Camp Weirdo Pt.2 - Roles, Oddities, and Comedies

The great outdoors has a strange effect on people. Some more than others, but nobody is free of it's grasp. There's just something about getting dirty, and staying dirty, that changes a persons attitude about things. Everyone looks a little different and acts a bit more freely. There's no sidewalk to guide your feet, no make-up to cover your face, no couch to sit your lazy ass on. The beast that lives within us all gets a chance to come out and play, it's moment in the sun.

Camp Weirdo was a haven to nurture this animalistic inclination. I'm not saying people stripped down naked and started smearing themselves with mud, howling at the moon. Well come to think of it, that's actually pretty damn close to what happened to certain individuals, but it wasn't quite as rabid as it sounds. It was a controlled wildness, because some of us knew what we were doing, and kept the rest in line. By no means was I one of them. This being my first time, I was taking it all in. If asked to do something, I was happy to oblige. If told not to do something, my feelings were the same. A good camper is like a good child. He knows when he's needed, and he knows when to shut the fuck up and stay out of the way. That was my take at least.

But as I previously mentioned, most everyone had their role and personality within the camp. And I'm not just talking about chopping wood and flipping burgers, there were more subtle roles that could be overlooked quite easily. But that wouldn't be fair, because no matter how big or small, overt or subtle ones role was, it was a role nonetheless, and the experience wouldn't have been the same without them. Now I'm by no means the expert on this, and my word is far from law. After all, I'm a mere rookie. But I can only speak from my perspective because that's all I truly know. And agree, disagree, or plead impartiality, I'm going to give my opinion on the matter.

Captain Patty was the Master of Ceremonies, the head counselor. Camp Weirdo was his brain child, and from what I could gather he and his brother Jay, had been coming to this site since they were boys. Patty knew the lay of the land, he was the cartographer and Captain of this earthy ship, and he had the hat to prove it. And a mighty-fucking-fine hat it was. He was among the first to settle the land this Memorial Day, and in addition to setting up our camp for all future arrivals, he and the first crew also pitched a faux-tent on the adjacent campsite, both keeping it free of any pests (Russians), and also claiming the land for any of our brethren who wished to sleep in peace, removed from the havoc we were sure to create in the wee hours of the morning.

Pat was the organizer of the trip, and of the group once we were all arrived. He would, at times, decide when a wood brigade would need to be sent forth, and conversely, when we'd all need to relax and form up a group jam (he's a phenomenal bassist by any standards). He damn near always had a smile on his face, and a certain sentimentality bled through all his actions. He gave a speech thanking everyone, but also thanked people individually for coming. A host in the purest sense, he was always concerned with the group, and everyones level of enjoyment, first. And did I mention he actually knew what he was doing? I guess I sort of assumed that was understood. Patty brought us together and taught us all a very valuable lesson about ourselves: the whole IS greater than the sum of its parts.

Dano was the first mate. The Yin to Patty's Yang. Not quite as organized, hard-lined, or driven as Captain Pat, Dano embraced the hedonism of the weekend, and infected anyone around him with it. He ate when he wanted to, drank when he wanted to, and did just about everything else he wanted to, when he wanted to, and enlisted a merry band of followers with ease. A pied piper of sorts, people are naturally attracted to his energy. He'd be just as likely as Pat, to call up a Jam session, but a bit less inclined to call for a wood gathering expedition, though I did hear him muster the troops on one occasion, and he always lent a hand when needed. With a smoke in his mouth, shirt off his back, and a twinkle in his eye, he kept the campsite wild, and without him, things just wouldn't have been as fun.

At some point during the trip, somebody decided that the nickname "Dano" would be an appropriate moniker for Danny. At first, this sparked confusion in him. "Why are you calling me this?" he asked quizzically and innocently. He was convinced this was the first time it had been introduced. Johnny however, corrected Dano. "What are you talking about" said Johnny, "I've been calling you this for years! Here, look at my phone, that's how I have you listed." Danny's response was dismissive if anything. And once the group saw the slightest bit of agitation, it was blood in the piranha pool. If Danny had somehow let it roll of his shoulders like a raindrop, I think none would have been the wiser. But a certain few had a natural instinct, and could pick up on the faintest scent of disturbance in Danny's demeanor. Tomasi, being one of the more alert ones, made sure to confirm this. He used the name incessantly after it's inception, and brought to the forefront the true nature of Dano's feeling towards the name. And I must say, some of the creations that arose were as comical it gets. One of Tomasi's better ones was, "Well I'm not going to Red Mango unless Dano does."

Jay, for all intensive purposes, was our Master at Arms. Trained in the arts of hand-to-hand combat, knife skills, and many other intimidating forms of physical engagement, I always picture him as sleeping with one eye open, and one hand on the proverbial trigger. Safety off. Jay brought throwing knives.  I don't know too many people who own those, and if they do, they probably keep it under wraps. But not Jay, and not in the woods. He was ready to have some fun, and he was looking for companions in this endeavor. Watching Jay and his lovely bride Jaime, fling some of the strongest steel known to man, into some of the thickest bark known to the forest, was a sight to see. They seemed perfect for each other. Camp Weirdo's own "Mickey and Mallorie." Then suddenly, they started getting good at it. They found their "sweet spot" and the knives were flipping almost effortlessly end of end, pinning themselves deep within the aged timber. It was frightening and beautiful. I felt pity for any Russians that thought they were going to get a leg up on us this trip. I certainly slept more soundly knowing his tent was closer to the entrance than mine.

But there's a lighter side to Jay. He's not all bullets and brawn, though he is in quite good shape (no homo). After all, he is Cap'n Pats older brother, and though the two of them are like night and day on opposite poles, in this case they are bound by a love of the outdoors, music, and companionship. And not only did I get a down and dirty lesson in some hand-to-hand skills, I got to hear Jay talk about something he was very passionate about. And to see and hear him speak with a boyish enthusiasm was very refreshing. Jay's always been more than kind to me when I see him. He's one of those guys who can't help but be who he is, and that's a compliment. He'll come up to you with a smile and an outwardly extended hand, and you know its all genuine. Like most of the guys on this trip, he wears his heart on his sleeve. It's those simple, little things, that can tell you the true nature of a person better than anything. And while he was certainly the armory and armorer, he was also highly involved in all the activities that occurred, especially the jams. The man can rip an axe (both a steel edged and 6-stringed).  Jay genuinely loved every minute of the weekend, and it was plainly written on his face.

Jaime was a trooper. For most of the weekend she was the only double X chromosomal carrier (that's female for those of you who didn't pass biology). She was ill when I first arrived at camp on saturday, but within a couple hours, she had forced herself into recovery, and begun slugging oat soda's with the rest of camp. She weathered the storm of obscenities and the tirades of men, with a light-hearted ease. She was also one the few people I saw (with Jay), who tried to keep the camp looking somewhat orderly. She picked up after everyone else, and never tried to recruit anyone to help. As mentioned before, she could also sling a blade with the best of them, so her skills around camp could not go unnoticed. She was a sport, putting up with us animals all weekend, and actually seeming as though she enjoyed it! If she actually did, then she's achieved god-like status in my mind, because I don't know another woman who could.

She's also a conversationalist, and that is a huge plus when you're spending 24 hours a day with the same people. I caught her talking astrophysics with camp nerd, Kiedro, and she roped me into the conversation as well. It was insightful, yet light. Never preachy. That girl's got her head on a swivel. She could take anything that was thrown her way this weekend as far as I could tell, and I can't quite imagine her not being there. Though I heard this was the first year there were women in camp, I can't imagine it would be the last after such a strong showing from Lady Jaim.

Kessler was the Mad Doctor. Recently having attained his doctorate of law, he is now a Juris Doctor, and he made sure everyone knew it. He was especially fond of giving commands, followed by the line, "doctors orders." But Kessler couldn't have been further from a doctor on this trip. In many instances, he had little regard for his own health. A master of the maul, I'm not sure I've ever seen anyone so dedicated to destroying fallen trees. Using mere brute force, and a willpower derived from god only knows where, he seemed hellbent to prove that logs could be cut from trees, by merely smashing the same spot aggressively and repetitively. At one point he had been hacking for so long, that when he stopped, the silence seemed unnaturally loud. He looked like a Paul Bunyan redux, with a fiery full red beard, a broad frame, and a hell of a wild streak (especially with enough intoxicants in his system). He's probably not the kind of guy you want to meet in a dark alley when he's had one too many. But on a camping trip, he's not a bad guy to have in your corner. His laugh alone could bring a smile to your face, and his downright ridiculous comments would keep it there. My recommendation to anyone going camping in the future, is to bring him with you.

Scotty is Captain Fun. A mischievous lad, always looking to stir up some trouble. He'll poke and prod you with his words and fingers, and keep you on your toes. I definitely wouldn't recommend sleeping on your stomach if this guys in your tent. And for all the lighthearted fun Scotty brings, it turns out he's pretty handy with a chainsaw as well. On saturday afternoon, he spent a solid two hours muscling out logs from the very same timber Kessler had been beating on. Scotty's method was quicker, but Kesslers was just more fun to watch. I must say though, I was impressed with his efficiency, even if it was for all of two hours. He got his share done, and the rest of the weekend was spent in a Rum-infused happy-rage. It's hard enough to understand him sober at times, and with a little of that captain in him, it's like trying to decipher german from a shepherd. However, he was awfully articulate when it came to antagonizing Dano, and he certainly had his opinions on food preparation as well. He was in direct conflict with Nicks "Food Borne Illness" speech, and he couldn't help but poke fun at Nicky's "Granola Fetish." He dubbed him "Granola Feet," and along with Danny, was ceaseless in his teasing of him. God forbid he caught the Old Tugboat in the act of actually eating one of those grainy bars...

Scotty was also one of the "late-nighters." Resilient to sleep, he lasted long into the darkness, and usually until the first shades of dark blue hit the sky. At that point, he'd pass out upright in a folding chair, and usually find a way to sleep in the most uncomfortable looking positions I've ever seen. Come the afternoon though, he'd be back in full effect. A joke always unsheathed and ready to be flung, much of the hilarity in Camp Weirdo was a direct result of Scotty's activities.

Mega was the wanderer, in mind and on foot. Half the time, I can't tell what the guy's looking at. You'll catch him with these almost lifeless stares off into the distance, and when you look to see what he's staring at, you realize its something metaphysical (or should I say Mega-physical). Otherworldly. It seems as though he's looking through the forest in front of him, and the hills beyond that, and the world beyond that, into some eleventh dimension paradox. He either uses far more of his brain than the rest of us, or potentially a bit less. Maybe it's both all at once, there's absolutely no way to tell. Mega is a man who uses his feet. He walks, he meanders, he ambles, and he explores. More than happy to go it alone, the man has the incredibly enviable talent of self amusement. He's always occupied, and seemingly, always happy. When you do rope the guy in, you find out he's one of the nicest people you could possibly know. I was given the privilege of playing some music with he and Johnny for a little while and he was so enthusiastic about it, I damn near wanted to hug the life out of him. I showed him a little progression I had come up with, and he responded with a tight little spanish drum beat underneath. Smiling, tapping his feet, and ultimately complimenting me, he won over my eternal fondness in that moment.

He as well seemed no stranger to the outdoors. Less likely to engage in raw physical activities, he still certainly had a grasp of what was going on, most of that time. That was if he wasn't checked out to the eleventh dimension, of course.

Jon Burns, is the All-Star. Not just because a band was once named so after him, but because he's enthusiastic to do everything. Chop wood, play music, eat, sleep, shit in the woods, and everything else a man does. I've never seen the guy unhappy, or even remotely ill tempered. He's just one of the most agreeable and positive people I've ever met. He loved strumming his guitarra, and belting out a tune. And he's got quite the arsenal of them. I mean, this guy knows a lot of frakkin covers! He once said to me, quite some time ago at a Stalloners show, how much he loved and respected their level of play. He said that the best thing he could think of for himself, was to have the ultimate cover band, capable of playing damn near anything at anytime, and playing it well. Well Burnsy, you're definitely well on your way.

Burns was also one of the more motivated Axe men. Armed with a razor-sharp hatchet, he went to town on some of that dried up wood, and had a fluid and accurate diagonal hack. I was impressed. And when it was decided by the group that the Maul wasn't going to get it done anymore, Burnsy went out and found a true Axe for us to use. And even though the axe itself turned out to be shit, it was that proactive attitude of his that was commendable. He didn't just say what we needed to make things better or easier, he tried to make it happen. A good man to have on any team i'd say.

Schmelichar, is a sarcastic son-of-a-bitch with a knowledge of music theory that puts most to shame. He's also a damn good bassist. With a head full of ideas, and mouth full of metaphors, he actually knows what he's talking about, which is more than many of us can say on a consistent basis. He seemed most in his element around the campfire with an acoustic bass or guitar in his hands, and a beer at the ready. And for all the fire he spits, he's a pretty mello guy, always down for a good laugh. He's also even-keeled. Not much changed in Melichar's demeanor or routine out in the wilderness. The wild beast inside him apparently only comes out in the aggressive facial motions made during some rippin' bass lines. Nature itself can't even throw this guy a curveball.

Melky enjoyed all facets of the experience. He bathed in the lake, jammed by the fire, and hacked at the wood. But I was most impressed to see him put his good mind to work, when he and patty made some tweaks and adjustments to the apparently temperamental chainsaw. You see, Patty complained that Jay "cheaped out" and bought a shitty chainsaw. But Melichar was not ready to give up just yet. Piece by piece he disassembled the chain and motor, and figured out just exactly how to tighten the chain. Not too much, but just right. I would have blindly took the screwdriver to the screws, and tightened away. Melichar took the screws off, and actually figured out what the screws were tightening. Props to him. The next time the blade was taken to the timber, the log was cut in record time. Too bad shortly thereafter, the thing ran out of gas. Unfortunately, that was not something Schmelks could solve out in the wilderness, but all in all he is a grade A problem solver and every good campsite needs one.

Kiedro is proof of why you can't judge a book by its cover. With a mane of long, scraggly hair, and mutton chops that Lemmy Kilmister himself would swoon over, he looks more like a big game hunter, than a scientist. He's very unassuming, but always has a confident and pleasant air about him. He was the undefeated, de facto chess champion of the camp, the resident biologist, physicist and any other 'cist you can think up, and it turns out he's pretty freaking strong too. He kind of reminds me of Beast in X-Men (yea, I've been watching X-Men: First Class on HBO recently). He also knows a thing or two about the culinary arts (being his family owns a world renowned bakery: Kiedrowski's Bakery - god I hope that's the right place...), so his bacon wrapped rotisserie beef was a camp favorite. Kiedge can also play guitar, which kind of figures because it seems the guy can do just about everything else at a proficient level. But for all the glory that the man can bask in, there is one thing that he cannot seem to do; remain unscathed.

According to eyewitness accounts, apparently Kiedro is somewhat injury prone. Last time Camp Weird was in session, he sliced his palm open launching a flaming folding chair from the fire pit. Apparently this isn't his only injury in the past few years either. This year, he managed something just as painful, and ever the more uncomfortable. He ripped his toenail off. His big toenail. And it was gnarly. I heard him howl in pain from across the campfire, and I knew it was no small thing. When I got to him, it was pretty bad looking. Burnsy had a medkit so he decided to play doctor, and Patty propped up his leg and got the sterilization alcohol. I got the rum. In the grand scheme of things, I thought my move was the most prudent, but we won't split hairs. And when patty dumped that rubbing alcohol on his toe, he squirmed like an eel in a net. I forced the bottle of rum in his mouth, and gripped his shoulder. It was clear this was more than unpleasant for him. But once Burns put the bacitracin on the wound and bandaged him up, he was back to the same old goofy bastard we all know and love. He took it like a champ, and I respect a man who stares pain in the face and simply says, "Ouch." No tears, and no complaints.

