In Between Insane and Insecure-Part 3

Part 3- The Origin of Penguin Face

Day 1,  ??? p.m.

As the evening wore on, the hard liquor began to catch up with me, and the night began to become fuzzy.  Images in my head include my friends around the campfire, eating snackies, and getting ever-more wasted.  Being a new dad, my schedule was completely haywire.  I was the first to fade, and stumbled into my tent, somehow knowing that tomorrow would be worse.  I was told that my sister drank more or less the entire handle of Captain Morgan's that she so dearly loved.

The next thing I remember, or don't remember but was told later, were Nails and Slatz trying to get me up by shining headlamps inside my tent, but I was finished, and nothing short of dry-humping me was going to wake me up. Well, my friends thought of that also, and proceeded to try just that.  I was told the next day that Nails was very gentle.  That's me there, all snuggled up in my sleeping bag.

 

In the morning, I woke up early, (another side effect of being a new dad.  As I said previously, I slept on the far left of the tent, Vixen was next to me, then Nails, then Kelley.  Nails, half asleep and surely hungover, was down to spoon.  "Vixen, your hair smells so good."  He unconsiously blurted out.  "That's actually me."  Kelley corrected.  "Same difference."  Was Rob's reply, without missing a beat.

Seemingly out of nowhere.  Slatz groaned, clearly just awoken, but still ready to take a dig.  "Smoothe move Ex-lax."  I thought this was about the funniest thing in the world, so I started laughing, and it was contagious, especially with Nails.  He is the easiest dude to get to laugh.  Most of the time, just looking at him with the slightest smirk will send him on a bender of a giggle fest that will last several minutes.  This was just such an occasion.  So much for anyone sleeping in.  Vixen and I headed for the bathroom building and we walked past Lynne's car.  We peeked inside and there she was, asleep in the car.  I knocked on the window to make sure she was up, cause I'm an asshole like that.

Day 2, 8:34 a.m.

Trid and her friend departed the area on a quest to replace the baggo board that I had destroyed on the previous day.  Nails cooked up some delicious breakfast.  I went through my routine with Fuzzynuts, who was pretty much appearing at every meal by this time.  The rest of us congregated around the campfire as Slatz and I started the blaze.  The ridiculous conversations picked up right where they left off.  We turned on the music, and it was a beautiful day.  Time for Bloody Marys and Screwdrivers.  And it began.  Nails cooked up some delicious breakfast and we feasted.  We had to coat our bellies for what would sure to be an even longer day of drinking.

After a not so long time, Trid and her friend returned from their trip.  "We found a Wal-Mart."  My sister placed a "wet floor" sign, that was obviously stolen, on top of the rock that we had all been tripping over all weekend and nearly killing ourselves.  "One problem solved." She said calmly, the rest of us just kind of accepting what had happened.  "And, we got a replacement for baggo!"  "Nice!" I thought, I was off the hook.  The game formerly known as baggo was forever renamed Penguin Face, by yours truly.  Strangely, it fit.  The boards looked like gian penguins, with the holes where the bags go directly over the penguin's face, thus, the origin of Penguin Face.  We promptly began a tournament, and game 1 was not a friendly competetion.  It was a no-holds-bar, drag 'em out, beat 'em down brawl.  It pitted Slatz and Emma vs. Trid and her friend.  Trid's team quickly shot out to a 12-0 lead.  Instead of fading off into the night, Slatz and Emma would not be denied.  They came back slowly but surely.  12-6, 13-8, 16- 12, 18-18! I was judging the contenst, and of course drinking my face off, which led to this pronouncement.  "THIS IS THE GREATEST COMEBACK IN THE HISTORY OF PENGUIN FACE!!!"  Well no shit dude, it's the first ever game of Penguin Face.  My Al Michaels impression would not be deterred; however.  The game was to 21, but of course, needed to be won by two points.  Standard drinking game procedure.  It went well into overtime.  Sweat poured from the competitor's faces, though it was mostly comprised of booze seeping from their pores.  The spectators were on the edge of their seats.  The competitor's nerves were like steel.  It was the greatest game in Penguin Face history.  The score ballooned to 29-28, Slatz team ahead.  Trid hit a Penguin face on her first throw of the round.  The pressure was on Slatz.  If he scored no points, my sisters team would win.  Slatz, however, channeled his inner David Ortiz.  He nailed a Penguin Face, negating my sister's clutch shot.  Trid put both her next bags on the Penguin, and Slatz missed his next shot.  If Slatz missed his last shot, Trid would be up 30-29.  Ice water in his veins...Slatz drilled a Penguin Face, setting off a celebration, beginning with me jumping up from my chair, spitting my mouthful of beer all over the place and exclaiming, "DO YOU BELIEVE IN MIRACLES!!! YES!!"  It was epic, and may never be duplicated.

Day 2, 12:57 p.m.

After lunch and a celebration filled with Captain Morgan's, we elected to hike up the nearby hill, leading up a 2.3 mile trail.  Luckily, Nails had traversed this treacherous journey once before, so we knew we would be ok.  After what seemed like a 4 hour trek, we began to ask Nails if we were almost there. 

He continued to assure us that the top was "right around the corner."  After what seemed like an additional 4 hours, we finally reached the summit.  Victory was ours.  Was it reckless to climb a mountain and peer over the ledge while completely shitfaced, with one mis-step leading to our untimely death?  Of course, but that was part of the fun.  The feel of triumph far outweighed the danger.

 

We climbed back down the mountain, after taking in some truly breathtaking views.  It was truly a place between the insecurity of man and the insanity of nature, and we made sure we appreciated it.  The rest of the trip went as expected.  We drank well into the night. Ran around with headlamps on, and woke up in the morning, ready to make the trip home.  We cleaned up our site and made our way home.  I was pulled over by a Vermont State Police trooper, who asked me why I was speeding.  "Trust me officer, you want me out of this state as soon as possible."

"Just right."  He said, and let me go.  What the hell was with these hippies in Vermont?



In Between Insane and Insecure- Part 2

Part 2-The Legend of Fuzzynuts

Day 1, 12:58 p.m.

Burgers and dogs were up.  That's how you start.  We bought all kinds of good food, you start with the easiest stuff and open up the Doritos and snackies and start with burgers and dogs on the grill.  The weather couldn't have been more....well, you get it at this point.  The weather was good.  I'm not going through a thesaurus to look for words that mean the same as perfect.  Ideal, maybe?  Nah, doesn't do it justice.

