You people are lucky I'm no longer single. If I were still single, I would easily take the crown for 2006 MEMORIAL DAY HORROR STORY. One drunken night in Old Orchard Beach would surely result in the right amount of madness to win me the prize. Back in the day, a night in Old Orchard would typically result in a summons for urinating in public, a dramatic fall from the stage at Surf Six, losing my shorts in an elaborate dive into the frigid ocean ("I was in the pool!"), making extravagant advances at a lovely girl in the Brunswick who later turned out to be Louis, a painter from Scarborough, or staggering back to the wrong motel room. And all this before noon.
I love Old Orchard. Its loud, its obnoxious, its dirty, its obscene. Forget the Flying Bobs and the Pirate Ship, Old Orchard is a playground for those sinful desires a person leaves behind with the office and the neatly trimmed lawn. Old Orchard is where you go when you want to try out that new banana hammock once and for all.
But the potential for holiday weekend calamity is always great no matter where you end up. If you're a mother or a father, you could devise a vacation that goes horribly wrong and your children could be scarred. If you're a backyard barbecue type, there's always the chance you could have too many Strohs and end up telling off your brother-in-law once in for all before setting your wife's favorite willow on fire. If you're single, well… For a single person, long weekends are hunting season. With that kind of libido and desperation, some form of embarrassment is likely to ensue.
Chances are good that the only thing you'll have to complain about come Tuesday is getting stuck in traffic or running out of propane for the grill. Whatever. We'll take it. Somebody's got to win this damn award. And so far, I have nothing to report. My shorts are still on.