(a very short story)

As he and Penny finished cleaning up so they could rejoin the party, Jack surveyed his extended family spread across the back yard.

Everyone seemed to be having fun, enjoying the sunshine, the long summer day and each other’s company. At one of the few  card tables set up for the get-together, Uncle Lou and aunt Denise spent most of their time yakking it up with mom and dad, as to be expected. All four kept an eye on the clock, as they leaned in for more talk. Another generational cluster was breaking up as Jenny, Tom and the kids had to take off. They said they had another party and they promised to make an appearance. Jack wondered if that was true. Jenny was undoubtedly keeping track of the time too and she’d always been the least comfortable with the situation. He wasn’t surprised she was making an early escape. 

After kisses, hugs and their departure, Mike and Jess sat back down at their table, only now, turned around and talking with the older group. The kids emerged from the house asking where the croquet set was, having ended the gaming in the basement. Jack’s daughter Kelly, and son Mark were well aware of the time and moved the fun with their cousins up into the back yard with the old farts. Having put away everything they needed to and leaving the rest for whenever, Penny and Jack joined the adults and on it went.

The sun started to get low. Penny started to give Jack The Look. He silently nodded his head in the direction of their guests with a “What do you want me to do?” look of his own. This appeared to mystify Penny. But as the sun sank lower, the conversation quieted down a bit, until finally, made the effort to pull Jack aside.

“Don’t you think you’d better get down in the basement?” his father asked quietly, “The sun’s down!” 

“Yeah, I know dad.” said Jack at normal volume “I don’t think I’m going down there tonight.”

All conversation stopped dead.

Mike was frozen. Jess looked like a deer in the headlights. When their fight or flight instincts kicked in, the quietly announced they should probably get going. 

“No,” interrupted Jack “Don’t be silly. Stay. It’ll be fine. What do you have to worry about?”

This stopped them in their tracks. They didn’t know how to react. Penny waltzed past Jack grabbing his arm as she went. “What’s the matter with you?” she uttered calmly but forcefully, “Say goodnight and go downstairs!” He stopped.

“No,” again, his regular volume, “Not tonight. Maybe not ever again.” 

Penny reacted as if he’d slapped her. Not sure of what to do, she sat down and poured another glass of wine. She wasn’t alone. As the sun fell, the glasses had been raised. Tom had had his usual allotment of beer and dad had already finished off his fourth Manhattan. The girls were on their third bottle of wine between the three of them. All that just to be able to forget where Jack had to go every night. What happened every night. The booze made it a bit easier to ignore the reality of the situation.

Suddenly, it was apparently going get a lot more real than usual. Exponentially more real than any of them could imagine. 

“The hell with this,” Tom slurred, “c’mon Jess, get the kids, we’re leaving. NOW.” Everyone started to get up, –this time, with a purpose– when Jack doubled over with a grunt. He was cradling his now seemingly helpless right arm, with its veins popping, muscles violently contracting.

“Too late…” Jack hissed. 

And now they were all transfixed. Too scared to move, to talk, to do anything but be scared. Jack tried to hold onto his convulsing right arm, to steady it with his left hand but it was no use. It never was. His arm shook violently, shifting the cheap plastic table cloth back and forth, knocking over bottles and glasses. Jack slammed himself down in a folding chair in front of the table, watching the twisting, warping mass of flesh that was his right arm. Watched as he had every day around this time of night for most of his life. 

Mom had buried her head against dad’s chest. Jess stared. Mike trembled. Penny was still. Tears ran down her cheeks. The kids had stopped playing their game and stood there, watching, clutching their croquet mallets, mouths agape.

Jack watched with horrified interest as the writhing flesh started to form other shapes which sprouted from the limb. Two shapes extended until they could bend, then smaller bits began to extend from the end. A bulbous growth pushed out at the very end of Jack’s arm, wriggling then as the blob morphed and grew. The head was nearly formed. Small fingers wriggled at the end of the stumpy arms. The nearly completed head was now swaying back and forth gently on its new neck. Tom threw up on himself. Mom had fainted. Half the kids were crying, half were screaming. The fabric then started to form, growing and weaving out of the fleshy substance, as the features started to take shape on the face. Jack was now relaxed, watching the little green tweed suit wrap around the little body, the red bow tie dot the top of the white shirt. A straw hat now sat askew atop the newly formed mop of hair around jug ears. The head stopped its swaying as its full lips stretched into a broad smile, the button nose settled in amongst the freckles on the flush cheeks and the big, blue, glistening eyes emerged from under the long lashed, rising lids. Finally, the new jaw tested it’s hinges as the mouth opened and closed with a Click. Click. Click. 

The bright blue eyes shifted.

I looked Jack. His expression was unreadable but I knew he was ready. I slowly turned my head, around and around again, then stopped, facing the quivering, crying meat puppets. This was going to be fun.

I spoke.

I’ve had a couple weeks to process the revelations of The Timeless Child. It’s a lot to unpack. If it’s real. The BBC has gotten so many complaints about the reveal, that they’ve issued another apology. This being the second time this year– first was regarding Can You Hear Me? Anyway…

Before I get into the fallout, consequences, ramifications, whatever you want to call it. I have to put forth a possibility. That the Master is wrong. In the episode…

We saw a child show up in our universe, and a scientist take her in. The child died, came back, and the scientist experimented on her, killing her repeatedly until she cracked the code for regeneration. That begat the Time Lords. The kid grew up and joined the Division. The Doctor also had a dream about the child. On that circumstantial evidence alone, the Master, who’s nuttier than a fruitcake in this incarnation, just outright names the Doctor as the Timeless Child, as if it’s incontrovertible FACT.  Really? I don’t know. (If I’m missing some huge piece of the puzzle that directly connects the two, no question, please speak up.)

