Mother Nature is a dirty whore!

I apologize for the invective, but why can't we get some decent weather on May Long Weekend? This is the second year in a row that we have had our fun rained out at Cultus Lake. And last year, at least I was in a trailer. So, let me lay out the weekend for y'all so's I can set the mood.

Friday night, rather than heading up to the lake, the boys and I went out with Greg's sister for her birthday (21!) and we hit the town with some of her friends, ending up at the Caprice downtown. Now this is my first time at this 'upscale' nightclub, and what an experience it was. For one thing, since we were a birthday group, VIP line-skipping, baby! What a feeling to be on the other side of that velvet rope for once. We get in, grab some drinks, and hit the floor. The DJ's popping out Top 40 and teh-te-techno, and the groove is solid (if only Canada's other official language was 70's jive-talk). So, we're all having a good time, and then this lovely little lady in a blue tank and a glo-stick necklace comes up to me and says, "I'm Joyce," to which I, of course, reply, "I'm Chest Rockwell." Then the dancing began. The DJ played 'Billie Jean', which if you know me, is my kryptonite. We continue to dance, closer and closer, she's staring into my eyes and I'm staring right back. She stares at my lips, and I lick them, reflexively. She spots a friend of hers, waves and says, "I've gotta go." I reply, "Uh, okay, I'll be right here," and wait, dancing to myself, and getting high-fives from my friends. Fifteen minutes go past, so I head upstairs with the group, thinking I'll spot her necklace from the lounge. And I do spot her, making out with some guy in a cheap tan suit. Sigh. I guess I was too much of a gentleman for her, not immediately going for the throat. So, to sum up, I was ecstatic, then disappointed. Good night overall, usually I'm just disappointed.

Next day, I realize, "Holy shit, I'm supposed to be in a rush to go camping!" I made a mad grab for everything I could think of (remember this rushed-ness later, as it's important). I got clothes, a flashlight, my beer helmet (so practical), and my cooler of alcoholic beverages. I cruised to the parental base to grab my camp gear, tent, table, tarps, mattress, and zipped on up to the lake, all the time recalling all the shit I had neglected to pack. "Dammit! I was gonna bring Balderdash" (best board game ever when you're drinking). "Crap! I left my camera sitting on my desk, didn't I?" "Did I even bring plates and bowls and cups? No!" And then the big one hit me when I was setting up my tent: "Where the hell is my sleeping bag, you idiot!?" I'm very self-deprecating out loud. So right away, a mental damper is layered on me as I'm remembering all the things I was too rushed or stupid to bring. But that was nothing next to the meteorological damper that was left to play it's part on Sunday. This was Saturday, though, and the group had all brought shooters to pass around that night. I, in all my wisdom, had brought Southern Comfort, recalling a night a few years ago when several shots of SoCom hit the spot just right after a Corona and a Rum & Coke. But memory did not serve, and it burns! We did not do many shots of SoCom (1 if I recall). Then we stood around the fire and made subtle fun at the expense of the youth group camping next to us. We even offered them drinks, but they politely declined. I guess they were high on 'the Lord', cause they often sounded like they were have too much fun for it to be all-natural. Erica, Jess and I closed out the evening at 1:30 in the morning, when the bike-shtapo rolled up and told us that fires were to be out at 11 and that we were audible from the beach, to which my first thought was, "Who's living on the beach?" Then we were asked if we would like to be given a $50 fine, so I stumped off to get some water. When I returned, the fire had already been doused by the Rent-A-Jerks. So the night was basically over, just Erica and I, chatting crouched beside the slowly dying embers. [Just a special note, Erica is the only person who actually reads anything here, so Hi, Erica!]

Sunday, it started to rain. It began so innocently, but we all knew it wouldn't end there. Eight of us were enjoying a game of Extreme Bocce, played over roads and roots and rocks (and in one glorious moment, I landed my ball on an empty beer bottle on a picnic table, smashing pieces in a 360-deg. radius), and the sprinkling came down. I picked this time to grab by beer helmet, as I now needed a hat. I brought it out empty, but was quickly razzed into kitting it out with a pair of Kokanee's. Now I was basically double fisting at 4 in the afternoon, armed with a blunt object. It was a very tightly contested match, ending with the score 11-9-9-8. The sprinkling became a drizzle, and the giant tarp went up over our little common area, with the suddenly strong wind refusing to cooperate. Once the tarp was up, the party moved under it. I grabbed a prime bit of dry ground early, and stuck there like gum under a Denny's booth. Then we celebrated B-rad's b-day with a cake. I had two pieces handed to me in my seat, so I knew I was doing something right. The circle I was sitting in, with myself, Erica, Angie, Brad and Jess, decided a drinking game was in order, but not something with a lot of unnecessary rules. Something uncomplicated. Then Angie suggested a spirited (emphasis on the spirits) game of 'RPS', or Rock-Paper-Scissors for the uninitiated. The rules are simple: You lose, you drink, you challenge. That was fun for a while, then we got bored. Luckily, Leanne and Rita got locked out of their camper van, so we all got to help break in. I held the flashlight, and got to climb on the roof. It's not real camping unless you climb something. Dougie Fresh managed to finagle the door loose enough to poke a wire through and push the door release button. After that, the excitement started to die down, and with Gordie passed out in his trailer, it looked like Larry wouldn't have a partner for Midnight Bocce (it's like Extreme Bocce, but at mid... well, you figure it out). So people began to shuffle off to bed at one o'clock. But I'm not satisfied by this evening, and neither are Doug and Amoria. So we decide to build a fire at quarter after one, knowing full well that the cutoff time was two hours earlier. It was tough going, with wet wood and an uncooperative lighter, but eventually, we got a pretty damn good blaze going. We enjoyed it for an hour and a half, until Mr. Have-Cocky-Sense-of-Self-Superiority-Will-Travel showed up. This time, I made a play to half-douse the fire, then we waited til he was out of sight, then got it going again. "We tried to put it out, but it won't go without a fight," we reasoned. By the time he returned, we were basically ready for bed anyway, but we resented the fact that our now-decimated fire could be considered a risk after every available surface in a hundred mile radius was soaked by rain, so after splashing it again, I reignited it and went to bed, just as a subtle "fuck you" to the establishment.

Monday, it rained. We packed our shit and went home. We thought maybe, just maybe, Ma Nature would let the sunshine in, just to throw it in our faces, like last year, but this year, she decided to let it rain down on us the whole time. Today's highlight for me was watching the electrifying two-hour finale of 24. They all worked together to take down the President, and now Jack is on a slow boat to China. Who's gonna rescue him? Audrey? Curtis? Chloe? Kim? An Aaron Pierce-Wayne Palmer tag-team? I can't wait to find out. Then I was treated to a positively hysterical finale of CSI:Miami, where they uncovered who the mole was (who cares?) and found the man responsible for Marisol's murder (pthbbt) and left us with this gem, "Eric, we're going to Brazil," as a plane is reflected in his everpresent sunglasses. I tell you, it's not worth it anymore, other than for the comedic value. I may have to drop it from my schedule next season, if something better comes up on Monday nights.