I settled into my seat next to the fire.  I had a nice spot between the grill and the fire, and the woods that ran down a large hill began directly to my left.  My friends sat with their food and drinks in a half circle.  Trid, her friend, Emma, Slatz, Nails, Vixen, Kelley, and Lynn.  We had a LOT of beer to go through, and we were up for the challenge.  Slatz is famous for being a huge bully when it comes to drinking.  When he gets his buzz on, he usually lets us have it, though always with a huge smile on his face.  "Drink up you pussy."  He laughed at me, even though I was on about my 5th beer of the 1st hour of drinking.  He then got pretend serious.  "Seriously, Vin, DRINK!"  This prompted me to slug another beer, and another, and another.  Nails laughed at the situation. (He laughs at EVERY situation.)  I'm not sure I know another grown man who giggles as much as that silly motherfucker. 

"What are you laughing at?" Slatz asked, now looking at Nails. "You drink too, pussy!"  Nails can't drink beer quite as fast as the rest of us could.  In fact, he's not really supposed to drink beer at all because of his stomach, so he broke out the vodka, and started pounding that instead.  This prompted my sister Trid to crack open the Captain Morgan's, which is her drink of choice.  She even dressed as Captain Morgan for Halloween one year.  Now THAT is dedication to your drink.  At any rate, the shit-show had officially begun.  It was like a snowball.  Nails hit the vodka, Trid opened the rum, and this made me and Slatz jealous so we started in on the hard shit too.  Luckily, the rest of the girls stuck with the beer or who knows what would have happened.

I cooked some more burgers and some sausage on the grill, knowing that soon enough I would be incapable of cooking anything edible without burning my hands off or destroying the grill.  I was still coherent enough to know that we needed some more food lining our bellies if we had any chance of seeing the sunset.

3:32 p.m.

The conversation ramped up around the fire.  Something took hold of me and I got locked in as I ate my burger.  I can't remember exactly what I was saying.  It was almost like I had blacked out and suddenly became the funniest person on Earth...or I was just drunk.  It did feel in a way like I was Frank the Tank during the debate scene at the end of Old School, where he owns the debate against the Ragin' Cajun and then snaps out of it and says, "What just happened?"  This prompted Kelley to declare, "Vinny, you are by far our most quotable friend." I'll say pretty much anything to get a laugh, regardless of how inappropriate it is.  I was in the middle of telling the story of Nails' near-death experience, (go to my archives and read the entry titled, My Friend's Brush With Death), and the craziest thing happened.  This tiny little chipmunk appeared from the woods, walked right up to me, looked up, and pretty much said, "What's up?"

It stopped me dead in my tracks.  Don't chipmunks usually run away at the first sign of being noticed by a group of humans?  Not Fuzzynuts, which is what I quickly dubbed our new friend.  I looked in his eyes for a what seemed like a long time.  He was undeterred.  "What's happening Fuzzynuts?  You hungry bud?"  Fuzzynuts nodded and pointed to my half eaten burger.  I looked down at the now blurry looking cow meat that sat in silence on my plate.  "Oh hell yeah Fuzzynuts, you gotta try some of this shit."  My friends laughed and implored me to feed the poor little scavenger.  "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I'M DOING!!"  Apparently, they hadn't just heard my conversation with my new friend.  

I broke off a piece of my burger and I laid it at my feet.  Fuzzynuts  cautiously but confidently approached.  He grabbed the burger, stood up on his hind legs, and began to feast...right at the side of my sneaker.  He packed his little mouth with a man-sized portion of burger.  "Where's my beer motherfucker?"  Fuzzynuts scolded.  I shook my head smiling.  "Dude, I'm drinking vodka right now, but I can grab you one if you want?"  My friends were now confused.  Was I really having a conversation with a wild rodent?  I reached into the cooler, cracked a Bud Light, and placed it next to my furry friend.  Fuzzynuts inspected the beer and decided it wasn't for him. "Suit yourself, Fuckface."  I shrugged and took another blast of vodka.  I placed another piece of burger on the ground, this time soaking it in beer.  Apparently all the chipmunk needed was a mixer made of meat to drink with, because he gobbled up the beer soaked burger and ran back into the woods.  "Great, now he's gonna bring that shit back to his family and his kids are gonna get drunk.  Is it weird that I feel bad about that?"  

"Vin, you're fucking losing it."  Vixen laughed.  And that was pretty much the sentiment around the campfire. "No, Vixen, I'd be losing it if I told you that 9-11 was my favorite holiday, or that I enjoy seeing car accidents on the highway, or that I love the smell of nursing homes...THEN, I'd be losing it."

5:44 p.m.

Well as you might imagine, the alcohol began to flow even faster and with the fierceness of Tyson in his prime.  We elected to start playing some camping/drinking games.  Slatz and Emma brought up the drinking game formerly known as Baggo.  The night gets a little foggy after that.  We cooked up some steak tips for dinner and continued to drink unnecessary amounts of hard alcohol.  I chose the word unnecessary because when it comes right down to it, does anything good really happen when people get THAT drunk? Especially with a large campfire going?  There was that rock that I mentioned in part 1, and at several points throughout the weekend, I stumbled over it, mostly in the direction of the raging inferno that we called a campfire.  At one point I thought I was going in...to the point where everyone jumped up and reached for me.  Being the physical specimen that I am with the dexterity of a surgeon and the agility of an NFL running back, I regained my feet while gracefully stepping through the fire, barely singing my leg hair and not spilling a sip of my vodka.

 "Holy shit guy!"  Nails said, clearly rattled.  My sister just shook her head.  Slatz gave one, "Ha."  I had escaped a certain hospital trip.  Had I wound up in the fire, I would have surely been in trouble.  I was drunk enough where it would have been hard enough to get to my feet if I hadn't been on fire.  In addition to that, nobody was sober enough to get my ass out of the fire before I got burned pretty bad.  It was all moot; however, since my athleticism saved me.  My cockiness, however, burned me. Literally.  I leaned over the fire to talk shit to my fallen enemy, and a flame reached up and whipped me in the face, singing my nose hairs.  Beer muscles even come into play when you try to brawl with a fire, apparently.  Feeling pretty good about myself, I started to run around camp like a maniac.  I approached one of the Baggo boards and apparently thought it was made of solid oak and not plywood, because I tried using it as a springboard.  It snapped under my feet as if it was a paper bag.  I stopped in my tracks and looked around at the shocked faces of my friends.

"Nice job dick."  Slatz said.  "That thing cost $20 bucks."
"Well it was only worth about $3, look how flimsy it is."
"Was." Trid rubbed it in.
"Well at least now I can throw it in the fire."  And I did.  It went up in a blaze of immense glory and triumph.  It was if I had destroyed the board subconsciously on purpose, so I could engulf it in flames. 

I began flexing over the fire, and just then, out of the corner of my eye, at the edge of the forest in front of the now setting sun, was the silhouette of Fuzzynuts.  It was the largest shadow ever cast by his species.  There he stood. Defiant.  Brave.  Hungry.  I was frozen as we made eye contact.  I mouthed to myself an amazed, "What the fuck??"  My friend's bitching about the piece of shit game faded and the world went away.  Fuzzynuts exuded something indescribable.  He was like the Perseus of the chipmunk world.  Half God, half rodent.  "Friend or foe?" I asked him.  Fuzzynuts just stared at me.  I reached for the knife utensil hanging from the grill....slowly.  I held it in front of me as my adversary rose up on his hind legs even taller.  "FRIEND OR FOE!!"

"What the fuck is he doing?"  Kelley asked nobody in particular.

Fuzzynuts turned and looked up at the grill, then back at me.  He pointed a tiny but steady hand up towards the grilled meat.  "STEAK TIP MOTHERFUCKER!!"  I fell backwards but quickly scrambled to my feet.  I scraped a giant steak tip onto a paper plate and placed it near Fuzzynuts, who had clearly stolen alpha male status from me, and for the rest of the trip, if he was present, he was running shit.  I conceded power like an old lion, once the leader of the pride, and relinquished my role to the clearly superior mammal, both physically and mentally.

That's the way I remembered it anyway.  I was later told that the chipmunk came back and I gave him a steak tip and that was pretty much it.  Look at this picture.  This was no Demigod...just a chipmunk.  But to those of us in the forest that weekend, high in the Green Mountains, he was much more than that.

Fuzzynuts was only the beginning.  We ventured into our 8th strait hour of mostly drinking hard liquor.  Who would pass out first?  Would anyone fire vomit all over the campsite?  How would it workout in the tent which housed myself, Nails, Vixen, and Kelley?  How many bad decisions would be made?  Could we match the drinking intensity of day 1? What would replace Baggo for fun for the remainder of our stay?  Would we escape the woods with our dignity intact and our lean-to not in a pile of smoldering ashes?  Would our friend Merph make a surprise appearance all the way from his then home in Miami, Florida?  Would this trip be the beginning of the end of my marriage?  Find out in the thrilling conclusion of In Between Insane and Insecure-Part 3, The Origin of Penguin Face. 

In Between Insane and Insecure-Part 1

Part 1:  The Long, Strange Trip

This will likely be most funny to those of us who were in attendance, but I'd still read it, if I were you.  You might want to smoke some weed first, though....and get comfortable.  You might even want to print this one out and leave it next to your toilet.  I have friends who still read at a 4th grade level, and it might take them more than one sitting to get through this.

This three-part tale documents the three best days of camping in the history of mankind!  That's a complete overstatement.  It was actually three straight days of a group of friends who are way too easily amused.  It took place deep in the woods of Vermont, at a campground named Gifford's Woods, nestled between two large hills in the Green Mountain Range. 

It was more than just 3 drunken days of camping.  What transpired on this weekend was much more.  It was the perfect storm of personalities, leaving our stresses of everyday life behind, and being the people that we truly are.  It was a perfect situation, in the perfect setting, to let the very souls of us involved to be seen the way we should be.  Every day.  It's impossible of course to be what you want to be and still live in the real world, where there are responsibilities and bills to pay. That's not to say we were different people from the time we unloaded our camping gear until the time we packed up.  We were all just, I don't know...the BEST of ourselves, for one weekend.  And it was fun.  It was epic.  We laughed until we slept, and then woke up laughing. This entry won't do the memories that we all have of that weekend justice, but I'll try anyways.  Ironically, the reason I don't recall every last detail of the weekend,  is probably a result of the weekend itself. 

And so, on to the culprits.  It was me, Slatz, Emma, my sister Trid, her friend, (who contributed nothing to this weekend and will therefore be almost completely left out), Nails, Vixen, Irish Kelley, and Lynn.  3 carloads of campers.  Endless food, beverages, and supplies anyone would bring on a camping trip.  Admittedly, Slatz and Nails are far better at camping than I am.  Hell, most of the 6 women that were with us are better outdoorsmen than I am.  My job is to cook, (at least in the absence of B-Ride, who is far and away the best at cooking in our entire crew, regardless of the heat source, utensils, and ingredients available.)  It was also my job to be as entertaining as possible while the others do things like remember to bring lanterns, tarps, and those such essentials.  They were also the driving force in planning out and building the campsite.  I mostly supervised.  In the entertainment department, however, everyone brought their A-Games.  It wasn't just me...not even close.  We were missing some usual suspects, B-Ride had to work all weekend, my brother Joey couldn't make it, Merph was in Florida, (at least he started the weekend there...more on this later.)  In retrospect, it may have worked out, as the number of people we had fit comfortably in the campsite we reserved, which had been the same one we had the year before...the biggest one on the grounds.  If we had any more people, our group would have been split into two campsites, which wouldn't have made a huge difference, cause we'd all be together except for when we were in our tents, but still.

Day 1: Friday- 6:48 a.m.

I got up, packed my shit into my Jeep, and kissed my 9 month pregnant wife goodbye for the weekend.  What? She was fine.  She wasn't due for 3 more weeks with my first-born and her pregnancy had gone swimmingly.  Did I mention before that I'm divorced?  My reasoning at the time that if something DID happen, and she went into early labor, I would be a mere 3 hours away, and would be there in plenty of time.  I made sure that our nearby family and friends were aware I was away and could get her to the hospital quickly if needed.  The fact that I'm even writing this might be my subconscious guilt coming out, but whatever.