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The Doctor’s been inside plenty of people’s heads this series, including the Master’s. For my money, she could have picked up images of the child and everything else from the Master’s noggin. The Master could just as easily be The Timeless Child. (Awkward)

Doc Martin could still be pre-Hartnell, and have worked for the Division, yet even *that* doesn’t prove that *she’s* the Timeless Child, just that she’s another incarnation of the Doctor. 

The question of the buried police box in “Fugitive”? Maybe it made a psychic connection with the first Doctor it came in contact with for who knows how long (Whitaker) and shifted its form to a police box as a result. Martin didn’t even see the shell, she just beamed in. Actually, that’s pretty sophisticated and something the Doctor’s never been able to do. How is it that she can do that with the TARDIS yet all the “later” incarnations that came after can’t? Actually, We keep saying she’s pre-Hartnell, yet her TARDIS interior is based on the latest model from present day Gallifrey models? Significant, or was Chibs just to lazy to create a different interior for present day Gallifrey?

Okay, now all these are possibilities as to what Chibs might have planned, and maybe he suckered us. But that grand planning all hinges upon one thing: Chibs having the skill, talent and intelligence to be able to implement such a scheme. Okay, granted, that’s not likely. Or at least, he’s never shown that level of complexity before. What we’ve seen so far is probably what we’ve got. Mistakes and stories with a ton of plot holes. Okay. I just had to throw that out there, remote as it might be. Cross those T’s and dot those I’s. 

Alright, let’s accept Occam’s duller razor and say there’s no twist and that the Doctor IS the Timeless Child. There are those that are enraged about these developments, some are concerned about them, others are rather apathetic. There’s a feeling from some that these developments are disrespectful to the legacy of William Hartnell. Some look at this as a whole new world of possibilities that have opened up. Many say that this is an arrogant, self important Chibnall seeking so desperately to put his stamp on the show, that he irresponsibly just blew everything to hell and hasn’t thought things through. There may be varying degrees of truth to each one of those. Of the categories, I’m closer to the concerned camp than anything else and yeah, Chibs definitely wanted to make his mark. I just wonder if he’s cognizant of exactly what it is he’s done?

Let’s look at where the Doctor stands if she is the Timeless Child. 

*She’s not Gallifreyan at all. She was a mysterious, alien test subject that showed up out of nowhere, from which, a race called the Time Lords were created. She’s not of that race, so if she’s a Time Lord at all, it’s an honorary or adopted title. 

*She’s immortal. No matter what, she can not die. She’s billions of years old, has regenerated thousands, maybe tens of thousands of times, maybe a million times. We used to believe that under certain circumstances, if the regeneration process got halted, arrested, etc., that the Doctor could die. Obviously that’s never been true. Or has the Doctor just been incredibly lucky and/or careful since the beginning of time? Doubtful. 

*She predates the oldest civilization in the universe. Well, I guess now, second oldest. Some now refer to her as a super god. Considering who and what she is, you’re describing an elder of the universe, *possibly* the oldest living being IN the universe. For all intents and purposes, a god. If Whitaker’s Doctor has time to think in her cell, absorb all the facets of this, what does that do to her head? She’s not only an immortal god, but she’s missing billions of years of memory. Where do you go from there? Also…

*So if she can never die, where’s the threat, the next time a collection of Daleks surround him or her? There’s no real threat at all, which makes for less exciting stories. Hey, let’s regenerate every week! 

*Her memory. I’d like to think that any tampering with the Doctor’s memory was done before the regeneration that brought Hartnell as a child into the picture. Make no mistake, *any* tampering with the Doctor’s memory on this scale paints him/her as a victim. Or a dupe. But at least if the worst of it happened pre-Hartnell, we can assume that whatever existed of the Doctor’s family was at least real. At least we hope that to be the case. 

Chibs has in fact taken the concept of Doctor Who and has fundamentally changed it.  The show is no longer about a renegade Time Lord who left his world of non interference to go experience the universe. No, now the show is about seeing a tiny tiny part, a fraction of a nano second in the life of an amnesiac, God-like elder of the universe.

And the effect on the past 57 years (fraction of a nano second)… That’s somewhat debatable. All those stories aren’t changing one whit. Not one line. But thanks to Chibnall, *we’ve* changed. Can’t help it. And we’re the ones that will be rewatching the stories. And when any reference is made about his past in any way, shape or form, you can hate the reveal, disagree with it, try to ignore it, but that little Chibnall ear-worm will be there whispering “Everything you know is a lie.” In that way, yes, it will effect old episodes and that’s really unfortunate. 

There are two ways to end this. One gives Chibnall the benefit of the doubt.

Why did Chibnall choose this path?

Because he’s doing his level best to carve a whole new path for the show he’s watched all his life. Reinvent it, amidst failing ratings and against the advice of others and countless critics who’ve hounded him from the start. He’s doing the best he can to do something fresh.

