Rock and/or roll.

So, this weekend we successfully celebrated the 227th birthday of this great land by loading up the band van and hitting the beach. Now, there's a reason bands are pale, and folks that reason is that the sun hates rock and roll. In fact, it has been scientifically proven that the sun casts hotter and more damaging rays on rockers than the general population, thus causing us to become the albino-like creatures of the night that we are.

And so, even though I know it's a cheap joke that has probably worn out its welcome, I present to you the final in my trilogy of recent conversations between my brain and body, occuring on Friday, July the 4th.

Me: OK body, I'm looking out for you. We're going hard core with the sunblock. I believe you know Mr. Coppertone Ultra-Sweatproof 15?

Body: Whoah! I know his brother, Mr. Ultra-Sweatproof Active Sport Motherf*&kin' 30! Where's he at?

Me: Oh body, 15'll do the trick. He's good people.

Body: First of all, he's sunblock, not people, you dick. Second, every time I listen to you I end up hurt. Get me some 30.

Me: Sorry this is it.

Body: Attica! Attica!

Me: Shut up! Put it on and I'll give you some beer.

Body: OK

Needless to say, I got burned to a crisp and body is definitively not speaking to me, except when he gets his beer, in which case he assaults me with a slurred string of pimp lingo and profanity.

People, you just can't win...