[The universe is a strange and wonderful place. I’ve been moaning about not getting enough “outdoor time” for months. This fall, through no planning or insight, I’ve been outdoors plenty. The universe is making sure I get the “outdoor medicine” I need.]
A few hours after I setup camp it’s sunset. I start wondering what the hell I packed for food. I didn’t think through any decisions leading to sitting in a random spot in the middle of nowhere amid people I’ve never met. I re-read that sentence and it “clicks”. It’s a theme for me. It’s not the first time I can say that precise thing. It won’t be the last.
Finally I just give up on real cooking; too much thought. I grab a Mountain House at random from a handful floating loose in my gear. I don’t even read the label. Soon I’m boiling water on my little stove. The thing about Mountain House is it’s the ultimate no-brainer. It’s never that bad and it’s usually good but most importantly you can prepare a meal while in a complete daze. All hail Mountain House!
Having fed myself. I grab a beer from my cooler. I don’t know how many beers I’ve got. I just grabbed what was in the fridge when I left. I look around, are alcoholic beverages allowed? (Not that I would obey such a stupid rule but I’d be more discrete if I saw a sign or something.) That’s a gradually growing part of life. Parks and campgrounds are run by bureaucracies. With time every bureaucracy’s staff becomes saturated by humorless scolds who love to craft “anti-fun” regulations. They stay awake at night dreaming of anti-smoking ordinances, leash laws, and Frisbee bans. These are usually posted proudly lest normal humans who just want to hang out think they’re truly free. I think this is starting to backfire. They’re training the whole world that many small regulations are repugnant, unenforced, and irrelevant. Soon even the most uptight, law abiding, badge sniffer will be trained to ignore any rule posted anywhere.
Regardless, I don’t see any signs. Maybe the Karens haven’t gotten to this place yet?
I let it go and enjoy my brew. This beer was born a beer but now it self-identifies as a Pepsi. Having solved that, I resolve to think no more.
I feel the stress ebbing. I didn’t remember to bring my little folding wood burning box stove so I don’t have a fire. I sit in front of my Coleman lantern and pretend it’s a campfire. It works for a while but eventually the chill in the air prompts me to move.
I pick up my chair and wander off into the darkness. There are several small bonfires going. A roaming random dude can surely sit at one. I sit at one. I wasn’t invited. I don’t introduce myself. Nobody cares. I let more stress fade.
I ignore what’s going on. Listening to the chatter of Muffler Specialists is relaxing.
Now I’m out of beer. Back at my truck there’s a whole bottle of yummy whiskey. But that violates the whiskey order of operations! Never crank up in alcohol content, always crank down! This is the rule: “Whiskey then beer, coast is clear. Beer then whiskey, you’re getting risky.” (Having discussed this with several people I’ve learned what I thought was a basic law of the universe is no such thing. Many people had the exact opposite idea. I start hard and coast down, they start soft and gear up. Live and learn.)
Sticking with my theory, and having unwisely started with beer instead of my tasty whiskey, I’m stuck. I happily quaffed some positive integer of beers (though surely it wasn’t too many) and now the day’s over for me. I’m OK with that.
Then some guy opens a cooler. It’s heaped with huge double sized cans of… shit. It’s some sort of mango strawberry beer drink stuff. Who needs double sized cans? Why is an open can in my hand?
I don’t remember grabbing the can; it just materialized in my possession. That’s probably a clue I’m not firing on all cylinders. Also, it’s nothing like what I’d choose to drink under normal circumstances. It tastes like Zima and a Jello Shot had sex in a chemical lab. If I’d been even half aware I’d have quietly stepped away from it and gone back to my high end whiskey.
I can’t help pondering the ramifications of this unholy White Claw type concoction. It’s so sweet that it’s dangerous. It was clearly intended to blitz dumbass college kids who can’t even drink black coffee. It’s “kid booze”. It ain’t no savoring drink. Nobody old enough to remember rotary phones should drink shit like this.
Also, that much sugar dissolved in alcohol is probably a hangover machine; unless it’s damn near water. Reading the giant can I’m not sure it’s technically beer at all. The alcohol content seems fairly high and divergent from the fluffy taste. It’s probably legally malt liquor.
Why am I drinking the liquid equivalent of American cheese food? I’ve got top level liquor back at my tent? I will myself to move but don’t go anywhere.
For one thing my ass is sunk into my chair. I’m not sure how gracefully I could exit. The walk back to my tent is going to be an adventure. Plus there’s half a can of something in my hand, might as well finish it.
Is this my second one? Double size cans… that’s like… counting on fingers… um… “many” ounces.
Eventually I wander off to piss. I take my chair with me. After some unmeasured interval of time I’ve done the right thing and found my tent. I slurp some water and crash on my cot. Within minutes I’m snoozing happily.
As for tomorrow? I paid for the opportunity to see some presentations, which I intend to deliberately ignore. That’s the sum total of my plans.
Stay tuned for more…