The Weekend That Almost Wasn't

My almost-entire weekend, in a series of almost-tweets. Or maybe almost-haiku.
That I was almost too tired to write.


Asleep.
Why do I smell urine?
Awake.
Maybe it was just a dream.
Nope. Still there.
Dog looks guilty.
Dammit, Basil.

Up unexpectedly early.
Hose off dog. Hose off me. Hose off everything.

Pack car for long-promised camping trip.
A rodent of some variety has eaten a hole in my car's passenger seat. Awesome.
Discard foamy seatguts and throw a blanket on the seat.

Arrive at base of mountains. Smoke fills the air. #sandfire.
My car full of newbie campers.
Stop at fire station. "Will be be okay?"
Yeah. You should be fine.
Should.

Car tire low. Good thing I have a bike pump.

Drive into mountains. Wary family.
Reassurance.
Still wary.

Finally on trail.
Quarter-mile out, sole falls halfway off one boot.
Duct tape.

Child fills pockets with rocks.
Dude, those are heavy.
I love rocks!
Dude loves rocks.

Duct tape only sorta works.
Step, wobblewobble. Step, wobblewobble.
Mile after mile after mile.

Dad, can you carry my stuff?
Nope.
I'm tired!
You're tired because you've filled your hat with rocks, and hung it around your neck.
But I like rocks!
Leave them. We'll pick them up on the way back.

Arrive at camp.
Wanna summit nearby mountain. Boots don't.
Play in nearby forest instead.

Mountain springwater is delicious.

Duct tape fails completely.
Use the rest of my stash to re-repair boot.

Tent zipper fails. No vestibule for you.

Campfire. Lovely.

Sleep. Wake.
Coffee. Also lovely.

Lots of bugs.

Hike out of mountains.
Boot fails completely. No more duct tape.
Step, flopscrape. Step, flopscrape.

Dad, I'm tired.
Why are you tired?
My brother filled my backpack with rocks.
Drop the rocks.

Many miles.

Go full Colonel Kurtz.
Tear sole off compromised boot.
STEP, step. STEP, step. STEP, step.
Bugs are delicious.
Dreaming of better breakfast at quaint little mountain store.

Arrive at car.
Tire flat. Bike pump.
Car tires are big.

Drive to quaint little mountain store.
Quaint little mountain store is site of quaint little gigantic biker festival and juggalo gathering.
Too tired for juggalos. Drive on.
Kids fall asleep.

Drive to neighborhood restaurant smelling of nature and funk. Bugs in teeth.
Standing on flat ground, I lean. Boots uneven.
Get menu. Order one everything.
FEAST SUCH THAT WE SHAME OUR ANCESTORS IN VALHALLA.

Home.
Dive into beanbag like Scrooge McDuck into a pile of doubloons.
Nap. But not for long.

We're going to the opera tonight.
Seriously.

Shower.

Store. Picnic supplies for the Hollywood Bowl.

Tosca. Murder, sex, death.
(Amazing.)

Home again. Beat up from the feet up.

Words. Words, words, words.

Fin.

 NOT PICTURED: JUGGALOS

NOT PICTURED: JUGGALOS