Tag Archives: Summer

The Summer Adam Sandler Filmed “That’s My Boy” on Cape Cod

Jim!  Jiiimmm!  Is that Adam Sandlah?

Yes, yelled the bald Eagle Scout,
who in my youth told me once not to lie.

A pugnacious copper-toned Shar-pei pushing a walker
inchwormed as fast as she could to her dock on the bay.

Is that really Adam Sandlah?

Yes, the bronze-beaked Eagle replied
without ruffling a single feather.
Adam, what's wrong with you?
Wave to Mrs. Boucher.
Make an old woman feel special - 
though I questioned who wanted to feel special.

Preening is not a sin on Cape Cod,
not in the summertime, 
so I waved and wondered.

How could anyone believe Adam Sandler would be
on my dad's treacherous Boston Whaler - 
a boat famous for its mysterious brown stains,
mildewed cushions, and inattentive outboard?

Adam . . . Adam . . . Adam,
come over to my house for dinner.
I'll make a brisket.

Being a New Englander himself,
Adam knew how to crack the lobster-shelled heart
of every crab-faced Masshole in each sandbar town.
He tipped 100% for everything.

And Cape Cod rewarded him the only way it knew -
with tilting towers of maple walnut ice cream teetering on tiny cones
and overflowing cardboard cups of tepid chowder infiltrated by 
chunky potatoes and chewy clams.

Osterville's elders, a large, comfortable and opinionated lot,
adored him more than their own sons because they heard he was polite - 
that he loved and respected his mother.

All the sunburnt seniors had stories of how Adam had sought them out;
how he had gone away enlightened and grateful.

Dropping the name of someone you've never met
is a victimless crime on Cape Cod in the summertime -
similar to prominently placing a movie star's name
in the title of your poem in the orphaned
hope that now someone may read it.

By the way, Adam,
the brisket was delicious.
You would have loved it.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

The Bluefish

You and I were barely burned by the sun
wearing worn out bathing suits -
yours snugly hinting at the lures to come.

Ecstatic flies swarmed the picnic table
where the sawed-off head blankly
watched as her body sizzled on the grill
dressed in a green coat of lemon juice and dill.

And you stood staring into her phlegm-colored eye
as if the fish had a secret she wanted to confide;
as if she beckoned you to jump 
on the grill and sizzle at her side
because you, too, would swim against the tide
only to have men feast upon your glistening body
while you watched helpless and horrified.

A future filled with so many sharks
must have come as a nasty surprise
because you grabbed a silver knife . . . 
those ravenous men should have seen that phlegm fly.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief