Camping: A How (not?) To Guide to Success

The key to successful camping trips is to plan them at the last minute and bring as few things as possible, thus ensuring that the families in the neighboring campsites will stare at you curiously from between the zippered flaps of their 3-room chateau tents, which are located next to their overloaded mini-vans that they are using to power a portable electric grill, air conditioner, washer/dryer, and satellite TV.

Dave and I went camping last weekend. In contrast to all the fishing gear, swimming toys, tandem bikes, and chef cookout equipment that our neighbors in campsites #54 and #56 were sporting, we pulled into spot #55 with some matches, a couple of ziploc bags with food, and a tin can.

So what if we *may* have forgotten to bring any utensils?

So what if I *might* have had to resort to using the foil wrapper from a stray packet of sutures in the bottom of my backpack to make a spoon?

That's no reason for the inhabitants of campsite #54 to think we were total campground failures. That spoon worked fine!

Doesn't Dave look like he's winning???

So what if we *may* have gotten a bit lost for a moment on the hiking trail?

So what if we had to rely on a trail-marker map that *might* have been deliberately designed to instill a sense of utter desolation?

Let me zoom that in for you. You Are Here.

That translates to: You Are Here. Alone. Somewhere-ish. Bwaah-haa-haaaah!

So what if we *perhaps* tromped for several hours through tick-infested forest underbrush while all the other campers were grilling their filet mignon and playing Wii in their motorhomes? 

So what if we *possibly* had to stop hiking every 200 meters to see whether our legs were encrusted with those litte blood-sucking tick monsters, and I *maybe* emitted a delicate shriek of terror whenever I found one?

That's not a failure! Putting yourself on Tick Watch and waiting for the Lyme Disease fevers and Bell's Palsy to set in just builds character!

And character is what camping is all about! Building character is really a lot of fun!

Only the finest light fixtures will do

There are certain venerated traditions of St Louis that you will inevitably get pulled into at some point if you live here long enough. One such cultural institution is the Budweiser Brewery tour. It's like those factory tours they used to take on Mr Rogers' Neighborhood (of which, oh my goodness, Volume 2 Episode 6 "How People Make Crayons" was a life-changer). Admittedly, compared to Mr Rogers tours, the Bud tour has more adults and a lot more beer guts and way fewer cardigans, but still has plenty of factory equipment whirring around and zipping past in amazing automated ways. 

What do I remember most from the tour, though?  Here's the Top Two countdown:

#2 The Budweiser Clydesdales. This one was a bit of a snob, refusing to give me an autograph even though I asked nicely. Alas, fame has clearly hardened him. At least he hasn't pulled a Charlie Sheen (...yet).

#1 The stable where the Clydesdales live is immaculately clean and has a chandelier. Seriously. 
If there is reincarnation, I bet the really good souls come back as Clydesdales.

It's dangerous being a stick figure these days

Remember back in the olden days when all you ever saw stick figures doing on signs was safely crossing the street while carrying a purse (or Man Bag, as the case may be)?

Those were innocent times. The only peril back then was the fact that they had no necks or feet.

Now, a mere walk around my neighborhood easily produces multiple signs depicting the stuff stick figures' nightmares are made of, including the Surprisingly Swift Gate Smash-o-Matic.

Not to mention Malevolent Parking Garage Entrance Barricade,

and Macabre Death By Angry Electric Cloud Monster.

Another reason I shouldn't cook

I made bread last week. Without mincing words: It was a total failure.
There are three reasons why I feel comfortable admitting this disaster publicly:
  a) It came from a store-bought mix (not my fault)
  b) It was made entirely in an automated bread maker (not my fault)
  c) The resultant bread became a bit of a science project, and science is fun.

There are many ways for bread to fail. This particular breadtastrophe was about as unleavened as a leavened bread could possibly be. When all was said and done, a pound and a half of bread had somehow baked neatly into a few cubic inches:

It was nearly 9 times the density of normal bread. I was reassured to learn that despite that, the bread was not in fact as dense as a brick. For your edification, here's how the bread stacks up against a few other materials.

Notably, the bread is more dense than crushed asphalt.  Mmmmmm... Pavement.  I like pavement toasted with a bit of butter, then dipped into hot cocoa.

Also of interest, the bread is essentially isodense with elemental potassium. Presumably, the bread would not burst into flames if you immersed it in water, but I didn't actually try that.

We have been touched...

Years ago, Jordan Ficklin taught me how to make smiley-faced pancakes by pouring the batter for the face into the pan a few seconds before pouring the rest of the pancake.

I was passing this pancake wisdom along to Dave. Then, in a manifestation of wonderful wonder and awe,  the Flying Spaghetti Monster unexpectedly appeared in pancake form, right there in my humble skillet.

It was like those apparitions of venerated Saints, but less religious, more bizarre, and way more edible.

We have been Touched by His Noodly Appendage.

Yet somehow, there was no dysentery

Dave and I went to a huge crawfish boil party hosted by one of the other residents in my ophtho program. (The resident hosting it grew some supersweet redneck mutton-chop facial hair, which I wish I had a picture of, but alas I do not.)

I remember fishing for crawdads in the cow pasture ponds at the end of our dirt road growing up (...speaking of rednecks), but it never crossed my mind that anyone would eat those nasty little beasties, let alone have a party for the purpose of eating them.

Yet somehow, that's exactly what we all did Saturday evening.

First they were alive in a bucket:

Then they were cooked, but still eerily reminiscent of giant cockroaches:

It shocks me to admit this, but they were surprisingly tasty. I've held off on posting this, in the event of massive gastric regret, but we've officially lived to tell the tale consequence-free!



Four out of five ophtho residents in my cohort approve of crawfish carnage.



 Mmmmmmmmm. Giant cockroaches. It's a party.

The Boss Sings Everything...Or Nothing...

There are two types of people in this world: Lumpers and Splitters.

Splitters subdivide everything into extremely differentiated subcategories with a great degree of detail.

Lumpers group all kinds of remotely-related things into one package deal.

I am a Lumper. This was never clearer than the recent realization that all songs written after 1980, sung by a male, and having a patriotic theme or focusing on an American city aren't actually by Bruce Springsteen. I was shocked to learn this. My entire casually lumped category of "Springsteen sings every raspy American anthem" completely fell apart.
- Ain't That America.... not Springsteen
- Jack & Diane... not Springsteen
- Walkin' in Memphis... not Springsteen
  - God Bless the USA... Ha! Gotcha there! I didn't think this was Springsteen.   ...okay...fine...maybe I did...

When the issue of my misplaced Springsteen credit came up, several friends each independently tried to educate me on songs that Bruce Springsteen does sing.  I...uh...hadn't ever heard any of them.

I will admit, that moment was an epic fail for the Lumpers, myself included.

Are you a Lumper or a Splitter? How did you come to realize that you are one or the other?