On the right day, in the right, pitiful mood, I will tear up at those PURE MICHIGAN commericals. You know, the ones narrated by Tim Allen?

They make me so damn nostalgic for Michigan summers. Especially Grand Haven.

Even though Bloomington oozes midwestern charm, cultural variety, and a kind of hedonism only a college town can provide, IT LACKS A FUCKING BEACH, and I will always, always yearn for a beach. Always.

What I miss is this:
Weekdays off, packing up my little car, it’s interior still peppered with sand from my last beach visit. Driving down I-96 with the windows down, radio up, belting out choruses with my friends — the choir-queers, the band-fags — raising their voices in harmony. The first squish of hot, white sand meeting your toes, which have been covered up for far too long. Happily roasting under the sun until it becomes so unbearably hot that you must quickly scamper down the scorching sandy beach to the water’s edge. Coming home pinker..freckled..completely exhausted from a job well done, of doing absolutely nothing.