Suddenly, there's nothing that I want to do more than to call up all of my old friends, buy a bunch of bags of chips, grab a ton of salsa, haul home a pile of beers and Cokes, order something like 20 pizzas for delivery and set up a slip and slide in the backyard. The sprinklers will be out and we'll just spend the entire day doing nothing but drinking, eating and telling crude jokes about balls and/or depantsing people. It's most likely the Terry Malts making me want to do such things that I haven't done in a very long time. They make me want to pretend to hit on pretty girls, just to see if they'll respond positively or shoot the advances out of the air like escaping ducks. They make you think that anything's possible if it involves questionable behavior. They make you want to ride dirt bikes and roller coasters. They make you want to get your first cast from either crashing that dirt bike or jumping out of a moving roller coaster, as difficult as the latter could be. It would be fun to try. They make you want to act as if you're younger than you actually are. They beg you to throw all caution to the wind because it really doesn't help you achieve anything. This is just diving into waters that are colder than ice - waters that will turn your hide into dimply goose skin the second that it makes contact. It will make you gasp and whoop. It will send a massive bit of voltage ripping through every inch of your body. It's the kind of contagious rock and roll that comes at you with a plop of whipped cream already applied to its top, sharing the space with a juicy cherry. The Terry Malts are the Bay Area's answer to the fountain of youth as it might apply to being a shadier, younger sort who can't help but get wrapped up in the lives of crazy girls who make stomachs feel nauseous and just generally scare the shit out of dudes. They sing, "People don't know what to make of you/They don't understand your point of view/But I do, I do, I do," on the song, "I Do," and it sounds like it could be the mantra for all the disenfranchised folks, just wanting to be able to get up when they want to get up and spend their days doing and saying exactly what they want. In the world of the Terry Malts, people are crashing on couches, wearing leather jackets, ripping the sleeves off of all their tee-shirts, wearing the soles out of their Chuck Taylors and coasting through the eternally summer lives that they've willed into existence. Now, everyone back in the pool. The sun's still out. The grill's still warm and there's nothing that tells us that any of this should be stopped.