I leave tonight to mingle amongst the natives in the forest. I’m sucking it up, hopping a plane and flying to Vermont to spend the weekend in a tent, likely in an intoxicated stupor with dirty, fiddle playing, hippy longhairs. Daveb keeps it real.

I’m not too psyched to be flying, but since my free time is short, it’s the difference between 11 hours and 48 minutes. Mind you, these are 48 slow, excruciating minutes of sheer intestinal bunching terror, but it gets me there fast. It would be nice if I could do this without the massive hangover I’ve been nursing all day, but I’ll have to make do and hope I don’t blow chunks all over a stewardess.

I haven’t slept in a tent in years. I assume that Vermont, being how it is this time of year, will require me to wear disturbing amounts of bug spray in order to remain sane. Going mosquito crazy is not pretty. I once watched a bunk mate at the stupid-ass Catholic sumer camp my parents used to dump me at go shit fucking nuts, screaming, crying and clawing at himself one night. It was mosquitoes. Being thirty, I’d really rather not end up like he did amongst my hippy peers.