Why did Chibnall choose this path?

Because he just wants to see it all burn. Because he can. And because he doesn’t have the skill, or the talent to do something new and creative, he has to totally retcon the program to show he’s in charge and manufacture his legacy. 

Finally, the last of my stories from camping week….

Mistakes were made. Things were said. Don, Mike, Jim, myself. We’d set up camp on Friday and we’d been doing this for a number of years by now, so you might say we were old pros who’d figured out the system. Yeah, you *might* think that. 

Friday night was spent around the campfire yakking about stuff like usual but Saturday was going to be a day of feasting. Jim had not only brought his wife Debby’s magnificent potato salad in the giant, round Tupperware container, but four steaks, ready to be cooked in grand fashion. The only fly in the ointment was Mike’s giant air mattress. Yes, we had a voluminous tent, plenty big enough for four men. But Mike’s special mattress took up 60% of the tent (really 75% but he’ll argue the point, so let’s say 60% — it still took up the majority of the tent). It was a king size mattress but Mike didn’t want to share, so to sleep in the tent, you could either sleep at the entrance and get walked over or sleep in the corner. On the low point. On a rock. Placed in the middle of your back. 

We awoke Saturday morning to find we’d been robbed. Small, furry bandits had somehow broken into our coolers, and absconded with all our food. We saw the remains of the plastic wrap and styrofoam plates the steaks were on, strewn across the area, leading into the thick woods that surrounded our site. Curiously enough, the little bastards manage to cart off the giant Tupperware container of potato salad into the woods, leaving absolutely no trace of the container. Did they decide it was just easier to carry back home this way, pop the top later? That was…. odd.

Of course we were pissed at ourselves for not securing the food properly. The day passed uneventfully, as we had to go get some more food, etc. (nothing was going to equal the steaks and potato salad) but what we really didn’t think too much about was our guests. 

That night, we sat around the campfire as we did the night before, until we heard scratching sounds. We spun around to see a big, fat ol’ raccoon on top of the picnic table in between us and our tent. This was one brave bandit. We shooed him out of there but as we sat back down, we began to notice quite a bit of rustling in the trees allllllll around the campsite. And if you looked into the darkness, you could see the fire reflected in eyes, eyes and more little eyes. 

It makes sense. This site produced probably the best meal these creatures had had in months, maybe ever. They were back for seconds. The question was, just how bold were they? They’d already stolen our food last night and tonight, one of their number sauntered past us just a couple feet away to rifle through our stuff. There was strength in numbers and we were very outnumbered. 

“If the fire dies, we die.” I just couldn’t help myself, I had to say the line. It did not get the laughs I’d hoped for. There were some of our number who were more freaked out than others and this made sleep difficult. Understandable, as it was a bit freaky. The raccoons wanted more meat and they thought we had it. 

What also made sleep more difficult was the fact that the temperature was dipping down around 40 degrees and we really didn’t dress for it. Well, I think it would have been okay if not for the occasional light shower that made it a damp cold. I settled down in my sleeping bag with my coat on, wedged between the bottom of Mike’s mattress and the wall of the tent, and tried to conserve body warmth. 

Don’t worry, Mike was fine. He was able to stretch his arms and legs, comfortably spread eagle to take full advantage of the king size mattress. It might even have had a warming feature, I don’t know. 

After an hour or so, I couldn’t get to sleep and there was water starting to pool underneath me in the low point, covering the pointy rock in my back, coming up through the tent floor and soaking my right arm through the coat. I could see my breath, so I got up and went outside. It was like 3am and Don was still out there with the fire going. I sat down and tried to warm myself. More time passed. At one point, it seemed as though our guests were either no longer watching us or we were so tired, we just didn’t care anymore. I was so tired, I actually went back into the tent and made myself as comfortable as possible. You’d think there’d be *some* other spot I could drag myself to in there, but if there was, I would have. I really couldn’t believe it got so cold.

The next day, we packed up, had a very sad breakfast (best not talked about) and then we left town. That was the last time I went camping. 

Turns out Jim forgot to bring the potato salad in the first place. 

A million years ago in the 1980’s. 

It was a camping weekend. 

There were three of us. Don, Pam and myself. 

As was the tradition, the first night, we usually either went into the nearby college town of Whitewater Wisconsin to drink Sidewinders and play pool OR we’d sit around the campfire drinking copious amounts of Point beer, which is what we did this time. This activity of shooting the breeze and killing brain cells went well into the night, until finally, it was off to sleep in our voluminous tent. 

But at 3AM, all was not well, as I awoke to such a clatter in my bowels. 

Now, for the record, my bowels are usually locked up tight during a weekend camping trip, at least until Sunday, because among other things, I’m not a huge fan of using the outhouses. Especially not staring down into the abyss beyond the rim in your standard outhouse in the broad daylight. Going in there at night? Ha.

So I had quite the dilemma. Not only was it 3am and my bowels were raging, but it was pitch black in the tent. I literally could not see my hand in front of my face. Usually, when camping, you might get some moonlight helping you out but not here. Nothing, zilch, nada. I’m not sure if we even had a flashlight, if so, where it might have been, or where Don and Pam were positioned in the tent and I didn’t want to trip on them. I wish I could have gone back to sleep but the unfortunate taste in my mouth, the ache in my head and the unnatural disaster building in my lower abdomen would not allow that. Although I couldn’t find a flashlight, the roll of toilet paper I thought to bring on the trip was in my case, next to me, so I was able to feel that out. I really didn’t want to wake the others — I hate waking people up — so I reasoned that if I can just get outside the tent, I should get some type of illumination. It had to be a bit lighter outside the tent, right? Wrong. 

