God bless America
I’ve never updated my facebook status before. I thought it was a dumb feature but I would only use it for that one occassion that I want to advertise to everyone that I am currently participating in. That moment came to me when I was packing up to go to Marsh Vegas (Marshfield, Ma) on the morning of the 3rd. “Chris Robblee is marsh vegas’d” is what I changed it to.
If you’ve never been to the beach at Vegas you really have no idea how crazy it gets on a normal day, and then on July 3rd it gets even crazier. We were all “Terry Schiavo’d” at the end of the day as Macca likes to say. Somewhere between the bud lights and the grain alcohol soaked cherries…we got wasted.
July 3, 2007
Not much to say about what happened on the beach during the day, sun and fun…drinking, playing and a little swimming but thats about it. The night time is when the magic happens. Speaking of which, Vegas days are broken into only two parts: day and night…there are no watches or cell phones allowed to tell the time. Right around late day/early night everyone heads down to the beach with boxes upon boxes of fireworks. Last year I got hit right below the eye with one, I was miserable for the rest of the night, but the fireworks were still pretty shweet. This year they were even better…cuz I didn’t get hit in the goddamn face.
Vegas pre-fireworks
Then after the fireworks we were all loosey goosey and the ideas were a-flowin’. Sly decided to call everyone a bitch for not wanting to sneak into a party, then he proceeded to sneak in by himself, meet steve carrell and shake his hand, and then leave the house with a full bottle of vanilla smirnoff. With that done, we stashed the vodka in our cooler and headed back to the party. We were dancing with 40+ year olds and chattin them all up as if we belonged there. The biggest difference between us and the people at the party was not just age. It was the fact that they were all wearing sneakers/shoes/sandals and every single one of us was fresh off the beach with sandy bare feet.
We tracked sand all over the house, Sly and I found the upstairs bathroom and talked to some woman for like a half hour, turns out her husband was the DJ at the party and her son was a freak who hated her…got the whole life story. Oh yeah and me and sly acted as brothers for the night, I don’t know why it just happened during drunk lies in our convos and we went with it.
After making ourselves some pretty stiff drinks from their fully stocked bar (minus the vanilla vodka) we headed into the living room. Repete tells me that some lady was trying to talk to me the whole time I was making my drink, but I was way too concentrated on the pour to even notice. In the living room there was this guy who looked like David Crosby…come to think of it it coulda been him. He was rockin out to some Jack Johnson with his geetar and singin his face off. By the end of like three songs all the kids in the party were gathered around this guy singing “Love the one your with” with him. Some stuffy old broad in a dumb red dress came in and told us all to take the party outside, interrupting this guys guitar solo mind you, he looked back at her for half a second and continued singing completely ignoring what she said.
After she killed our good time with the guitar-man we went out on the deck and danced to the DJ with the freak son’s music. We all stood out like sore thumbs, but not as bad as the random kid who showed up naked with just a towel. After about 20 minutes of dancing we got kicked out of the party completely.
We went back to TRMD’s house and finished off what booze we had. Then we walked down the seawall to Macca’s crib where we passed out for the night. Woke up in the AM and started drinkin among other things, again at about 11. All that mixed with that picture of Jessica Simpson are just a few reasons why I love America.
Leave comments about your 4th stories or why you love america.
Proud to be an American.
Gnrl. Robb(ert E.)lee
