This wasn’t just any concert…it was the 50th Anniversary Tour. And what better way to see the Beach Boys than at a beach -- Jones Beach! Hearing "California Girls" with the ocean breeze blowing my sun-kissed locks was like catching a wave and sitting on top of the world.
And if ocean breezes, tiki drinks and my high school anthem, "Kokomo," weren’t enough, the group was introduced (and then later joined) by my teen idol, John Stamos.
When the still ever-so-handsome guy appeared on stage, I started hitting John’s leg and screamed, “Oh my God, that’s Blackie Parrish!” Could this night get any better?
Well…at one point, I wished I could get in my little deuce coupe and drive away.
There was the guy sitting next to me tapping his chair incessantly. And the kid in front of me buried in a game of Connect Four on his father's iTouch. While I wanted to scream help me, Rhonda, I realized that while they were distracting, it was not tragic.
There was a problem with the show. And it wasn't the Beach Boys.
It was the beach balls.
They were everywhere.
At first the stupid things just kept getting in my sightline. Then the crowd would erupt in screams as it came near us as if John Stamos himself were batting the ball.
But the real reason I hated the damn things is because the brainiacs hitting the balls kept knocking them into the water. They are floating in the Atlantic now, just waiting for some poor whale or dolphin to think it's food.
I found myself getting more and more annoyed as the evening went on... especially when one pegged me in the head.
I wish the Beach Boys could get rid of the beach balls.
I know some would say that if I'm not giving off good vibrations, that it'd be fun fun fun 'til the greenie took the plastic away.
But God only knows I'd like to send the beach balls on a surfin’ safari so there’s no alley oop into the surfer moon.