Tales Out of Camp - Pt. I

There are many lessons to be learned while immersed in nature. This goes a long way towards explaining the popularity of Tevas, s'mores and college students embarking upon Carlos Casteneda-ish psychedelic journeys, during which they attain an understanding that God and Nature are but two halves of the same golden entity, arcing eternally across space-time, only to later determine that, shit, they must've wandered away from the campsite and into the parking lot of the local McDonald's again.

It was armed with this knowledge (but neither peyote buttons nor hacky-sack) that I recently ventured into the forest primeval for a restorative camping trip.

Oh, who am I kidding? I pitched a tent on a field within walking distance of a 7-11 with the express purpose of running around in a wet bathing suit and eating Pop Tarts and rum for breakfast. The only mystical insights gleaned during the trip were along the lines of, "Is there any way to make floating in the pool even LESS strenuous?" (answer: suspend your Pop Tart-bloated frame upon enough foam pool toys to re-buoy the Titanic!) and "How can I avoid contracting salmonella while cooking chicken in an area without running water?" (after wiping hands on grass, tree, rocks, pants and unsuspecting co-camper's rain fly, abandon conventional food-safety measures and just slosh high-test beverages on hands often enough to hopefully eliminate any pathogens).

The trip was ostensibly centered around an Irish folk-music festival. While this fostered a gentle, communal atmosphere not present at, say, the Warped Tour, most attendees were more interested in arboreal alcoholism than music. The Gaelic theme mainly served as a not-unpleasant background note, somewhat like eating at Bennigan's, only with less melted cheese and chipotle-ranch sauce. Occasionally, we were roused from our midday naps and semi-cooked chicken-consumption by a particularly boisterous tune. I will now attempt to recall a representative sample in the most patently offensive manner possible:

"Laddies 'n lassies, please welcome the O'Blarnigans with their hit single, "Begorrah!"

[frantic fiddling]

"Begorrah! Begorrah! Begorrah! Begorrah!
Blimey, cor and crikey! Blood pudding, leprechauns!
Guinness, "The Commitments" and now 'n then car bombs!"

It's a good thing the whole IRA cease-fire occurred, otherwise I'd be a LITTLE hesitant to start up the Civic tomorrow.

After the sun had set and the last accordion had ceased bleating, we sprawled around a glowing lantern, smacking at mosquitoes, sipping truly horrendous drinks (including the perennial favorite, "Diet Coke and... y'know, something. Heavy on the something!") and shooting the breeze. As is typical with this oh-so-effete crowd, the discussion soon turned to sex... who was having it, where they were having it, were any kitchen implements involved? "Really? A POTATO masher?" Earlier in the day, rumors had surfaced that a group of swingers would be meeting in the vicinity later that evening. "Y'know... for SWINGING!" went the gleefully-repeated refrain (as opposed to swingers who congregate in order to analyze one another's investment portfolios, I suppose). "Dude, we TOTALLY need to go check it out!", said one excited fellow camper, "There's no single guys allowed, so I'll hafta find a chick to pretend to marry. Wouldn't THAT be a hell of a honeymoon?" Despite our shared juvenile titillation, no one could muster sufficient nerve to set down their drink and venture off in search of Alternative Lifestyles of the Rural 'n Shameless.

Except... me (att'n, family: feel free to continue reading. Only OTHER people's cottage-cheesy asses are featured in this tale).

I'm generally quite shy, the quintessential observer, what I like to refer to in my more purple-prose moments as a "social moth": at any given gathering, I cling to the wall and soak it all in.

Perhaps it was this interest in amateur sociology which led to what happened next. Perhaps it was an abundance of "something"-heavy libations.

I prefer, as always, to blame indie rock.

Earlier that week, I'd heard Pavement's "Spit on a Stranger" for the first time; to say I liked it would be a laughable understatement. It had lodged itself in my brain more firmly than the mutant offspring of "Don't Fear the Reaper" and the Kit-Kat jingle. I especially loved the lyric, "I see the sunshine in your eyes... I'll try the things you'll never try", delivered by Stephen Malkmus in a lilt so breathy, so god-awful PRETTY as to be capable of making a woman's panties disintegrate from ninety yards away.

I'll try the things you'll never try.

"That's IT, I'm goin' in," I proclaimed, pulling a skirt over my soggy bathing suit and setting out across the field.

TO BE CONTINUED...