bbkaro

Let me share a little something about my first (and only) camping experience.

I was in sixth grade and a Cub Scout. Cub Scouts, the junior class of ever-prepared Boy Scouts worked like this in the Richmond-Avenues district of San Francisco: we would meet up once a week at Aaron Chin's house, play video games all night, eat a lot of pizza, and wake up watching Voltron. There was a manual of some sort, a uniform, and "Pack Meetings." I have little or no recollection of any of these elements.

To my horror, during the summer after my sixth grade year, I learned that the format was to change. We were no longer Cub Scouts. We were set to graduate to the rank of "Webelos." That stands for "We'll Be Loyal Scouts" believe it or not. It was the transition period between the carefree days of Cub Scout camaraderie and the hard-work ethic and civic responsibility of true scouts.

And camping. Camping, apparently, was big with the Boy Scouts. Camping and all manner of outdoor adventuring. Dont get me wrong: I loved me some parks and rivers and mountains and shit. I also dug me some hot running water, electricity, and concrete. God bless the great indoors, as Evan Dando put it.

Regardless, as part of our initiation into the big leagues, we were going to get to do something that was, as far as I knew, unprecedented. We were going to be camping. In Golden Gate Park. Our fearless leader made a big deal out of this; apparently the licenses to permit thousands of junior do-gooders to set up hundreds of tents in the middle of a heavily-trafficked urban greenbelt were expensive are rarely awarded. We were privileged.

This being my first time sleeping outdoors, I prepared by borrowing a sleeping bag. The tent was provided for us. A ridiculously small hunk of canvas that perhaps could have housed myself, Dan, and Jorge, but was not comfortable enough for the myself, Dan, Jorge, and Jorges enormous fucking military cot. Sometime around eleven p.m. Dan spilled a liter of Coke into my sleeping bag and I spent the rest of the night sticky and terrified that one of those raccoons, lured by the sweet essence of high fructose corn syrup, was going to successfully claw through the tent and eat my face.

The food I brought to cook at our campout (frozen pizzas) was useless. We ordered Round Table and got in trouble. The song or poem or ballad or whatever the hell we were supposed to recite from memory at campfire turned into a version of the old Spider-Man cartoon theme song. Our radio got fried by a vat of Gatorade. We were the only retards in the entire meadow incapable of folding up a tent.

To make a long, miserable story short: my scout career ended that weekend. My opinion of camping (it sucks) was formed. Ill have to let you know whether or not it changes after this weekend.



I made a decision several months ago that I was going to the Sasquatch! Festival in Washington state. Look at that lineup. Wow. It took a set-up like this to make me want to attend a music festival again.

So I made arrangements: airfare, hotel, car rental. As more and more friends decided they were going to attend as well, the road trip idea started getting batted around more and more. After we settled on a caravan marathon drive to the Gorge, the next suggestion that made it past my veto (due again to the sheer number of fellow travelers) was to camp out at the festival. After some anus on Pitchfork recommended Sasquatch! for the beautiful campgrounds alone, I knew I was done for.



So thats the plan. In a few hours I will begin a road trip/camping/tri-state adventure for the ages. I plan on living to tell the tale, but yall are going to have to wait a bit to see what happened. I am older, wiser, and camping with competent veterans this time. Marshmallows and Boy Scout ballads will be replaced by alcohol and the Arcade Fire.

I should be fine.