wing.

Sometimes, you have to let that be enough.

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A GOOD MEN’S BATHING SUIT

And you can’t tell me otherwise.

Try all you want. Spend hundreds of dollars. Spend thirty. Wear a Speedo. Wear board shorts. Lined. Unlined.

You will never put on a bathing suit and have a moment of “Oh, that’s a good looking bathing suit.”

Primarily, yes, because you’re being confronted with the rest of your body and no fabric is gonna fix that. But regardless, swim trunks are articles that seem to exist as novelty (See: American Flag trunks) first and then any function or fit follows.

A couple years ago, ahead of Sppprrrannngg Brrrrreeaaaak trip, I used my work discount and called in about nine different bathing suits from varying designers and levels of “luxury.” I got a classic Vilebrequin in. A short-inseamed Hugo Boss trunk. A punchy, printed boardshort from MC2 Saint Barth. And a snap front trunk from a brand called Thorsun.

Aside from the conundrum of having to try a bathing suit on with underwear on—Because, like, what was I gonna do? Get my junk up all in those things and return them? Also, how I could I be certain of the fact that some other individual hadn’t already done exactly that?—looking at all these suits in my bedroom mirror in mid-March, trying to imagine myself on a beach in them just reinforced the indignity of prints and patterns and swishy nylon.

My solution: just get a pair of trunks in a dark solid color and try not to think about it. That’s what the Thorsun pair turned out to be and I’ve stuck with those.

That’s all for this edition folks. I leave you with this view: