NOTE: Please excuse the multi-part aspect of this post. I've decided to present my Camp Opus to you in this manner so that you're not taxed with a longwinded essay of life spent in the woods (and thus, being bored, you're off to find that adorable "Charlie Bit Me" video instead). Plus, since this has already been written, I can pop off a couple of posts while I go off to work. But, hey, I've included plenty of pictures! By the way, as of tomorrow, I'll have to put on pants and sally forth to earn some money. You may notice that I won't be here as often as I have been this summer.
|"Let's see...is it 'swill' on this table and 'slop' on that one?|
Following evening prayer, led by the Senior SAP, the grumpy Monsignor Hudak, we dug into the first of a week-long series of theme meals.
|Ya know, starving kids in Detroit |
would still throw this crap away!
“I don’t know about you guys,” I complained, “but no matter how much ketchup I use, I can’t get away from the fact that I’m eating purple roots.”
After dinner, we shuffled gloomily back to our campsite. Called Mattatuck which, in the original Algonquin means “Land of Few Trees,” it actually was devoid of any significant plant life. Resembling the Tgunska blast site more than a “pastoral camp setting,” Mattatuck consisted only of a half-dozen canvas mosquito condominiums ringing a weed-choked stone campfire.
|Yeah. A lot like that.|
Hmmph, more like “Land of Few Toilets,” if you ask me.
After choosing the tent with the fewest amount of holes and mold, we furiously brushed it clean of pinecones which littered it like potato chips in Phil’s bed. Skittering here and there were dozens of panicky Daddy Longlegs which, Spags gravely informed us, were the deadliest spiders known to man.
|NOTE: Actual Daddy-Longlegs do NOT wear masks.|
Little comfort to Teddy “Spindle Arms” Williams, who slept with a flashlight on the whole week.
Joining us was a moonfaced 7th-grader named Timmy Dolan. No stranger to wedgies, Timmy looked familiar. As I watched him set up his inhaler bottles, it dawned on me.
Oh, yeah, I remembered seeing him hanging upside down from the monkey bars at High Park. I didn’t immediately recognize him because he had his underwear pulled over his head at the time.
So, I guess he met the Zowine brothers.
Living quarters swept clear of the most noisome of God’s creatures, Donny began rolling his sleeping bag out on one of the rusty bunk frames. With a soft grunt, he dumped his duffel bag onto the cot and began rifling through it.
He pulled out a portable record player. It was kind of beat up and had a couple of pennies taped to the top of the needle arm, so I guess it was old. Plus, it was pink and covered in Tiger Beat stickers, so I guess it was his sister’s. I hope.
“I told you guys I had tunes!”
I looked at what appeared to be an empty bag sitting next to him. “How many records you bring, Don?”
He shoved his hand into the bag. “Like I said, I got plen-uh, oh.”
In his hands were only two records.
Spags frowned. “You’re kidding me. Don’t tell me you only brought two.”
“Guess I forgot.”
I shook my head. “Which ones are they?”
He looked at the labels. “Layla, by Derek and the Dominoes...”
NOTE: "Hot Dog" not as cool-or annoying-as "ScoobyDoo". Same could be said for "Jughead" and "Velma."
Spags gasped. “By the Archies!?”
Donny sputtered, “I, uh, yeah.”
Before he and Spags came to blows over the finest animated musicians this side of Josie and the Pussycats, I stepped in. “Well, that figures, doesn’t it?” I said.
Spags swung around. “What do you mean?”
I pointed at the red-faced Donny. “Who else would bring the Archies but Jughead?”
To be continued....
To be continued....