I can't say that I really understand the appeal of hanging out at the beach. It doesn't matter which one really, they all look the same to me — sand, surf and sun. Of course it doesn't help that for me these conditions are not ideal, I can catch skin cancer on a beach in under ten minutes.

The beach, the real thing I mean, is nothing like it's pictured in the media. It would be one thing if everyone was glistening golden brown in the sun while frolicking on white sands involved with games and other diversions.

Instead the beach is filled with people of every size imaginable. The only thing that doesn't come in varying sizes are the swim suits they wear. The results are sometimes funny but more often disturbing. Like the older, portly gentleman who parked his umbrella right in front of ours this afternoon. Once his chair was unfolded he started to dress down for the beach.

For most guys this means surfer shorts which run past your knee and are decorated with some type of floral line art, but this guy evidently preferred the snug fit of something that looked like a cross between a Speedo and a back brace. A trucker cap and gold chain necklace that ended with a cross completed his look. He was, if you don't mind me saying so, a sexy beast.

I also appreciated it when, once dressed down into his Baywatch dungarees, he began an intense search for testicular cancer. Not satisfied with the initial search results, he repeated the exam four more times — the intensity increasing with each plunge into the stretchy blue lycra. This was all followed by snorting his nose and spitting twice on the sand. Where is David Hasselhoff when you need him?

It's like my friend Mitch used to tell me, in Southern California we live like kings.