"What's the fucking deal with [the beach]? It's where dirt meets water. All right. Chill out. That's it. End of fascination. I got a bathtub and an imagination; I'm staying indoors this summer, all right? That way I can listen to music I like. I don't know, maybe I'm jealous. Everyone at the beach is perfect: tan, white teeth. I got white skin, tan teeth, y'know, not my environment." —from comedian Bill Hicks' "Summertime"

When I first heard Bill Hicks do "Summertime," a bit from a brilliantly combative 1991 live show documented on Flying Saucer Tour Vol. 1, my guffaws probably woke up the neighbors. I brought the CD back to my apartment late one night a couple years ago, and, with a wine bottle by my side, listened to the album in its entirety — twice. I was living eight miles from the beach at the time, and in "Summertime," Hicks perfectly articulated my thoughts. To this day, whenever someone gushes about spending a summer afternoon on one of our sandy shores, I drop the line: "What's the fucking deal with [the beach]? It's where dirt meets water."

A winter day on the shore isn't bad, I guess. But the only other people there seem to be senior citizens shuffling along in jogging outfits and, worse, Eastern Europeans in their weird-ass swimsuits. Y'know, rail-thin middle-aged women in orange one-pieces with alabaster white skin (not that mine is any better, but still) and bushy black pits, accompanied by some bald Aryan dude wearing a yellow pair of nuthuggers.

Now, I have had my mind altered at the beach. That can be a beautiful thing.

I'm 19, and my girlfriend and I get dosed at Livestock. She wigs out, and we keep driving from Zephyrhills until we run out of road, which happens to be on Treasure Island. It's around 4 a.m. and we check into a hotel room. Spend the remaining hours of darkness on the water, which appears to be dancing, and gaze at the stars, which seem to be dangling from long, shimmering strings, swung back and forth by the great puppet master in the sky.

Yeah, that was a fascinating few hours at the beach, but it had little to do with the sand between our toes.

In high school, my friend and I would spend spring break at places like Daytona, Panama or Clearwater Beach, the destination for our senior-year blowout. But even back then, I had no use for soaking up the sun, even in an environment rife with young, near-naked nubiles who were mostly within the legal striking-limit for me at 17.

No, I spent my days sleeping. We'd pack four or nine people into each hotel room, and the afternoon was the only time you could get a little uninterrupted shut-eye. I'd rise, relatively well-rested, around sunset, right when everyone's buzz started kicking in, and party by any and all means necessary until sunrise. Good times. Nothing like doing a bit of night swimming with four girls from Michigan, who are topless, giggling, splashing each other and blind drunk from a handle of tequila.

For me, lying for hours at the beach sounds about as fun as being placed on a metal tray, shoved into an oven and baked to crispy Tater Tot-ness. I suppose if I had an air-conditioned cabana equipped with a well-stocked mini-fridge, the experience would be tolerable. But the older I get, the less I enjoy the people who frequent the beach. As much as I like gawking at a group of perky coeds, it's not worth being within earshot of their gym-addicted boyfriends.

I am fond of beach bars, though — especially the ones with ample shade and big, powerful ceiling fans. But I don't think spending a few afternoons per year holed up in a tiki hut, sipping mojitos and smoking cigarettes qualifies me as a beach enthusiast.

Like Hicks says, "I got a bathtub and an imagination; I'm staying indoors this summer, all right?"

This article appears in May 7-13, 2008.