This past weekend was a weekend of absurdity. I went camping in Manresa Beach near Santa Cruz with Brittany and her friends Mike and Eden. Thursday night we left San Francisco, car loaded to the hilt with sleeping bags, propane, and enough bagels to last us a lifetime. Driving down Highway 1 in total darkness, two cop cars pull out behind us. Here we are with two missing seatbelts, several forties, and another item I choose to leave nameless. Brittany slows down, but to what MPH? There are no speed limit signs to be found. Two cars in front of us don't seem to notice the cops because they are quite a ways ahead of us, and progressing in distance. We figure the cop is tired of our slow speed because he pulls around us, in between our car and the speeding car in front of us. Then, all of a sudden, both cop cars pull over the two speeding cars, leaving us free to go on our merry way!
It was 9pm by the time we got to our campsite. Pitching a tent in pure darkness save two flashlights wasn't what Brittany and Mike thought possible, but I have faith in my tent pitching abilities. Ten minutes down and one tent up. Here's what our beautiful camp site looked like:
The next morning, though it was entirely too windy, we walked down to the beach and layed out on the sand for a while until a greyhound puppy that looked like a rat came running up to Brittany and licked her face. She's terrified of rats.
I found a sand dollar. I like sand dollars. I wish they weren't so brittle.
Upon returning to the campsite we had a visitor. A cute collie that I guessed to be about six years old came wandering up to me, lost. Brittany started freaking out yet again and Mike could care less, so I knew it was up to me to find its owner. I walked around our site and there was nobody to be found. The little dog didn't have a collar, so being the Detective Olivia Benson that I strive to be, I gathered evidence: (1) its fur was too clean to be a stray, (2) it must be well fed because it didn't eat or drink anything I offered it, (3) it responded well to words beginning with the letter B, and (4) it had partial cataracts in its right eye.
From this I was lead to believe that what had crossed my path was the world's first ever gender queer dog. Needless to say I wasn't in my right frame of mind. Also, I surmised that it should be named something starting with "B" so it would listen to me, which it already did so well. After trying out such names as Bumble and Britches, I settled on Beastie. Much to my chagrin, newly named Beastie then lifted its leg and pissed on a bush. My former gender queer dog now became male and slightly less cool.
Adding to the list of absurdities, I walked out of the bathroom the next morning to find a chain gang of orange jumpsuit-clad prisoners walking past me. I later learned they were day laborers from the Vacaville state prison working for $1 per person, per day. The chainsawing went on until sundown.
It was 9pm by the time we got to our campsite. Pitching a tent in pure darkness save two flashlights wasn't what Brittany and Mike thought possible, but I have faith in my tent pitching abilities. Ten minutes down and one tent up. Here's what our beautiful camp site looked like:
The next morning, though it was entirely too windy, we walked down to the beach and layed out on the sand for a while until a greyhound puppy that looked like a rat came running up to Brittany and licked her face. She's terrified of rats.
I found a sand dollar. I like sand dollars. I wish they weren't so brittle.
Upon returning to the campsite we had a visitor. A cute collie that I guessed to be about six years old came wandering up to me, lost. Brittany started freaking out yet again and Mike could care less, so I knew it was up to me to find its owner. I walked around our site and there was nobody to be found. The little dog didn't have a collar, so being the Detective Olivia Benson that I strive to be, I gathered evidence: (1) its fur was too clean to be a stray, (2) it must be well fed because it didn't eat or drink anything I offered it, (3) it responded well to words beginning with the letter B, and (4) it had partial cataracts in its right eye.
From this I was lead to believe that what had crossed my path was the world's first ever gender queer dog. Needless to say I wasn't in my right frame of mind. Also, I surmised that it should be named something starting with "B" so it would listen to me, which it already did so well. After trying out such names as Bumble and Britches, I settled on Beastie. Much to my chagrin, newly named Beastie then lifted its leg and pissed on a bush. My former gender queer dog now became male and slightly less cool.
Adding to the list of absurdities, I walked out of the bathroom the next morning to find a chain gang of orange jumpsuit-clad prisoners walking past me. I later learned they were day laborers from the Vacaville state prison working for $1 per person, per day. The chainsawing went on until sundown.
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