First stop, Trid's apartment, where she and her friend were all packed up and ready to go.  Easy pickup.  Moved some stuff from her friend's car into mine, take all of Trid's stuff, which had been packed and ready to go since the previous night, and we'd be on our way within 2 minutes.  That's when the first bad omen of the weekend took place.  Trid, exited her home with her friend to meet me in the parking lot and smoke a cigarette before we left, cause there was no smoking in my Jeep.  She closed her apartment door behind her, and locked herself out, with all her packed shit sitting neatly in her living room.  Karma had struck me again.  It was then that I knew that I shouldn't have yelled out the window at an elderly woman who had the audacity to cross the street in front of me and cost me precious seconds on my way to Trid's.  After about 15 minutes of buzzing every apartment doorbell from the outside, and receiving no response, we resorted to literally yelling through the open windows of the building's tenants, aka Trid's mortal enemies.  She's a McRoberts.  It's programmed into our DNA to hate our neighbors for some reason.  They heard us, those useless unemployed fucks...every one of them heard us, and I'm sure every one of them took pleasure in learning that Trid was begging with futility to be let inside. 

Finally I took command and smashed through her 1st story apartment window.  I asked my sister if it was OK, of course.  Her response:  "I haven't paid rent for like 4 months anyways, what are they gonna do, evict me?"  Classic line #1 of the trip.  We grabbed the stuff and we were on our way.

7:28 a.m.

After stopping for gas, Mountain Dew, and other munchies for the ride, we headed to Slatz' house to meet up with him, Emma, Irish Kelley, and Vixen, who drove car #2.  We planned on driving up, caravan-style, just to make things easier. Lynn and Nails were driving up a little later in the day. Somehow, though the three of us in my Jeep had lived in our hometown for the majority of our entire lives, we zigged when we should have zagged.  We basically went left when we should have gone right, to get to Slatz' house.  A minor error, which didn't cost us any time, but still seemed like bad omen #2, and we weren't even on the highway yet.  It was comforting to pull up to Slatz' house and see that their carload was just finishing packing the car.  Slatz had a certain look in his eye.  He was all business, and it was at this very moment the fear from the bad omens had dissipated as quickly as an outdoor fart.  I had a real good feeling now.  I was fired up now.  Game on.

9:04 a.m.

After a mostly uneventful ride across the great Commonwealth of Massachusetts, we stopped at the New Hampshire State Liquor Store.  The store operates for the sole general purpose to provide liquor to those of us from the Commonwealth who get taxed up the ass, tax free.  New Hampshire is basically a quaint, harmless state where Massholes such as ourselves use as our own personal playground, to buy their booze, camp in their forests, and snowboard down their mountains.  They're kinda like an ex-girlfriend, or "buddy" who works the gate at Fenway park, or France, in the way that they're just used up, squeezed for every ounce of fun that they have in them, and then discarded like a used, filthy condom.  We loaded up on vodka, Captain Morgan's spiced rum, which is my sister's drink of choice.  We even bought some weird banana liquor type filth.  I took a few swills of it in the car.  It was potent, but disgusting.  I mean REALLY disgusting.  Despite this, it didn't make it through the trip.  By the end of the night, it tasted delicious.  You know how it goes, you bunch of alcoholic sumbitches.  We made the stop as quick as possible, and continued north, into the beautiful Green Mountains in central Vermont.  Hippy country.  I'd be willing to bet, pound for pound, Vermont is the hippiest place in the country. 

My carload stopped at a small convenient store located on the scenic road that takes you from the interstate to the mountains.  Slatz continued towards the market where we stop for food every year, closer to the campsite.  We entered the store to buy a few supplies, bug spray, Excedrin, toilet paper, etc.  I walked past the clerk, about 65 years old, pretty chubby, dirty blue shirt and circle frame eyeglasses worn low on the tip of his nose, who never quite made it out of the late 60's.  He gave us a huge smile as we entered.  "How's it going my friend?" I said.  The clerk just kept on smiling for about a 3 count, leaned back against the wall on his stool, put his hands behind his head as if he was in a recliner in his living room, nodded his head, and softly answered, "Just right."  Epic quote #3.  I had never heard that question answered in such a fashion, and I challenge any of you out there to think of anyone else who has.  His light brown, nappy dreadlocks spilled out of the sides and back of his bandanna.  I thought I could faintly smell the scent of weed on him, and thought to myself, "Why am I even the slightest bit surprised that this dude is high already?  His weekend probably starts on Tuesday afternoon."
"Wellsir, I couldn't agree with you more.  It is just right, isn't it."
"Right on brother..." and he started to laugh as he leaned forward over the counter.  He then abruptly stopped laughing and got serious for a minute.  "We had a lot of rain this spring." He said, practically looking right through me with his bloodshot eyes.  "Lots of flooding.  Y'all got bug spray."
"Well, yeah, we have some, but we're gonna buy some more here if that's cool with you." I answered, becoming more perplexed with every passing second of this conversation.  "What's your name friend?" 
"I'm the wolf."
"You sure are, man."

We loaded up, and were on our way.  I explained the conversation to my passengers and couldn't stop laughing.  I just thought the guy was great.  I felt even better still about the trip.  We caught up with the others at the supermarket, and, like every year, bought more food and beer than the 9 of us could possibly have consumed over 3 days, or so we thought.  A few hundred dollars and about 5 coolers worth of beer and food were squeezed into the two vehicles, and we departed on the last, 20 minute leg of the journey.  In all seriousness, it is a pretty nice ride.  It has some great views, a bridge that overlooks a deep trench with a river a few hundred feet down, and the couple towns you drive through are true, northern New England, old school towns.  They consist mostly of one main road with a small commercial area containing a few small diners, ski shops, and stores for tourists that sell little trinkets and post cards and whatnot.  All of this is fine, except for the fact that it's a 3 and a half hour drive from home, and the location is basically just a lean-to in the middle of the woods.  The only difference between Gifford's woods, and Foxboro State Forest is that it's in the mountains, which we later found made for great hiking.  We were blessed with epic quote # 4 of the trip in the parking lot of the grocery store.  We were smashing ice against the ground and filling the coolers when Irish Kelley, clearly amazed at exactly how far away we were from home, turned to Slatz, "Dude, what the fuck, were there no campsites available in Ontario?"  During the previous summer, Slatz found Gifford's Woods when we were researching, at the last minute of course, places to camp on the weekend of Independence Day.  It wasn't really a choice, it was a lack of options.  Well we had so much fun on that trip, that we chose to camp there again.  It was inadvertently and immediately cemented as a tradition.  At any rate, it was still a far ride, and Kelley, out of nowhere, made a pretty good point.  Those of us in earshot got a kick out of this, because truthfully, we WERE further north than about 70% of the population of Ontario, Canada.  We were far north of Toronto and nearly as far north as the city of Ontario.  Slatz was less amused.  He actually became a little defensive and felt he needed to explain his decision.  Ending his diatribe with a "Fuck you guys, go camp in Canada then!"  It's just Slatz though...he said it with a big smile shining through his full, black beard.  "These ass-clowns couldn't find anything closer last year either."  He was right, and we got a good laugh out of it.  I'll admittedly take the ride up to Vermont just for the nostalgia, at this point. 

10:52 a.m.

Arrival.  Game time.  It was on.  We unloaded the cars and set up the campsite the way it had been the previous year.  We moved the picnic table up into the lean-to, set up our chairs around the fire pit, strategically placed the grill, moved the coolers near the circle, put the dry food and the speakers with the iPod dock and all of our bags in the lean-to.  This is another reason I won't camp anywhere else, if I have my way.  The lean-to campsites at Gifford's woods were fantastic.  These weren't just thrown together.  They were well built, Lincoln log style with a clean, wood plank floor, raised up off the ground.  If it rained, you weren't getting wet if you were inside this thing.  Ours was spacious enough were an entire picnic table could be setup inside with plenty of room to move around and leave room for supplies.  Lanterns could be hung from the nails on the outside so we could party well into the darkness of the night.

We knew that the faster we got setup, the faster the fun would start.  And by fun, I mean the drinking.  The proper way to start any camping trip is by firing up the grill and cracking beers.  The supplies were unloaded, and next came the tents.  The year before, Nails was so proud of his setup, that he joyfully called it "Tent City."  He had arranged a series of tents and tarps arranged between trees where the tarps hanging from rope tied around the trees.  The year before, we had two separate sites, because we had more people, and by the time I arrived, Nails had his "Tent City" completely constructed.  Nails is a carpenter by trade, we don't just call him Nails cause we think it sounds cool.  I swear he probably drew up blue prints for this thing and he was so proud of himself.  It rained for a good portion of the trip that year, and Nails and his then girlfriend spent two nights sleeping in their car.  "Tent City" was a complete disaster.  He was determined not to make the same mistake twice.  He went the opposite direction this time.  1 tent, 4 people, situated closer to the lean-to.  Taking up residence in this tent was Irish Kelley, Nails, Vixen, and then me, in that order from left to right.  We strategically set it with the alternating-gender sleeping arrangement in order to decrease the gayness factor.  Slatz and Emma were in another tent, Trid and her friend occupied the third tent.  Our setup was perfect.  We had the lean-to, the grilling area, the fire pit with the circle of fold up chairs situated around it, an area adjacent but off to the side of the lean-to.  We then left an area big enough for our outdoor games to be setup.  A space now soaked with the blood of the warriors who played in what would become the inaugural, and greatest tournament of Penguin Face ever played.  More on this later in the trilogy.

We looked around, proud of the blank slate we had transformed into the perfect campsite.  It was pristine.  A glorious masterpiece of a site, utilizing every square foot of land that we could.  Even the location of the site was perfect.  We had the high ground.  We were so set back from any other site, that nobody could come close to bothering us, and more importantly, nobody would bitch about us if we were loud and stayed up late.  Believe me, both took place in abundance.  There were two bathroom cabins with running water, and we were a path down a hill away from one of them.  You could pay to take showers there, (more for the women then for us guys), and also toilets.  This also benefited the women more than us, but us guys, on more than one occasion throughout the weekend, made great use of the men's room.  And by great use, I meant we splattered the toilets with our collective Bud mud in a nice, daily cleaned toilet complete with nice soft t.p.  Have you ever had to take Vodka shits in the woods?  It's not fun.  It can ruin a weekend.  They're the type of dumps you take where you'd need an entire tree full of leaves, (or both socks) to wipe.  I don't care if it's a luxury that "hardcore" campers don't need.  Same with the lean-to.   I'd rather not be "hardcore" if it meant hanging out in the woods during a downpour while dodging lightning bolts and not getting poison ivy on my asshole. I'll take the lean-to and the bathroom cabins, thank you.  For those of us with penises, we even had a nice urinal at our disposal right at the edge of our site, but away from where everyone sat.  It was basically a rock that we stood on near the far side of the lean-to which overlooked a hill.  It was perfect, and a perfect campsite is paramount for having a perfect camping weekend.  If there was any type of blemish, it was a medium size rock protruding from the ground which was easily stumbled upon if you weren't paying attention, more so when you were drunk.  It wasn't near anything in particular, so that if someone fell over it, it would do no damage.  More of a nuisance than anything.  This insignificant part of nature would become the catalyst for the weekend transcending into something more than a weekend of camping, into something much, much more.

Me, Slatz and Nails, who had now arrived driving up seperately along with Lynn, drove the Jeep down to the office area where we purchased a shit-ton of firewood.  I LOVE campfires.  I love being in charge of the campfires.  I love to build up the base, get kindling, construct the perfect structure of logs, and lighting that bitch on fire and keeping it burning for the entire day.  Nails and Slatz took care of the fire throughout the weekend too, but I loved to do it, and I tended to it until I started seeing two of them late in the night and had to relinquish the duty to someone else before I fell in and gave myself 3rd degree burns and smoke inhalation.

12:13 p.m.

We brought it in and stood in a circle between the lean-to and fire area.  We all made eye contact.  We had fierce determination in our eyes, the sheer joy of children in our hearts, and ice cold beers in our hands.  We cracked the cans open and raised our frosty beverages up in front of us and we all let out a primal yell to announce to the grounds that we had arrived.  The first taste of beer was perfect, which if you hadn't noticed by now, is the running theme of the story.  Perfection.  I blasted up the grill.  It was lunch time.  I got myself in the zone, and we cracked into the first food and drinks of the weekend.  It reminded me of when I was a kid going outside on a snow day and being the first one to jump in the freshly fallen snow in the yard. 

The long, strange trip to Gifford's Woods was complete, but our journey was only beginning.

Regrets are for People Who Hate Their Lives

I recently asked my mom if she regrets having me and my siblings.  I wrote about this previously, but it fascinated me so much, I decided to elaborate some.  I added to the question, "Would your life have turned out better without us?  Be honest."  She looked at me without smiling, as if perplexed by the question.  "I don't regret it for a second.  You kids are the best thing that ever happened to me in my life.  Maybe it would have been easier for me, but I wouldn't trade the life I have with you for a million EASY lifetimes."

Holy shit ma, that was pretty deep!  I guess in reality it was a pretty stupid question, no matter how good it sounded in theory.   Her answer kept me up at night, thinking and thinking about it.  I wondered if she meant it, which led me to think of my own life and my own decisions.  I tried to think of a single thing in my life that I regret.  The result I kept coming back to was that everything in my life that led up to now, has shaped me into the person I am today.  I'd probably say, that in the traditional sense, I've made more mistakes than I've made "good" decisions.  I've done some pretty dumbass things.  I kept thinking, "Do I regret any of the stupid shit I've done?  Would my life have turned out differently if I went left instead of right? Said "No" instead of "Hell yeah!"  Of course the answer is yes, it would have.  I can't go back and change anything, and even if I could, I wouldn't.  I like the way my life has turned out so far and look forward to the future.  People who regret decisions are usually unhappy.

I could have done things and made decisions that would have made my life a lot easier to deal with now.  Where's the fun in that, though?  Some decisions are made for you.  I could have been born into a rich family and grown up with all the amenities of Billy Madison.  That would have made my life easier, but would people have liked me?  Would I have worked for anything in my life?  Nope.  Would people be jealous of me and resented me? Probably.  If my parents didn't have more kids after me, (I was an "accident" as you know if you've read my previous posts), I wouldn't have the best siblings on Earth.  My best friend wouldn't be my brother.  If I never met my ex-wife, I wouldn't have my kids.  I also wouldn't have child support payments.  Easier life, not a better one.  Not even close.  Get the idea?

I hated my mom's boyfriend.  I legitimately didn't like him.  He never had kids of his own, and I don't think he understood how to handle it when his girlfriend and her 4 kids moved into his nice, brand new house.  He made my mom happy.  I wish I saw it at the time, but I was a teenager.  I moved out as soon as I could when I was 18 and lived on my own.  It was a struggle, certainly more so than if I had stayed at home.  I got along better with my mom when I moved out.  I didn't talk to her boyfriend for a long time.  The older I got, however, the more I saw how happy he made her, how good of a companion he was for her.  During my engagement with my first wife, I called him.  I left him a message.  I said that I was sorry for all the things I said and did to him, and for not recognizing the sacrifices he made in his life, to make one for my mom and us kids.  I asked if he would be my mom's date to my wedding.  He said he'd get back to me, and I'm sure he struggled with the decision, but he eventually called me back and said that he would like to go.  He passed away before my wedding day.  I don't regret my relationship with him, necessarily, it was what it was.  Maybe it makes me appreciate him more and opens my eyes to what he meant to my family now that he's gone.  Even though I've always said that you shouldn't praise someone after they pass away if you didn't praise them when they were here. Maybe he was the exception, and only because it made me come to the realization that he didn't hate me, he just didn't understand me, nor I him.  It was MY decision to move out, and it was probably the right one...but I'll never know for sure. 

I know that if my mom never met him, I never would have met all the friends I have today.  My dad would never have met his second wife.  My sister never would have met the father of her child.  I wouldn't have met the mother of mine.  It was a decision not made by me, or anyone else in the above group.  It was a domino effect.  It was like November 5th, 1955 to Marty McFly.  A moment in time that changed everything, for everybody.  My mom made the decision to move in with her boyfriend, in the town that I now call home, the same town I've called home for more than half my life, and it led to a great number of sequences of events that shaped the lives of so many people.  I'm sure it wasn't a spur of the moment idea.  It was probably talked about and thought through, probably for a good amount of time...but there was a moment when the decision was made final.

I'd like to think I'm smart enough, especially now that I'm a parent, to make decisions that won't end up with me in jail or in the ground...I think I am.

The Man Who Sold the World

Sometimes people get spoken about like they were saints after they die.  It's as if death brought some kind of aura to them and now that they're gone, we can talk about them like they were the greatest person we've ever known.  I never understood this.  I guess it's a respect thing.  Maybe when it happens so suddenly, we think we have more time.My philosophy is that if the person is so great in life, why not speak highly of them when they're on this Earth?  Why not relish in their company and tell people, either who know the person or who don't, how great they are?  Why do we wait until after they're gone to do this?

I recently lost a good friend who was the exception to the rule.  I guess I'm being hypocritical by writing this now, because he passed away, but the point here is to explain that this man was magnetic, and spoken highly of by anyone who knew him.  He was told this to his face.  He was talked about amongst friends and colleague when he wasn't there.  People were genuinely happy to be around him.  We listened intently when he spoke.  And he loved to speak.  He went on and on about his family, his wife and three sons.  He talked about his horses, and his ranch and the zip-line he wanted to build on his property in Alabama.   How cool is that? 

Steve was the hardest working man I've ever known.  I know this first hand.  He wanted nothing more than to be the best provider possible for his family, no matter how ragged he ran himself.  He cooked meat on the grill better than anyone.  His marinades were those of legend.  He loved the rodeo.  He loved helping people.  He helped me all the time; be a better worker, be a better father, be a better man. We joked with each other about our accents.  He made me laugh constantly.  He called everyone "brother," He was a good 'ole boy.  He was the man who would sell the world for the better of others.

He loved his co-workers, because they weren't colleagues or supervisors or employees to him, they were his friends.    Steve was a strict father at times, but it was only so he could turn his boys into great men.  He was so truly and absolutely proud of them.  He had bumps in the road with his wife, but he loved her as much as a husband could love a wife.  He had health problems, completely unrelated to his eventual death.  He should have already passed away.  He spent almost a year in the hospital with an incredibly serious illness.  When he was brought in to the hospital a few years back, it looked pretty grim.  He told me the story about when they took him in, he knew it was really bad.  The nurse on duty told him, "Steve, you're not going to die during my shift.  I'm not going to let you."  After hearing this, he thought to himself, "You know what, I'm not gonna die during anyone's shift." Badass.  I could literally go on and on, but this already sounds enough like a eulogy, and I don't want that. 

