by ·0 Comments

I woke up at 9:30 because that’s when the heat of the solar furnace/tent became uncomfortable and breakfast was a hearty affair of egg/bacon/egg/bacon/egg/bacon. I was still groggy, so I passed the keys to Mike and the four of us drove to Fort Ticonderoga. Pat called shotgun and said “there was a time when I would have felt bad taking the passenger seat from you”. I get the queerest compliments.

Fort Ticonderoga was hot and sunblasted and my camera was producing an “Err 30” which Google tells me is a shortcode meaning “prepare to give Canon your credit card”. Here is where I would normally show you all the pictures of the fun we had but I cannot for two reasons: 1) my camera was broken 2) we had none.

The second part is a slight overstatement but most of the traditional parts of the fort were quite dull. The encampment did have a sutler played by a very learned fellow from who was generous with his time and answered every question we could conceive of. Stepping away from the table, Mike spoke for all of us when he said “Now it was worth it”.

We returned to camp along a different route that was more Interstate and less state route and collapsed into individual nap-states in our tents. After waking, we tried to go swimming, then tried to go boating, then went swimming, then went sitting. The sitting proved the most popular and a very steamy dinner was made. Mike turned in early and the important part of the weekend to me happened: we talked. Man-time!

Note: There was a previous version of this post where every major action except for Mike driving was followed by “So Mike went to sleep”. Mike got a lot of bad sleep during the course of the weekend. May his sleep debt be paid before we next camp.

by ·0 Comments

I guess this is my second article about hidden archaeology.  The sink clogged, a lot.  My brother had made pumpkin “things” after unleashing fatal fury upon it.  I tried undoing the clog with two toilet plungers but as my surroundings acquired a petina of clogs past, toilet paper particles and the remains of my chicken chutney I realized the correction was beyond me.

My father and I unleashed the three horsemen of the sewage apocalypse of plunging, a drain snake and liquid plumber.  The drain snake pulled up some pumpkin parts, a piece of a mop head and furhtest down some plaster of paris which reflected a clear record back to early September.  The pumpkin seeds were from last week, the mop shards were from something I’ll simply call “The Accidental Floor Cleaning/Soap Disaster of October 2008 and the plaster of paris was from a failed demo piece for the early October Cub Day.

The drains are yet to be clogged and saying “Rotorooter” would be an order of magnitude worse in terms of lost manliness as asking for directions.  So there are two options, using a drain-cleaning concoction I call “the widow maker” that generates both explosive hydrogen and corrosive chlorine gas or to simply wait and pray.  I’m not much of praying man myself, so it looks like my dad’s going to have to smoke outside tomorrow.  If I come into work with no eyebrows, a swollen face but a clean fork, know I have won.