Gourmet Camping

So I am going camping this weekend. Time to stretch my legs out by the fire, cook raw meat, be cold all night, get rained on, swear, spit, smoke, cuss, grow a beard. You know, the man-dance every guy must do when going camping.

I'm a little leary about the trip this time.

When we camping last, my friends showed up for a photo shoot, and I showed up to camp. Maybe I am just out dated, but camping was suppossed to be roughing it. Don't get me wrong. I enjoy the amenities as much as the next guy, but this was getting a bit absurd.

My friend Kate showed up wearing cutesy pigtails and one of those AE print t-shirts. It was dead winter so this was obviously a fashion statement. When we got the fire going, Brian broke out a 'fajita kit'. I have never been more insulted in my life. "Fajitas?" i asked. "What happened to the steaks and onions?"

Tucker brought out his state of the art satellite television, and Brandon constructed a small chateau with his designer tent. I am going banana's at this point so I head off into the woods to rough it.

It rained all night. My free-with-a-10-gallon-fill-up tent leaked and my sleeping bag made from old blankets and wool carpeting retained water like a pregnant woman. My food from the night before turned into a gruel like pulp, and I had apparantly slept on my neck at a 45 degree angle. This wouldn't have been so bad, had the angle not been in the direction of the bed of sand fleas that decided to use my face as a birthing pod. I wake up soaked, itchy, cramped, freezing, and a little drunk to be honest with you (how else did you expect me to sleep in those conditions, really).

I stepped onto the deadened leaves of the forest floor and one shoe is missing. I decided to burn my tent for warmth, and figured I'd throw my makeshift sleeping bag on the burning heap for good measure. I thawed out after a couple of minutes and decided to make my way back to their village-of-the-damned campsite where everything looked like it fell out of an LL Bean catalogue.

The chimney on Brandon's tent had a lazy ribbon of smoke drifting from it. Tucker was sitting in a fold out recliner watching the game on his satellite television. Brian and Kate sat near him eating piping hot bowls of gourmet oatmeal, Belgium waffles, a couple of omlettes, and Starbucks cappuccinos. And there I stood. Hunched over, hair asunder, soaking wet, red dots covering my face, wearing only one shoe.

They looked on me with horror at first, then with a sincere pity, my friends. I was the epitome of misery.

After my hot shower in Josh's Erectabath I sat in Tucker's heated leather fold out recliner and ate what was left of the fajita kit, most of the Belgium waffels and a cup of gourmet oatmeal. I breathed in a lungfull of mountain air, and marveled at how refreshing camping was. I closed my eyes and listened to the birds chirp in the trees, then some college team scored another touchdown and Tucker turned the tv up.


Aaaaah Camping.

Andrew