On Camping, Nightmares and How I Almost had a Mental Breakdown in the Woods

Now that summer is quickly approaching, people are making very important vacation plans. Some people will be heading to beaches. Some will be heading to see family or friends. Some will even need to bust out the old passport. And some will be going camping.

Yes, camping is quite the popular pastime. For some reason, millions of people enjoy sleeping on the ground amongst nature and not bathing on a regular basis. I certainly do not see the appeal, but I’m not one to judge those who enjoy uncivilized recreation. I am also, however, not one to crawl my fat butt into a musty old tent.

I went camping once. It was a long time ago. It was a nightmare. In fact, it may have been the worst thirteen hours of my life.

For some ungodly reason, my family decided it would be a hoot to pack up the minivan and join another family at some disturbing campsite in the middle of nowhere where bugs and raccoons reigned supreme. I was in high school at the time, but was apparently not old enough to worm my way out of a weekend of slumming it in the woods with my family. I put up a good fight, but in the end I found myself sulking in the back of the minivan praying a massive forest fire would force us home.

My praying, as usual, was fruitless. We arrived at the campsite to find a patch of dirt that we would call home for the next two nights. Upon stepping from the van, my body was greeted by the deadly combination of heat, humidity and dirt. Within seconds I was dirty. I hate to be dirty.

My father informed me that the campsite had a shower room and bathroom, and I made my way along the road in search of this sign on civilization. When I found it, I was not exactly overjoyed. A huge brick building with showerheads sticking out of the walls is hardly the lap of luxury.

I showered only to find that showering made the humidity worse. That, in turn, made the dirtiness worse. That, in turn, made me want to run screaming into the nearest city.

I returned to our site to find that tents had been erected in my absence. In the spirit of appeasing me, my family had decided I could have my own tent. It was a nice gesture, but it did not make me feel any better about my role as the dirty mountain man.

The day wore on and I became less and less enthused about my situation. By dinner time, I was on the verge of tears. By the time we crawled into our tents, I was suicidal. I wanted out of there more than I have ever wanted anything in my life.

I was soon to get my wish.

There was no way I could sleep. First of all, the humidity was multiplying by the second inside my tiny little tent. On top of that, the crickets were insane. My head was throbbing due to the racket those little buggers were creating. It was like we were surrounded by billions upon billions of crickets. I could have sworn they were chirping inside my head.

And then I was attacked. I was trying my best to fall asleep, when some creature started pawing at my tent. I freaked out. I screamed. I beat at the wall of the tent until my mom finally came to see what the trouble was.

I told her I could not take it any longer. I was fine with being a prissy spoiled sport, but I was not fine with being eaten alive in my sleep. I demanded the keys to the van. I was going home and I would be back to pick them up in two days.

And that is exactly what I did. There was some resistance in the end, but it soon became clear that I was dangerously close to a mental breakdown. My parents relented, and I was allowed to leave the hellish nightmare that was that campsite.

As I drove back to my bed, I vowed that I would never return to the scene of that most heinous crime against all that is good and holy, and I have kept my promise to this day.

On Pungency, Disgust and What It’s Like to Eat Wet Human Flesh

I harbor an intense distaste for Ethiopian food.

The deep disgust I feel for Ethiopian food is a rather new development. In fact, it wasn’t until a few short months ago that I even tried Ethiopian food for the first time. With just one taste, however, I knew that I’d almost rather eat my own feces than ever let Ethiopian food get anywhere near my oral cavity ever again.

For those who have been lucky enough to never eat Ethiopian food, let me describe it for you. Piles of mush are served on a large piece of porous flat bread. Think of a big pancake topped with piles of oatmeal of various colors. Instead of using utensils, those who are brave enough to try eating the mushy piles of food use small pieces of the flat bread to scoop portions from the piles.

It’s communal eating at its best. And it is rank.

For one thing, the bread that is served with Ethiopian food has a very pungent taste to it. While sourdough bread has a hint of sourness to it, this stuff will make the back of your mouth revolt. Just thinking about it makes my mouth pucker. And if that were not enough, the bread is also moist. Though I have never used wet human flesh to scoop up mush, I can imagine it is much like eating Ethiopian food.

The mush itself is also rather pungent. In fact, it wasn’t until I ate Ethiopian food that I really understood the meaning of the word “pungent.” For those who have yet to experience the horrors of Ethiopian food, the word “pungent” is defined as “sharply affecting the organs of taste or smell, as if by a penetrating power; biting; acrid.” In my book, that is not a good thing.

What made this dining experience even more unpleasant was the fact that the young man who took me to the Ethiopian eatery was also on the pungent side. The inside of his car was quite biting and acrid. I didn’t realize it until after dinner, but the man smelled like Ethiopian food. And again, that is not a good thing in my book.

Needless to say, I never saw that guy again. And I have also never had Ethiopian food again. It is possible that I had a bad batch of the crap, but I’m not willing to risk it. Some things are just not worth it.

And death by disgust is one of those things.

On Friendship, Simplicity and Rocking Out to The Best Bad Music the 1980′s Has to Offer

There are some moments in life that are priceless in both their simplicity and their ability to make a lasting impression. One such moment made its way into my life on Sunday night. It was an unexpected moment that now stands out as a highlight in a rather enjoyable weekend.

Since moving to Chicago, I have been lucky enough to make one very good friend. Our relationship is easy and uncomplicated. We like the same types of things. We think along the same lines. We enjoy each other’s company on a regular basis and have yet to tire of each other.

In short, we have the kind of friendship I wish upon everyone.

On Sunday evening we made our way to Sidetrack for some drinks and a rousing round of show tunes. Sadly, our high expectations were shattered as soon as the bar came into sight and we saw the long line of men who had the same idea as we did. Once we’d made it inside, things went from bad to worse. The place was crowded beyond belief, and it quickly became clear that neither of us was in the mood to be surrounded by a gaggle of drunk gay men singing songs from Dreamgirls at the top of their lungs.

After one round of drinks, we found ourselves back on the street headed away from the core of the gay neighborhood. Our destination was a slightly dingy little neighborhood bar called the North End. As it turns out, it was the perfect destination.

The place was not too crowded, and we were able to find two seats at the bar. We settled down with our drinks and soon discovered it was 80’s video night. The screen above our heads played cheesy video after cheesy video. We were like two kids in a candy store. We sang along. We danced in our chairs. We kept the drinks flowing and laughed for hours like two slightly drunk gay men having one heck of a good time.

And that is exactly what we were. We were two friends enjoy each others company. We were two friends enjoying some good music. We were two friends out on the town without a care in the world. It was easy. It was fun. And it was a perfect example of a rather perfect night.

And I am comforted to know there are many such nights in my future.

On Leather, Kink and Disproving My Misconceptions about a Gay Subculture

Until this past weekend, I had created a mental caricature of gay men who are fully ensconced in the clingy folds of the leather fetish. They are the men who wear leather harnesses instead of shirts. They are the men who are featured prominently in Tom of Finland artwork. They are the men keeping the handlebar mustache alive and well.

I had always assumed that these men are the epitome of gay masculinity. I pictured lots of raspy voices and very little love for Madonna. I imagined these men smoking cigars in dark bars and staring down anyone who dared to enter their domain without wearing the appropriate fetish attire. In short, I thought of these men as rude, scary and way too kinky for my tastes.

Then this weekend I partook in the festivities at International Mr. Leather (IML). Leather daddies and their admirers came from around the globe, took over the historic Palmer House Hotel and gave me a new viewpoint on this gay subculture.

To be fair to myself, some of what I imagined was true. My first taste of IML was at the leather market, where vendors were on hand to supply the masses with all of their kinky needs. There were devices of all shapes and sizes designed to be inserted into a willing anus. There were whips and flogs and paddles, all of which were being demonstrated on scantily clad men. There was even a little tent made of latex that could be vacuum-sealed around anyone insane enough to get in the thing. And I saw more porn featuring men inserting their entire arms into other men to last me a lifetime.

That was all what I expected. What I did not expect was the attitude.

The men at IML were some of the most polite gay men I have ever come across. Following the leather market, I attended the Onyx Dance and had one of my most pleasurable dancing experiences to date. The bumping and jostling was kept to a minimum. People were smiling and laughing and greeting each other. The gruff attitudes I expected to find were nowhere to be found. Instead there was a room full of courteous accepting gay men who only looked like they wanted to chain me up in a basement and beat the living crap out of me.

There were also a whole lot of butts hanging out of a whole lot of chaps.

I learned a lesson this weekend. I learned that gay men into leather are not nearly as scary as I thought they were. In fact, I found them to be a lot like myself with just a kinkier edge and a lot more gumption. You wouldn’t catch me dead in some of the outfits I saw over the course of the weekend.

You may, however, catch me making a return trip to IML in the years to come.

On Knowledge, Facts and Things I have Learned about Dirk and Drucilla

There is an old saying that suggests you learn something new every day. On some days you may even learn more than one thing. On some days you may learn a whole list of things. Yesterday was one such day.

Here is what I learned about a fellow blogger who is crashing at my place for the weekend so that he can enjoy the sights and delights of the International Mr. Leather festival:

1. Dirk Mancuso has a huge sack.

2. Dirk can drop $100 at the Disney Store faster than Cinderella can clean a sooty chimney.

3. Though he claims not to eat a lot, Dirk likes cheesecake and fries and pretzels and chicken teriyaki.

4. If he could, Dirk would sell his voice for the chance to mate with the Little Mermaid.

5. Dirk is a super man.

6. While he remembered to pack his self respect, he forgot his toothbrush.

7. Dirk is not afraid to get a little wet when the sun goes down.

8. He moans in his sleep.

I also learned a few things about Victoria Rowell. For those who are not in the know, she played Drucilla Winters on The Young and the Restless for thirteen years. And she just wrote some deliciously sappy book about her childhood. Here is what I learned about her:

1. When she was born, her mother was in quarantine. Her mother was “filthy and lost.”

2. Her faith is “paramount.”

3. She became an actress because she had holes in the toes of her shoes.

4. Chartreuse light looks like her foster mother’s strength.

5. She likes bad hats.

6. Her fans are a) gay men who cried when she was killed off of The Young and the Restless, b) straight men whose wives have allowed them to sleep with her or c) older women who couldn’t care less about her book but really want her to return to daytime television.

Yes, it was a day of knowledge. It was a day of facts. It was a day of book signings and bar food.

And it was a day during which I got to see a grown man go insane over a Little Mermaid soap dish.