Believe me, I spoke highly of Steve when he was with us.  Everyone who knew him did.  I'm NOT saying these things now that he's gone...but I am writing about it.  I just wish I did this a while ago.  How many people are happy and content with their lives and have it all?  He was a happy person. How many people can you TRULY say that about?  My friend Steve did.

I was with Steve when he passed away.  I'm comforted by that in a weird way.  He wasn't alone.  I also feel some kind of guilt.  I'm reminded that there was nothing I could have done, despite going over it again and again.  It was sudden, and it was unfair.  He was too young.  He had life by the balls, he had plans.

I'll fully admit that I'm not a very religious person.  I have faith that if I'm a good person, and treat people well, then I'll get the same in return.  If heaven is a real place, and Steve believed that there is, he's there, waiting on his loved ones.  Rest in peace my friend.  You left us too early, but you lived what amounts to two lifetimes while you were here.  Not many people can say that. 

"Somewhere in the darkness, the gambler, he broke even.  And In his final words I found an ace that I could keep."  Love you brother.

Raise Your Hand if I've Been In You

Only an asshole would use a title like that.  Winner winner chicken dinner!  I happen to be one of the best assholes I know!  At the same time, I have good values and morals and I try to be a good person.  I'm a walking contradiction, as Billy Joe Armstrong once said.

When I split up with my ex-wife at the end of 2010, something in me said, "I don't give a fuck."  I never cheated on my ex.  I had opportunities, but I didn't.  Maybe looking back I was mad at myself cause I probably should have.  Hindsight is 20/20.  For most of 2011, I went on a vagina seeking rampage the likes of which I had never experienced before.  Any shyness, (which wasn't much), had completely dissipated.  I began banging like I had never bung before.  Something clicked in my brain that reminded me, "Hey, girls love fucking too!"  What a completely eye opening revelation!  There are caveats to that statement, of course.  Girls also love relationships, and some think that sex and relationships are one in the same.  Sometimes they are.  I'm a relationship guy myself, but for a period of time after I became single, I was anything but a relationship guy.  I wasn't ready to commit to anyone right away, and I acted unfairly to some women.  I never misled them into thinking what we were doing, (hanging out occasionally and fucking) would turn into anything more.  That picture unintentionally gets muddied sometimes.

It took me a long time to realize just how easy it is to get a girl to sleep with you, (or fuck you, depending on which end of the language spectrum you prefer.)  I turned into a man whore.  If I was a girl myself, I would have been called a slut, a whore, a skank or whatever....but since I'm a guy, it doesn't work like that.  It's the world's most incredible double-standard.  When guys have sex with tons of girls, they brag to their friends and tell stories about them and one becomes a legend amongst his piers.  When girls do the same thing, it's as if they're ashamed of it.  They don't want to tell to many people because they'll think she's slutty and easy.  How did this happen!!   Not that I'm complaining, but really?  Those of us with penises sure lucked out on that one.  We also made out ok with the not getting periods, not having to give birth, not having to do our hair and our makeup every time we leave the house, not getting yeast infections, not being horrible drivers or unable to play any kind of watchable professional sport.  My point is that we have it much easier as guys.

I went to work after my split-up.  I was on a mission.  It was new territory for me.  Maybe I was trying to fill the void of being in a relationship with a series of meaningless romps, (some more meaningless than others).  I didn't like to be alone.  I DON'T like to be alone.  It's difficult for me to sleep without a girl in my bed.  (Why do you think I'm up at 4:00 a.m. talking about this when in reality, nobody really cares?) 

I had sex with friends, friends of friends, friends of my sister's, girls I've been friends with since the mid 90's, ex-girlfriends, waitresses, my neighbor, complete strangers I met on the Internet, complete strangers I met in airports or hotels across the nation, girls I met at the bar, (the old-fashioned way DOES still work.)  One or two were even absolute swamp-donkeys, it didn't matter. 

I was exclusive with some for a couple months, but nothing serious ever came of it.  The funny thing is, after a while, I started looking to be in a relationship again.  I'd get that need to be with someone who would consistently be there for me.  I wanted someone who could deal with me during my weak times instead of just my confident times and be able to handle my drama.  I would go on dates to try meet a girl that I clicked with.  Inevitably, since apparently girls are as horny as guys are, I would have sex with them on the first date literally every time.  That's not being cocky, no pun intended, because it takes two.  We'd meet up, have some food, some drinks, and one of us would wind up at the other's place.  So how could I be in a relationship with these women if they just fucked me on our first date??  I guess it wasn't so bad, and I actually did end up dating some of them for a month here, a couple months there.  After all, I had to separate the genders and put myself into their shoes.  They were mostly in the same boat I was in.  So I never felt bad about any of this.  I never purposely hurt any of them, and any of them that I did hurt, I did it so I couldn't continue to hurt them, if that makes sense.  I do have a conscience, after all, like I talked about at the beginning of this entry. 

The way I can tell that I didn't do anything too bad, is that I'm still friends and still talk to most of them.  Other than the one night stands I had with girls I met 4 hours ago, I talk to most of the girls that I've been with on a regular basis.  And they know and knew what was up.  I was being used the same way I was using them.  The picture was clear, for the most part, for both parties involved.  Nobody cared!  A couple of the girls who I was with actually introduced me to their friends, who they knew damn well I was going to bang!


Luckily, I was careful and didn't impregnate anybody, contract any diseases, or hurt anyone's feelings too badly.  Now I have a solid girlfriend, (who also knows about this time period of my life) and all's well with the world.  See, I'm not that big of an asshole, am I?

College? Who Needs It?

I went to college for about a month.  I know! Can you believe someone with the writing prowess that I possess barely attended college?  I like to think I have life experience.  More so than people who actually WENT to college.  I worked.  I grew up fast.  I have always been highly intelligent, and entering adulthood before the traditional college student helped me become wise beyond my years, so to speak.  I'm not afraid to say that. I went through a lot as a kid.  My house burned to the ground 2 days before Christmas when I was 6.  My parents got divorced when I was 9.  I moved around a lot.  I had to make new friends over and over again.  My family never had an abundance of money.  I had to adapt.