Johnny Vla is the talent. He's a music man in the purest sense. His expertise was not acquired through schooling or fine tuning, it comes from the passion within. There's nothing more powerful than that. Patty bought him a Melodica specifically for the trip so Johnny would have some semblance of 'black and whites' to color our ears with, and Johnny mastered it in mere minutes. He's also getting downright nasty at the banjo, and no camping trip is complete without some Deliverance style tunage. He entertained us all at times as a one-man show, and at others, brought the group jams to the next level. I never get tired of listening to his music, and he's even kind enough to entertain me when I ask him if he'll play a song or two with me. He's always full of praise, and very encouraging. It's no secret that I'm shy about putting my musical skills (or lack thereof) on display, but Johnny Boy and the rest of the clan are always inciting me to man-up and grow a pair. Believe you me, I'm trying. And even if he is the barely "temperamental artist" of the group, he's a good friend and a hell of a good camper. And that's not just because he's an entertainer.

Vlamanos enjoys the outdoors. He was my ride to and from the campsite, and when he picked me up Saturday morning, he was amped and ready to get out there into the thick of it. He even teased the speedometer a couple MPH's to the north, which is a rare thing for this sure and steady wheelman. In addition to sharing the road, we shared a tent, food and drink, and pack of Redman. He was my "buddy," if the buddy system was ever invoked. He was as handy with the hacksaw as he was with the harmonica, and always participated in wood collection and chopping. An all around camping rockstar, like many others at the weirdo convention, Johnny Vla was in his element among the elements, embracing nature in full. He also ate a cold wiener right out of the package (gotta be a better way to say that), which was both repulsive and impressive. I've seen drunk asses do that before at BBQ's, but Johnny was just wrapped up in the moment. Living the dream. And besides, he's no drunk ass. He's just a man who loves getting wild in the wild, and if that means slammin' a couple wien pieces in the raw, than so be it. I've got his back, all the way. I hope none of that was misinterpreted.

Nick (aka Tugboat, Tugs, Beano) was the resident chef and foul mouth. A self proclaimed maestro of the mignon, I can personally vouch for his skill at the grill, his lovin' at the oven. But in the great outdoors, its a whole new ballgame, and the ol' Tugs McBoat is a rook in this department. The first warning flag should've been that Beano brought nothing but Granola for himself. Asserting that the conditions for meat and perishables storage was less than adequate, Tugs decided he would stick with something that could not spoil in the few days we were there. Since Johnny and I caravanned up with Kessler and Nick, I decided to take a page out of his book, and bought a box of granola bars myself. I however, did also decide to partake in other forms of nourishment thereby avoiding nicknames and phrases that were given specifically to Nick like "Granola Feet," "Granola Fag," and "I got bombed by the Granola Gay on Memorial Day 2012." Nick's only vindication would come if and when someone contracted an FBI (again, that's "food borne illness"), which he was all too keen on mentioning repeatedly. Fortunately for everyone else, their health remained in tact.

