I'm So Not There

Apparently the word's gotten around that I'm not at Beachweek this summer. An from what I've read, it's just not the same.
The Baltimore Sun ran a series of interviews with local teens. Almost to a man (or chick) they said some variation of the below:
"All our lives we hear about Beachweek, both the person and the event. Well now we're finally here, but where is the legendary Beachweek?" A tear rolled slowly down her face.
The answer is I'm keeping a low profile because of some ridiculous statutory-rape charge last summer. Like that little fourteen-year-old minx didn't totally want it!
It has been quite the difference between years past, when youth far and wide gathered round myself on the beach late at night to hear tales of Beachweek past.
I played Plato to the various Phadreus' arrayed around the sand fire. "Tell us about Beachweek before 21 (year-old drinking age)," they would invariably beg.
"Many butt-head moons ago," I would tell them, "Beachweek was far more adored by the partying Gods than now."
But there were always a few wiseacres who called me "old man," and did not respect the ultimate in sacrifices I made for the nation's youth: without when,then: a case of Milwaukee's Best.
My various acolytes would always mysteriously vanish when the liquor stores closed. Occasionally I would find myself in a very cozy sleeping bag, if you understand my meaning, but more often I slept like a wolf in the dunes. I would greet the new day's dawn with a freshly cracked Best.
Shaking the sand from my hair, I would raise one to the new day. "Hey bud," I said to the rising sun, "let's Beachweek."