Blindly managing to zip up the tent, exit and zip down (security), I took a minute to orient myself. I could not *believe* it was still this dark. Had I drunk myself blind? No, didn’t think so. I had to basically go by memory as to where the chairs and the campfire was, where the trees were and a possible trail I could take to do what I had to do. I knew the campfire and center of our little civilization was forward and to my right, so I headed off to the left, blindly feeling ahead of me, walking carefully, slowly. There was a slight breeze but other than that, and the occasional scurrying sounds in the distance, it was fairly quiet. I felt and then passed this tree and that, progressing along and only when I felt I got a decent distance away from the camp but not *too* far away so as to be unable to retrace my steps, I stopped. I don’t think I could have been more than 20 feet into the woods but at least it was away from camp.  Did what needed to be done. Toilet paper. I honestly can’t remember what I did with the toilet paper. Remember, I was not at my sharpest, so whether I flung it further into the woods (although I’m not big on littering) or simply wrapped up the offending bunch in a cleaner wraparound for later disposal, I can’t remember. 

I then slowly stumbled back in the direction I came, eventually found the tent without falling into it, zipped up, entered, zipped down (security), located my sleeping bag, settled in and slept like a baby for another four hours or so, content in my accomplished mission. 

I don’t remember who woke up first. Might have been Don, as, when I came out of the tent, I was greeted with a disturbing sight a few feet in front of me on the ground. Don elaborated. “There’s big pile of shit right next to the campfire. Look it that!”

WHAT. IN. HOLY. HELL.  Somehow, someway, I walked for what I thought was five minutes into the woods to safely take a dump in anonymity but in reality, I was five feet away from the tent? And did it right where we all walked? How was that even possible? Well, I said I wasn’t at my sharpest at 3am with a hangover. That was an understatement. 

DO I have a good poker face? I’ll say yes. Because I managed to convincingly say “Jesus!” and express astonishment. Now, had I gotten up first and seen it, if I had time, I could have somehow gotten rid of it but that didn’t happen.

Now, the two us just sat there, with the type of early morning hangovered mental fuzziness where you really don’t want to do much of anything, but pondering the origins of a mystery lump of shit in your midst — that you can do. There were stretches of silence, as I was just cataloging my hidden embarrassment about my public embarrassment. After a certain amount of time, I thought it best if I just came clean to Don. He’d probably laugh, Pam will never see it, we can get rid of it, move on. 

As I was about to confess, out of the tent comes Pam, who’s greeting by Don reporting “Pam, look, some animal took a giant shit!” Which she marveled at and I froze up solid. Now Pam saw it. Dear, gentle Pam. Staring at my leavings. I couldn’t say anything. Just sat there. The minutes passed. All three of us sat there, recuperating, looking into the distance. After a bit, I thought that no, just say it. They’ll both probably laugh, we’re all friends here and it doesn’t have to go any farther. As I worked up the courage to say something, Don had an observation:

“Maybe it was a big dog…?” and this was enough to shut me up again, as now different animals were being considered as the culprits or vandals. We figured at some point, we’ll have to somehow get rid of it. “Don’t think it’s big enough to be a bear, right?” Don was full of theories. Now, something like a half hour, or 45 minutes had passed and were were starting to move around about a bit, ready to start the day, and I once again wondered if I should say anything at all, when Pam got up.

Started walking toward the tent. 

In her flip flops.

Not quite looking where she was going.

And partially stepped in IT.

And flung part of IT up on her leg. 

And Don hurriedly took a picture of it. 

And with that, I resolved never to say anything. No way in HELL was I about to confess now. Nuh uh. No, no, no, I was going to be Silent Sam. The offended pile was ejected, Pam’s leg was washed and the weekend continued. I never said anything. Life went on.

I stayed silent for the better part of 20 years out of sheer embarrassment. I never told *anyone*, not even Lin. The flip flop maneuver sealed my fate and my silence. And even then, after two decades, when I confessed, I did so to Don and the rest of the gang at a party at Pam and Mike’s house but *not* to Pam (she was hosting elsewhere in the house). My shame was too great. Upon my confession, amidst the laughter, Don yelled “I KNEW IT!” but he could just never be certain enough to say anything. But I finally had that off my chest.

A few years later at another event, I actually did fess up to Pam. I had to unburden myself.

She didn’t even remember the incident. 

Amongst our camping trips, there had been some rain here and there.

Sometimes, it’s a light rain shower that relieves the heat, no worries. 

Sometimes it’s bad in the middle of the night. There was at least one night where we got very little sleep because there was so much lightning and thunder along with a torrential downpour in the middle of the night, I really thought the entire tent would collapse. The next morning, it was if it never happened.

One weekend, it was Jim, Mike, myself and a day full of intermittent showers, so we made a day of it. We’d fashioned an overhead tarp with clear plastic, so we could see the rain hitting the tarp, the impact circles, the waves flowing across the transparent ceiling. Mike and Jim would often bring their guitars and play on trips (or I should say tune up for an unidentified amount of time) and this seemed to be a perfect time to break ’em out. I was attempting percussion and vocals. If this were to be a band, I’d always refer to it as “Under the Tarp”. The jam session went all afternoon long but did yield one result — “Black Bag of Sausage”. What ho…. you say you’ve never heard it? Well, you probably never will because I never wrote it down but here’s a tiny bit:

Got a black bag o’ sausage

Got a black bag o’ sausage

Well it’s hard and it’s wet

Didn’t get it from a vet

And it’s not for you or me

It’s HIS charcuterie 

Got a black bag o’ sausage

*Side note: this was also the trip where, having seen Goodfella’s, I was doing a non stop Joe Pesci impersonation. “what, am I a clown?”. Even then, I was a delight. 

Another weekend, Jim and I found ourselves in an untenable position, where the storms were non stop and our tent became compromised. The entire campsite was a muddy swamp, and the temperature was dropping, so we said screw it, abandoned everything, hopped in the car and retreated to the Super 8. 

The world of camping really can not compare to room service or taking a dip in the hot tub. Yes, the Super 8 is as luxurious as the Ritz when you’re refugees from destroyed campsite. 

So yes, when it rained, one way or another, we made lemonade out of that bitch. 

There have been various combinations of personnel at our yearly camping trips, sometimes it’s down to two people who hold the fort for the first day and night, then welcome the remainder of the group on day two. 

One such first day was manned by Jim and myself, and it was what could only be described as pleasant and delightful. Jim’s the kind of guy who meets people easily, will strike up conversations with total strangers and finds the most bizarre and obscure things fascinating, hilarious, and worthy of discussion. Conversely, I’m very hesitant and shy around strangers, and I pick my friends very carefully and don’t go camping with just anyone, much less spend over 24 hours in one on one intense conversation with them. Jim is one of the few people I will do this with, even today.

We certainly did talk that day. The weather was just about perfect. Not too hot or cold. We got there mid morning and were in the thick of solving the world’s problems before noon. We casually drank ice cold Point beer and ate Debby’s potato salad, also on ice. Debby is Jim’s wife, and she made a giant tub of maybe the best potato salad known to man. For the better part of the day, we munched on that as the discussion went on. The perfect day stretched out and seriously, it’s not often I get to just *relax*. I spend a lot of time worrying about a good many things. This was back in the ’80’s, before I acquired additional responsibilities but there were certain things still preying on my mind that could all just be forgotten, because I was elsewhere. I was in vacation mode. We strolled around the campsite, ate, drank, laughed.

As evening approached, I discovered something interesting. Jim was tending to something in the tent and asked what time it was. I, busy relieving myself of some Point beer, just looked up at the sky, thought for a moment and said it was 7:30. A guesstimate at best. However, a minute later, I figured I should go turn on the car to see what the clock said (this was long before smart phones and neither of us had watches), so I grabbed my keys, went up to the car and looked and it said 7:32. We’d been there for ten hours blissfully unaware of anything and I found I had a sort of temporal sense, where I can usually tell what time it is within a few minutes without any aid. Bizarre but the family can back me up. It’s not 100% exact but even I’m astonished with the accuracy rate.

Now, once again, I feel the statute of limitations has probably run out after 35 years but let’s just say a third party hooked us up with shrooms. I had never had psychedelic mushrooms before — no idea where they ranked in the shroom world in general as far as strength or effect but they were interesting. After a while, there was a lot more laughing than talking. We decided we should take a walk around to some of the other camp sites but we were having a difficult time making it up the incline of the road (there was no incline) and decided after a good, long, maybe half hour walk (12 feet), that we’d best get back. We eventually found our campsite again by turning our heads to the right. It was quite the adventure.

Most of the effects of the shrooms had worn off

HOLY SHIT, I’M WRITING MY MEMOIRS! (Just occurred to me that this is what this year will be)

although we still had plenty of Point and darkness had descended. Jim had cooked some form of meat on the grill for dinner to go along with more potato salad. Afterward, Jim was very excited to show off his pet project “Trench o’ Fire”. The name really tells you everything you need to know. A small trench is dug, maybe in some form of pattern, ending at the campfire itself. What makes the TOF so …. effervescent? Evidently, a mayo jar of gasoline. The trench was employed. 

The fire was really hot. 

This was not a good idea. 

Any artistry in the design of the trench is totally lost and forgotten when you’re cowering 20 feet away from the fire because it’s so god damned HOT.

Thankfully, it all eventually settled down, and I decided that I’ll pass on future TOF displays. 

Jim likes fire. 

But eventually, the very long and pleasant day came to an end, with some more potato salad, then beer, then sleep. 

As a bonus, couple photos — Pam sent me a batch so I’ll be peppering them in here and there. Here are some shots of Flamingo ball, water balloon trap prep, circa 1985…oh me singing by a fire. The photos won’t necessarily match the stories but you’ll always get the gist….

This was another camping event, mid 1980’s, which also featured Pam, Don and myself, at least, initially. We’d gotten there a day early to stake out a great campsite, while Linda was driving up with Jim, the following afternoon. It was a pretty cool site though. There was parking on the high ground where road came in, then the ground dipped down gradually about 10 feet or so with a trail that lead into the center of camp.

Now, I’m not sure why, but we decided to rig up a water balloon trap to spring on the late arrivals. Maybe because it was hot. Maybe because we had some high trees and one us thought the trail leading right into camp was ripe for a prank. Maybe because Don and I wanted to plaster Jim with a water balloon. Did I mention it was hot?

Depending on the year, we definitely had some hot ones. One time, it was in the upper 90’s and Don and I spent a couple hours drinking ice cold Point beer and playing Flamingo Ball. Of course YOU know what Flamingo Ball is but for those who don’t — you take plastic Flamingo lawn ornaments, minus the legs, use them as bats (neck as a handle), and the opposing player pitches a tennis ball with some HIGH HEAT against the tent as a backstop, trying to strike you out. The first player to enrage a bear into gutting you, loses. Other than that, it’s just like baseball. But I digress.

Back to the Trap. We figured that if we had some type of netting, we could fill it up with a bunch of water balloons, then hoist it up high over the trail via a rope or string of some sort. Then we would stake the other end of the rope right by us, where we’d be sitting to greet them. It was an ingenious plan. We needed supplies.

We hopped in Pam’s car and ventured out to the stores. As we entered the town of Whitewater, we scanned the stores for things we’d need, such as balloons, netting and “String shop!” said Don with conviction, so Pam slowed to turn in, before realizing what Don said, and we laughed until we cried. Did I mention we were hung over? 

Having acquired our supplies, we filled numerous water balloons, loaded them into the net and carefully hoisted them up, but only after spending about an hour trying to throw a rock over the high limb, tied to the string. While hoisting, we lost some balloons but still had a good load that stayed in the net. Finally, the balloon load was in place, suspended some 30 feet directly above the trail. We secured the other end near the tent and us, via stake. Now, it was a waiting game. 

Eventually, they showed up and just as planned, Jim was coming down the trail first, carrying various items. We really didn’t want to splatter Linda but if she was collateral damage, so be it. It might actually feel good. Did I mention it was hot?

The three of us waited innocently, seated by the tent. Don had a knife against the string, ready to cut. Closer and closer came our gangly compadre. Timing was very important. I think we placed a piece of wood at a certain point, so when someone hit that spot, they’d be roughly a second away from ground zero. (We felt it was more covert than drawing a giant X on the ground) but this would signal Don to cut the string. 

Jim hit the target, Don cut the rope, the barrage of balloons fell.

I think at this point, it should be noted that we never really thought about how heavy a couple dozen water balloons would be or considered the damage that might be done if the entire bundle fell on someone’s head all at once. 

Thankfully, the bulk of the pack fell in front of him with only two or three balloons plastering him in the head and splattering the front of him. Of course he was enraged and chasing us but soon we were laughing and apologizing. Especially considering that if the entire load hit him square, he might’ve broken his neck! But probably not. Good times. And the weekend went on and a good time was had by all. 

ONE YEAR LATER

Don and I were the advance party, but I’m actually not sure if anyone else was going to be coming later, so we may have been all there was that year. But he and I were there Friday and that night, we hit Whitewater Wisconsin for billiards and beer. It was a festive night, where we might have been advanced upon by large, dangerous women. It was hard to tell, as we were mostly concerned with the effects of our drink of choice for the night, dubbed The Sidewinder by the bartender. An incredibly spicy and devastatingly powerful drink. I can’t even find the proper recipe online — I think this version was a Whitewater special. I believe it was beer, with a shot of Wild Turkey and Tobasco in it–something like that. Whatever it was….too much of it. After the night of adventure, we retired to the campsite. 

Come the morning, the Sidewinders indeed came back to bite us. As we emerged from our flappy, canvas womb in the woods, blinking and gasping at the blazing sun, we realized we needed food served to us asap. So, we made our way back to town, to eat at the only place there really *was* to eat, the Kopper Kettle. We sat a spell in the air conditioned greasy spoon, hunched over our table, consuming salts and sweets and caffeine. Whatever we could do to stabilize our guts and brains. When we weren’t grunting and slurping like cavemen with issues, we mostly sat mute. Eventually, we at least felt revitalized enough to pay the check and hobble outside. And froze.

There, at the end of the sidewalk, was the hunched and lanky frame of a bright eyed and bushy tailed Jim. In each hand, a water balloon. 

“Ehh, hehh, hehh, HEHHH HEHHHH HEHH…… ” laughed our wheezing tormentor.

AND HE CHARGED!

WE RAN!

Well, that’s not quite true. Don and I made a quick turn and began racing down an alley, but whatever adrenaline and basic energy we had, left us about 15 seconds in. Jim, however, was in hot pursuit, water bombs at the ready. I stopped first, just not caring anymore and completely wiped. “Go ahead, ” I gasped, “it’ll probably feel good.” And I opened my arms wide. Jim launched…and totally missed me. He started swearing and I started laughing. He darted after Don, who also had stopped about 25 feet farther down the alley. Jim launched….and it just bounced off of him and splattered on the ground. Causing more laughter and swearing. 

It was actually kind of a shame though as it probably *would* have felt really good. 

But, Jim had gotten his revenge. The water from a balloon would have dried and gone, but the momentary terror of Jim appearing out of nowhere, like the climax of a Clint Eastwood movie, and chasing us down an alley like the worst ever episode of Baretta will live forever. And now, this story, like every other one I tell this year, will live on through you.

They also have the virtue of being true. 