Nicky and I spent a good amount of time together at Camp Weird. Put the two of us in a room, and we'll inevitably wind up together, talking some kind of ridiculousness. When the group went for a trip down to the lake, Tugs and I hung back and did just that. Give him a beer and a bench, and you can sit there with him for as long as time will allow. He's always got something to say, and some way to make you laugh your ass off. After a short while, Cotti, Benny, and his fiancee Jessica arrived, so we agreed to help them set up there stuff. Ben and his fiancee decided they would take the adjacent camp site for some peace and privacy, and Nick and I were enlisted as sherpa's by Jess. The cooler we lugged from the parking area halfway across Rome to their campsite, was extraordinarily dense. That's because she decided to pack the cooler full of ice, water, and beer, before arriving, thereby making our part of the job a living hell. I don't mean to complain, but then again I will. We might as well have gone for a swim with the rest of them down at the lake, because by time we dropped off the cargo, we were soaked. Nothing a few beers couldn't fix though. Halfway through the second one, Nicky's spirits were raised, is power restored. You see, Nicky's one of the easiest guys to get along with that I've ever met. His grotesque humor and foul mouth are often endearing, and that's completely unique to Nick. Anyone else would be branded a sicko for even mentioning once, what Nick talks about on a daily basis. Somehow, he's made disgusting, charming. That, my friends, is a true skill to behold, because I don't know another individual who could get away with saying the things Nick says, and still command the unreasonable amount of adoration and affection that he does. And though he got into it with one piece of wood during one timber collection journey, for the most part his duties were contained to complaining about food storage, making fun of damn near everyone, and keeping smiles on our dirty mugs. Oh yea, and eating unreasonable amounts of Granola.

Cotti is the anti-Nick. He may venture into the same realms as the ol' Tugboat and share his dirty mouth and mind, but it is not endearing. It's gnarly, angry, grotesque, slur-filled, and fueled solely by the rageful fire of comedic hate that boils in this boys blood. It's also frakkin' hilarious in it's own right, but its certainly not charming. There are instances, usually in the middle of one of his all to common tirades, that I find myself dry heaving and hysterically laughing at the same time. It should be mentioned that his delivery is also part of what makes him so hilarious. He's usually the first one to laugh after he's said something so hideous you feel like you need a shower having just heard it. And his hearty chuckle is a comedic routine in itself. Personally, I love it. He makes Dice Clay's inslut comedy look PG, and though Cotti arrived on Sunday afternoon, we got a weekends worth of verbal trash slung around that campsite. He certainly took Daaaannnnoooo, to the next level, and even figured out a way to make beers explode like eggs. Additionally, he was armed with some fresh new quotes from an experience with Benny's friends, and he had mastered his Irish accent to a comedic tee. Let's just say he wasn't going to ever run out of disgusting shit to say, and funny ways to say it. Don't even get me started on when the Russians came to camp to grace us with their presence. Cotti didn't quite give them the warm welcome they expected.

But maybe I'm hawking on this too much, and not presenting the full scope of Cotti's abilities. Though I didn't see him do much hacking, fire building, or cooking, I did see him play a good foreman, whipping the rest of the crew into shape. At one point, he attempted to fire up the chainsaw, before learning it was clean out of gas. His response to this failure came in his patented thick, bronx-type affected, New York accent, and he said "so somebody go get some gaslean' and oil. You gotta mix it fifty to one. Fifty one, remember that." Now, I can't tell if it's all an act, but if it is, he's one hell of an actor. He should sign up for one of those Colonial re-enactment towns that they take middle school trips to, because I've never seen him break character. This leads me to believe that this may just be his persona, and he doesn't have to act because this is who he is. And if that's the case, ship him off to Hollywood for bit parts, because this guy is pure comedy. Now, take that with a grain of salt, because you don't want to piss him off. At least not when he's holding a power tool. And if Cotti had been there for the full duration of the trip, maybe it would have worn a little thin, I don't really know. But I can't tell you how grateful I was to have him there for one night. One gloriously long night, that got weirder and weirder with each passing hour. And long after Kiedro had lost his toenail, and the women and children had gone to bed, Nicky, Cotti, Dano, Scotty, and myself were sitting around the smoldering cinders of a weekend gone by, exchanging unpleasantries, and howling in hysterics at the ridiculousness of it all. Nick and Cotti are more than enough on their own. But if you put them together, add one part Dano, and three parts liquor, you'll wind hearing things you never thought could be said.

