Camped Out

This past weekend I went to camp. I hadn’t been to camp since the summer before sixth grade. I was eleven. I remember Benny Mardones’ “Into the Night” getting a lot of radio play in the Seafarer cabins:

“She’s just sixteen years old
Leave her alone, they say
Separated by fools
Who don’t know what love is yet”

Not exactly the song you want older male Sunfish instructors humming as they teach preteen girls to tie the aft end of the halyard to the upper boom, is it?

I rode to camp with Boss, Ashley, and Epee Le Peu. Epee Le Peu is the man (a former fencer) I am currently seeing and employing. This sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen. Maybe. But just yesterday, Boss threw a NYC condom on my desk as a joke—so I’m thinking that as long as everyone here is blurring the lines of professionalism no one is culpable. If our office ethics were a painting, that painting might look like this:


I picked this muzzy internet art in particular because it bears some resemblance to my hair in high wind:


Boss car was broken into a few weeks back, and, as you can tell from this photo (thank you Epee), has yet to be fixed. Unless you count as “fixed” fashioning a window out of a box. Aside from giving me the plumage of an angry bird, the incoming air made it virtually impossible to sing along to Prince and Journey in anything like real time. While the rest of the car was screaming “With Open Arms!” I was still like “I come to You!”

I’ll write more about camp in Friday’s post. For now, please content yourselves with bookends. Boss left earlier than the rest of us, so on the way home, we stopped in Shartlesville. Shartlesville is known for its sheepskin store and miniature village, which proclaims to be the World’s Greatest (specifying indoor—it might rank low among outdoor miniature villages).


We wouldn’t know. It was closed—miniature hours?— so we hit up DQ instead. I had a banana cream blizzard and won the remaining 1995 oinking pig keychain flashlight from a crane game knock-off.

Ashley acclimated to her new DQ white trash environs:


This photo is a white trash 10. Precariously balanced AC unit? Check. Cigarette in hand? Check. Bad posture? Check. Glimpse of field? Check. Bearclaw stuck to white cinder block wall? Check.

Oh, and my blog is back. For real. Please subscribe (if you haven’t already) and forward to friends and coworkers.


2 responses to “Camped Out

  1. Welcome back! Hope camp goes well. Boss sounds creepier and creepier. Be careful. Riding in his car is probably risky.

    In your last post you featured a picture of a particular brand of whiskey. Was that a random pic or is it a brand you would recommend to complete strangers who read your blog?

  2. Subject’s mid-section isn’t showing. The grass looks freshly cut. No abandoned automobiles visible in the yard. No one in picture has ballcap on or large dinnerplate-sized belt bucket. Not enough mysterious stains on white cinder block. No NASCAR references.

    I am pretty sure the National Association of White Trash wouldn’t endorse this picture.

    p.s. However, you still have a cool blog. I don’t think I have ever seen a hair style described as “angry plumage” before.



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