During the stressful years of my first internment on Nightmare Island, I was forced to join the Boy Scouts. We had a dreadful weekend outing at Pouch Camp-yeah, nice name for a bunch of boys and men-go hang out for a few days in a POUCH. Well, it rained that fucking weekend. It rained and rained and rained some more. You know the type of rain-Bob 'The Plagiarist' Dylan wrote of it-Buckets of Rain. Mercifully acid rain was yet to come.
Well, I awoke that morning and found myself in a flood of water. My sleeping bag was soaked-those things get heavy when wet. I was instructed by Mr. Cottone to roll the thing up and I lunged at his crotch to start rolling his skin. (Okay, I made that skin roll thing up-act surprised). I rolled my bag up-sleeping bag- fucking perverts, what'd you think I meant?- and collected my clothes and headed with someone off down the road to the outside of the camp where there was a car. It kept right on raining. To this day, when I feel mud beneath my feet, I am transported back to that day.
Somebody-I know not who, deposited me from a car in front of our home on a desolate street with acorn and chestnut trees (and even a few maples) and surprise, surprise, nobody was fucking home. I sat on the uncovered porch in the rain and then had a brilliant thought! I went inside and up to the second floor where the neighbor answered the door. I was ushered inside and asked not to drip on the floor. I headed into the kitchen and sat at the table where I was given a cup of coffee-I knew it was wrong to refuse hospitality and took it. He smiled and offered me a cookie, I shook my head no; since, I knew cookies were dangerous. Then he pushed a pack of cigarettes towards me, I nodded and took one out, he flicked the lighter and lit my cig as I took a long drag on it feeling the tar and nicotene gently coat my throat and lungs. I felt like an adult and didn't want it to end as I sipped my coffee and smoked the cigarettes. I stared out the window and saw Mr.Rusiellio exiting his house with his lovely wife, I wondered if they'd adopt me. Mr. Rusiellio had bought a Christmas wreath from me the previous year.
Long story shortened, my Grandfather eventually came home and I went up to the third floor where I changed into dry clothes.
The next camping trip involved cabins and snow (it was winter). I was a hit that weekend, reading the crappy jokes which came in the packages of Chuckles that I had stolen from the Woolworths (I to this day do not know if that is against the Boy Scout oath). Shortly thereafter, I was denied access to attend Boy Scout Camp for a few weeks in the summer, and I quit the Scouts and took up smoking and pool playing (I was pissed off having sold my share of Scout candy and nuts to get money for the camping trip).
I have also semi-camped in Najaf when I've returned to the homeland-the places tend to be missing a wall here or there and at other times, it truly is tentville. Nothing is more enjoyable than a nicely cooked meal over a fire or in a makeshift oven. Camping can be enjoyable if you're with the right sort of people and the weather stays favorable.