Martocci was feelin' it this weekend. With all the activity and action going on, one could easily get lost in the fray, forgotten in the background. That doesn't happen at Camp Weirdo though. Maybe Martocci wasn't as vocal as say Dano, or commanding as Captain Pat, or obtuse as Cotti. But he'd chime in from time to time, and he definitely had a prominent role around the campsite, advising on what should be cooked when and how, and he seemed to have a good grasp on this whole camping thing in general. Lets just say it wasn't his first rodeo.

So saturday night rolls around and everyones feeling groovy, Martocci had certainly had his fill and then some, and was struggling to keep his lids open. When he finally succumbed to slumber, there was no time for him to make it to a tent or bedding. No sir. And in all my years, I've never seen someone sleep so deep and so upright, at the same time. At first I thought he could be dead. Maybe he'd contracted a flesh-eating FBI from an uncooked piece of pork butt? That would certainly brighten up Nicky's day, you know, give him a little of that validation for all the granola he was inhaling. But then I heard Martocci wheezing. And after we poked some fun at him, we started to poke him literally. He ultimately awoke, and tried to get his bearings. But before he could acquire them, he was asked to fetch a beer or two from the cooler he was propped up on. He opened the cooler, lost his legs, and fell into the giant white bin, ass first. Like a turtle on its back, he wiggled and flailed, but could not free himself from the tub trap. As we all broke down in side-splitting laughter, we realized that he was in fact serious, and ultimately helped him out. His response to the whole situation was "Why the hell are people hiding beers in my seat? This is no place to put your beers!" And the laughs just kept on a-comin' baby. I'm still waiting on Beano's snapshots of the weekend, and I'm praying he's got one from that whole ordeal.

Benny Boombatz is not a camper. I'm told however, his fiancee Jess is the outdoorsman (or woman rather) of the family. So when they arrived Sunday afternoon and decided to take the next campsite over, I figured they knew exactly what they were doing. After enlisting the help of Cotti, Tugs, and I, they got most of the heavy lifting out of the way. After all, we are three men of serious brawn. And that's not to say Ben and Jess didn't carry and wheel in stuff themselves, it just goes to show how much shit they actually had. When everything was unloaded, I wondered where their army was. Or at least the fifty plus guests they must have invited. Our flaming, grated pit was not going to be sufficient to cook their food, instead they brought their own mini weber charcoal gril. They must've been on Nicky's FBI newsletter. They had their own source of music as well. I counted two large coolers, a jug containing some kind of potion, silverware, plates, blankets, sheets, bed-wear and pillows. They even had small solar powered lights to brighten their path at night, no lie. "Roughing it" was not in their plan. Planning for everything was. Benny even purchased a harpo to start his own "Jam Session." I was given a twig, and Nick two stones to participate.

I must say, the two them impressed me in their determination to camp comfortably. Their site was not a hop, skip, and jump from the parking area, and they had quite a bit to unload. I think Jess made three trips on her own (but in fairness to Tugboat and I, she did not have to carry the beast cooler). I know how they got all the stuff there, but I wonder how they got it all back. Nonetheless, when they did grace us with their presence at the main campsite, they got a full dose of the absurd. If we're being perfectly honest, I'm not sure how Jess took it, though it's nothing she hasn't seen before. And as far as Ben is concerned, well as they say, the freaks come out at night. Once the sun went down and Benny was a couple libations deep sitting round that blazing fire, you could tell the camper in him was born. He was feeling it, living in the spirit of that glorious outdoors. I only wish we had another day with him to see the full transformation.

There's really no explaining it, you'll just have to take my word for it when I say, this weekend was exactly what was needed. A lot of the people I spoke to felt the same way. It was the perfect place, with the perfect people, at the perfect point in time. An unforgettable weekend, and damnit, I want to do it again. Soon. Long live Camp Weirdo, and the fucking lunatics who populated it.