This week will feature all the various camping adventures/stories/mishaps/tragedies that occurred during roughly a 10 to 15 year period, from the early mid ’80’s to the early ’90’s. In the coming days, I will speak of events that occurred in Whitewater Wisconsin and a nearby selection of camp sites. 

There will be talk of plots. Of schemes. Invented sports. The drinking of beer. Waste management. Joe Pesci. Rain. Sun. Fire. Animal attackers. A hoity-toity prince of mattresses. Other things.

The only real oddity that won’t get any traction is the time I dressed as Bomba the jungle boy. Because that crew never. Even. Noticed. (Or more likely pretended not to)

But the rest of the highlights will be there.

Keep an eye out for the exact moment this week when I realize that this year of blogging is in reality my memoirs. 

I don’t know if that’s great, sad, or ominous. 

Did you turn your clocks ahead? Have you sprung forward? If so, I commend you for forging ahead in these trying, Covid-19, post apocalyptic times, and bumping up that digital number up by one. If you haven’t, you could be exposed as a Luddite, I suppose. Half of the temporal expression devices in our home change automatically, DVR’s, our cells, the CRV, but we’ve got a few items we still have to change manually. The most ridiculous assemblage is in our kitchen, where, within a span of six feet, we have a giant clock on the wall, the microwave and the oven. Matthew drives the Saturn, never looks at the clock, nor changes it, so it’s wrong half the year and no one cares.

I’ve raved at length in the past about how much I HATE when we “fall back” in November, and the inevitable getting dark at 3pm the next day. Well, it was a pleasant surprise when my wife told me yesterday that we were springing ahead last night. Sadly, that wasn’t a metaphor. Seemed earlier than ever this year. I always expect it to be around Easter but Easter’s utterly useless to me in every way. 

Easter, the floating holiday. 

“Oh when is the wedding?”

“It’s right before Easter!”

“Oh, it’s *sometime* during the possible six week period when Easter might pop up but we never ever know? That’s great. Don’t forget to also get weather input for the big day from the groundhog.” 

Saying something’s happening “around Easter” is helping no one. You may as well say, “Okay, I’ve scheduled the surgery for right around Flibberty-jibbet day. Wish me luck.” I also find I don’t really care that much about eggs or rabbits and I’m not religious. When the hell is it even happening this year? I think in early April. I’m sure there’ll be a casserole to mark the celebration, BUT I DIGRESS!

Back to the time change thing. I *used* to instinctively know when it was happening, not needing any prompting from anything or anyone. All part and parcel of my “temporal sense”. But then, they scooted the spring ahead earlier by a few weeks and the fall back to after Halloween and that’s all well and good but ever since, this one kinda springs up at me unawares, excuse the pun.

Then last year, I heard rumblings from a couple different people who heard that once we change the clocks this spring, they’d do away with the time changes all together and we’d stick with the summer time permanently. This was excellent news! Finally! We’d no longer have to deal with that shock to the system in the fall, anymore. 

But no, we’re not there yet. There’s been a lot of legislation proposed in a lot of states to just “Lock the Clock”, and there are already a few states that don’t go with the change and stick with standard time year round, such as Arizona and Hawaii.

I think it’s something like 34 states that want to do away with it. So I’m not clear on all of the specifics that are blocking it but I do know that some oppose dumping the change because of the delayed sunrise in the winter. Kids going to school in the dark, people going to work in the dark, etc. If we stick with daylight savings time year round, in December and January, in places like Seattle and Indianapolis, the sun won’t rise until after 9am. In Chicago and New York, after 8:30am. Which, admittedly, would be a bit bizarre. 

All this time, I thought the whole time change thing was for the farmer’s sake. Hell, they’ve been mostly opposed to it forever! A Boston department store owner, Lincoln Filene, made up a big BS list of why it helped the farmers (in actuality, his sales), it caught on and no one ever questioned it! Nope, can’t blame the farmers. 

It was mainly instituted during WWI for energy conservation, was repealed after, brought in again for WWII, repealed after, but some folks got to like the switch over. Some didn’t. This eventually resulted in a bunch of cities going one way, a bunch going the other. In some cases, you could take a state wide road trip and end up changing your watch seven times in a couple of hours. It became clock chaos. They finally structured the Unified Time Act in 1966, which those states partaking in Daylight Savings time had to stick to one time, statewide. 

So, anyway, I have no idea if there’ll be some huge change or not. If ever.

We’re due to “fall back” again on November 1st this year. >sigh<

IS it a “Limbo of Madness?” I don’t know. Sounds intriguing though, no?

Back in the ’90’s, I was the primary Coca Cola illustrator at Impact, the promotional division of Foote, Cone and Belding. This was my first and last professional full time, salaried gig and it lasted from September 1992 to April 15th, 1998.

I worked with some of the kindest, loveliest people ever. There were a ton of meetings, work and many parties. There were party-parties, official parties, going away parties, you name it. There was fun to be had and we had about as much as was allowed by law. Maybe a bit more. 

Our proclivity for partying broke out of the work place and we decided to make a yearly weekend out of it. Since a good chunk of us were married and another good chunk weren’t, we figured it’d be best for the guys and gals to have their own weekends. There were already enough rumors flying around. 

The ladies called their get together the BVD weekend. I have no clue what went on there, but there was an off chance of liquor being present. 