I'm not saying by any means that other people didn't go through much tougher times, not saying that at all.  I didn't have to get my ass out of the ghetto.  My parents didn't die in a horrific car accident.  My mom wasn't addicted to meth.  My dad didn't come home drunk every night.....let me rephrase that last one, he didn't come home drunk every night and beat us kids with a serving spoon and throw a lamp at my mom.   My sister wasn't abducted and never seen again.  You get the idea.  I didn't have to overcome any terrible tragedies.   My parents were 20 years old when I was born.  They had 4 kids by the time they were 27.  My dad worked hard, and we did OK.  My parents fulfilled all of our needs, shelter, nourishment, love.  When it came to wants, or luxuries, not so much.  I'm not complaining.  I was happy playing wiffle ball and street hockey and tag wars with the neighborhood kids  We lived in a two-family home with a backyard in a decent neighborhood.  We were above the poverty line, lower-middle class, I guess you'd say.  I'm just making the point that nothing was handed to me.  Ever. I didn't have an allowance.  I had to sell Kool-Aid so I could raise $4 bucks to rent a Nintendo game at Blockbuster video or get a value meal at Wendy's.  When I needed glasses, my parents got me glasses, so I could see, but they weren't exactly the most stylish frames.  They were Steve Urkel frames because  they were literally the cheapest ones in the store.  Ask my brother or sisters, if you know them, they'll HAPPILY tell you how retarded I looked.

I had to mow lawns and deliver papers and work for my uncle's landscaping company.  There was no such thing as, "Hey ma, my friends are going to the movies, can I have $10 bucks?"  (For you kids out there, $10 got you into the movies and paid for snacks back then!)  If I wanted to see the movie, my friends bought tickets with money they got from their parents, and snuck me in through a side entrance.  My friends let me "borrow" money for a soda or a snack at lunch during school.  If nobody had any money for me to borrow, I stole shit.  Nothing major, mostly just candy bars or a Maxim magazine.  I jumped the wall at concerts to get in.  I snuck past security to get into football games, (before 9/11.)  I FOUND ways to get shit.  After my parents got divorced, we wound up living in towns where most families had much more money than us, meaning our friends had much more money than us.  They had things bought for them.  They got "help" buying stuff or were given money for taking the trash out.  I had to save up my own money by working if I wanted to buy a new video game.  I had to save $500 to buy my first car, a red, 1987 Plymouth Reliant hatchback.  It was a beautiful machine. Automotive engineering at it's finest.  I once had sex in it while driving down the highway, like Charlie Sheen did in "The Chase."  Off track, sorry.  My friends had their cars given to them as Christmas presents.  Maybe I didn't have all the coolest things or live in a big fancy house or have brand new clothes every school year, but growing up like that instilled in me the fact they I would have to work to get the things I wanted.  I would have to work HARD.

Wherever I worked, I climbed the "corporate ladder."  I am a natural leader, whether it was moving from a cashier to a store manager at a supermarket, to what I do know, managing dozens of other individuals in a high paced, high stress job, (most of the people I manage, by the way, went to college.)  I got this from my father, who is also a go-getter, type A personality.  He's a guy that people like to be around.  I try to be like that, and for the most part, I think I DO emulate my father in that way.  He likes to be in control.  He likes to be the boss.  He wants to be the man wherever he works.  When he played softball, he was the coach of the team and the president of the league.  I was a leader when I played sports in high school.  I want to be the man, the boss, wherever I go.  I'm good at it.  I have my dad to thank for a lot of it, but I taught myself a thing or two along the way also.

I suppose I have my dad to thank for the Irish drinking "gene" too, but that's a whole other story.  I'm not saying he's an alcoholic but...well, ya he's an alcoholic.  Not a bad one, like described above, just one who likes to drink a little bit mostly every single day, and then usually a lot on the weekends.  He likes to have fun, and I love that about my dad.  You only get one life, and as long as you don't do anything in excess and you're having fun doing it, and you're not hurting anybody, fucking do it.  I joke about the alcoholic thing, but it's a bullshit label.  We don't get plastered and drive home, we leave our cars at the bars and have someone drive us to it the next day.  We don't get in bar fights, (anymore.)  We don't act like pricks and piss people off and act obnoxious.  We have fun, and people have fun being around us, so I'm proud to be like my father that way.  I'm a lot like him when it comes to work, and a lot like him when it comes to play.

I'm not saying all this to pat myself on the back or be arrogant, though I am incredibly confident in everything I do, and I walk the line of cockiness in many different situations.  I'm also not stating all of the above to disrespect those who obtained degrees and worked DAMN hard to get them.  Having a degree is a wonderful thing.  It's an excellent accomplishment.  I hope that my kids go to college...but if they don't, that's OK too.  As long as they work hard to be the best people they can be, that's fine with their dear-old-dad.  I just reasoned at the time that I could start with a company, make money, and with my work ethic, do well and move up wherever I worked and in whatever profession I chose.  My thought was, "why owe money for a majority of my life in college loans instead of MAKE money right now?"  I never had money in my whole life, so when I finally had the opportunity, I didn't want to wait 4 years to go through school, THEN find a job, if there were any out there.  The opportunity I DID have was to go to work, find a job where I could move up, and not have to pay back college loans.  Remember the part of this now-too-long coming of age tale where I had to pay my own way for everything?  Yeah, that included college.  There was no "McRoberts children college fund" hidden away in some bank somewhere.  If I was going to college, I was figuring out how to pay for it myself.  Bottom line.

I tried it out though.  I went through the motions, I scored high on my SAT's, and got into a good school.  I just was told that that was the way to do things.  There are pro's and con's, like I stated before.  The way I worked it, since some of my close friends DID go to school, was that I was able to start my life in the working world, while STILL going to college parties, meeting college friends, and going on spring break vacations.  The way I saw the world, I was getting the best of both situations.

So parents out there, don't get discouraged if your kids don't go to college after high school.  Get discouraged if your kids turn out to be assholes, because if they DID, it's YOUR fault.  Just raise your kids to be good people, the rest will fall into place.  You'll be proud of them.  My parents are proud of me, and it's the best feeling in the world.  And there's no framed piece of paper in my office that's needed to prove it.