For us men, we had Shorty Robe weekend. No doubt inspired by radio personality Kevin Matthews who had a running bit about men spending the weekend together, sleeping together, cooking steaks, wearing shorty robes…IS IT WRONG?!?!?

We said no, it wasn’t! Some of us may even have brought shorty robes with. In fact, to  extend the bit, each year that we did it, there was always one junior account guy who just started and wasn’t that familiar with us, so of course, we played on that. We’d invite the new kid along on the big weekend and then once in awhile in the weeks leading up to the event, at lunch or out of the blue, –when the new kid happened to be around– one of us would ask, “Hey, who’s Vaseline Boy this year?” and of course another would respond “gosh, who *was* the last hired?” 

And each year, the new kid would get extremely worried, sometimes bowing out, but the entirety of the bit was just naming the new guy Vaseline boy. We let their imaginations do the rest. Us, Hitchcock, we use people’s imaginations. 

But the yearly weekend was held at a couple places over the years. We rented a big beautiful house on Lake Delevan the first year.  The was football, poker, beer and films being shown, us making commentary on all of it. Great acoustics in that house, prompting us to start letting loose with YEEEEHAAAAAH quite a bit (me being the worst offender by far) and I’m pretty sure we broke two of the three toilets in the first hour– I’m not even sure how that was possible but there you go. Still, we had a good time.

Second year we couldn’t get the house again so Dave Becker was kind enough to host at his house, which we filled up, played football on wet grass, exhausted ourselves, played poker, drank copious amounts and passed out from the football as much as the beer.

The next couple years was held out at a cabin in Ottawa, some 2 hours southwest of Chicago. The cabin was sequestered inside a deserted farm that for all intents and purposes could have been the setting for any and all slasher films since 1973. I was giving Scott Wheatley a ride to the event and we thought we’d gotten lost, until we saw a youth standing in a field. We pulled up and asked for directions. He was probably about 10 years old and sucking on something. Lollipop, turkey leg, human femur, I don’t know —  but he was no help and we got a simultaneous Shining *and* Deliverance vibe from him at the same time, so we motored on, through the murder farm.

The cabin was nice enough though when we got there. I guess after the farm and the kid, anything else looked pretty good. They had a giant stack of mats in the corner to pull down and put sleeping bags on. This was a place that seemed really perfect for big camp outs fir larger crowds. We had a great time, as there was drinking, a fire pit out back, drinking, some occasional wildlife, we ordered a pizza, there was some drinking and one enterprising gent actually went to the trouble of making pot brownies and bringing them to the get together. 

Now, I think the statute of limitations has passed on pot related affairs since this happened 25 years ago and hell, it’s legal now, but I’ll protect the anonymity of the baker. Although I’m sure he’d survive the scrutiny, he’s a very able man. 

The thing IS….. up until that point, I’d never had pot in any form. No one believes a 34 year old guy had never tried it but as of that weekend, the point was moot. Never liked the smell of it and I’ve never been a smoker in any form. But brownies… well, especially after copious amounts of beer, brownies are always in my wheel house, so I munched big time. Probably half the pan. It was a big pan. In the meantime, there was poker and films about wildlife and eventually, I had my first case of dry mouth ever. It was horrible! And since I was already buzzed, I sensed nothing else out of the ordinary. Until the next day. I had a good night’s sleep. I don’t even think I had much, if any hangover. But I was very tired. 

It came time to leave and Wheatley and I were driving back. A very long and boring drive, where the endless vista of flat land was broken up only by blinking. Suddenly, I was more tired than I’d ever been in my life. I seemed to have all my faculties in order but mother of god, there were times when I just wanted to pull off to the side of the road and sleep. Or just drive into the corn, to see what happened. Wheatley had no clue what was going on in my head. Thankfully, I had the life giving caffeine of Coca Cola. 

Coke. I’d like to teach the world to sing. 

After finally getting home and sleeping further, I went to work on Monday. And here’s why I’ll likely never try pot again in any form, even if it is in brownies. I couldn’t draw! At all! All of Monday, all of Tuesday, I could not get anything on paper. Thankfully, there was a lull in the workload. I happened to be in the facilities when the baker himself showed up and we talked about his product. When I mentioned I ate about half the pan, good old Heisenberg literally hit the ground laughing. Evidently, there was an extremely large amount of product in those squares, no *wonder* I couldn’t draw, I think I was still high on Tuesday. 

The only other memorable event from I think the last time we went to the cabin for the last big weekend– we got it in our heads to get a pizza delivered. It was a beautiful night and seating was sparse around the campfire, so I went into the cabin, picked up the couch, and lifting it over my head, proceeded to march down the hilly incline to the campfire. What’s interesting to me is that I’m pretty sure I could never do that sober but we needed seating. Eventually, I went in to order the pizza on the cabin phone. I was having difficulty reading the phone book for some reason. I was trying to phone the local pizza establishment in the yellow pages, “Little Diana’s” but somehow, I kept calling the standard white pages entry for “Little, Diana”. 

I also seemed to have a very difficult time forming words to get the order right, not that the Little family was ever going to come through on delivery. I think someone else eventually made the right call to the right place. But that was our last Shorty Robe weekend. As always, a good time was likely had by all. 

The moral of the story? 

Don’t do any of the bad stuff. 

Thank you, good night and god bless.