Will Work for Tums

Masterpieces, all four. It was a good year for tables.

This is the third episode of Reggae on the River, 2016, a tawdry expose straight out of the Devil's Workshop.

Will Work for Tums

With Reggae on the River, 2016, less than a week away, my next task is to plan a menu for the four days and nights, keeping in mind that the challenges of camping include sharing facilities with 10,000 of my new best friends.

What’s the prevailing thought when it comes to meals while On Holiday? The sky is the limit, right? You get to pig-out on all of the goodies that are forbidden the rest of the time? Because, you know, you’re On Holiday!

Gosh, it sounds so inviting, let me take the training wheels off and see how I do with this.

I’ll start with lime tortilla chips and some Pico Pica sauce, the HOT kind, a huge package of beef jerky (nice and spicy), cheese puffs, jalapeño potato chips and some Slim Jims. Next, I’ll toss in some Snickers bars, a case of Coca Cola, some Twinkies, and some sparkly water because water is important. For dessert, (Snickers bars and Twinkies are  integral parts of the meal) I’ll score a selection of dark chocolate, especially if I can find some with sea salt in it.

French's Camp is high in anticipation...

OK, I was just kidding about the Twinkies-that shit will kill you.

As long as I don’t forget mega-sized bottle of Tums, I should be good to go.

And if you believe that I would actually follow through with this suggested menu, then I have this bridge with a golden gate that you are certain to be interested in, one that I can let go for however much you are willing to write the check. 

No, the only item the above list that actually makes the cut is the dark chocolate, with or without sea salt. That particular item takes its place at the top of the list. The rest of it sounds like what I would expect to find in Donald Trump’s daily lunchpail.

No, based on my experience last year, my one and only ROTR extravaganza thus far, I have discovered that I can actually create a more than palatable ensemble, by simply making a quick excursion through the farm, shopping bag(s) firmly in hand(s).

A year ago, when I trotted out cold cucumbers (three different varieties), tomatoes, (both the perfectly formed Ace and a selection of cherry tomatoes), and sliced carrots, with some Ranch dressing, I got inundated with requests for a sampler by those in our campsite. I was more than happy to oblige.

This year I will supplement those offerings with some baby zucchini squashes. My definition of a baby squash is one that I can hold-lengthwise-between the thumb and middle finger of either hand.

No submarines on this voyage.

Last year I had brought along a little tuppie with a dozen hard-boiled eggs, and a similar container with some cold, roasted chicken, and I had lugged along a five-gallon Igloo. Inside was Bell Springs water, the only liquid that enters this old hippie’s body besides the nectar of the gods, coffee.

That’s not completely true; I had a glass of wine earlier this month, when Annie brought home a bottle of pinot noir. If coffee is the nectar of the gods, then wine is the nectar of the goddesses.

I consume six to eight liters of water daily, even on the worst of days; on a good day, the water tank is the limit. Water has become for me the elixir of life, the panacea for all that may befall me, and my take is that if some is good, then more is better.

Hanging the lights

I shudder in revulsion, when I think back on the amount of diet soda I have consumed over my lifetime. I shake my head in disbelief, as I remember all of the years I taught, and how challenging it was to try and balance the need for hydration with that of the awkward requirement that one not abandon the thirty-one eighth graders, to use the facilities.

I did not eat beef for twenty years because, as I used to explain, I just couldn’t seem to digest it properly. Well, duh. Considering I consumed virtually no water, it’s a wonder I was capable of digesting anything. Unfortunately, it’s diabolically hard to drink water, without said water wanting to experience that rush of freedom.

Much to my discomfort.

Teachers have it hard on so many levels, it’s absurd, speaking of heroes who don’t wear capes. The only time I wore a cape to school, Mr. Matlock, his eyebrows cavorting merrily, informed me that wearing the cape was fine, as long as I did not try to fly off the top of the multi-purpose-room.

“Please try to confine your flying to the privacy of your own home, if you get my meaning.”

Mr. Matlock always was a stickler for protocol. Why, I remember when he hauled Paul and me into his office, to ask a clarifying question-or six-about the letter we had co-authored in support of Stu Greenberg, back in the early nineties.

The letter, in and of itself, was not the issue; no, the issue was that we had put the letter on official School District Letterhead, thus incurring the wrath of the powers-that-be. Well, wrath seems bit hyperbolic, when you contemplate the generally jovial Mr. M.

Can you say “School Board?” I know you can. Try it.

Well, the rush of freedom for liquids exiting the body, at ROTR, is facilitated by the availability of more port-a-potties than there are fans of Justin Bieber. They’re everywhere (porta-potties, anyway-not sure about JB fans) and I know where every single one is located. 

Looking a trifle rough, are we?

That’s another perk of volunteering to help set up the festival: Before the hordes arrive, I have been over every inch of the venue and have created a mental map of all available ports-of-storm. When you are competing with “hordes,” you need a handicap.

“Stay hydrated” comes with a warning sticker, for the who rely on such things: “Warning: Drinking water may cause you to have to urinate.”

Well, it’s as logical as, “Warning: Cigarette smoking is hazardous to your health.” After all, if cigarettes are dangerous, then why doesn’t the FDA simply ex it off the list? As in “exit?”

[In a stage whisper “…$$$$$$$$$$$…”] Oh, right, never mind. 

Mention of the FDA always makes me see red, because of the rhetoric about finding “a cure for cancer.” If “they” really wanted to find a cure for cancer, then cannabis would not have been vilified back in the thirties, to make room for synthetics.

Coffee for twenty?

That being clarified, there is nothing synthetic about my menu. I have decided to pre-fry a pound of bacon this year, so that I can then have bacon and eggs for breakfast, along with some sliced tomatoes, sprinkled with salt and pepper.

I am still contemplating the universe, when it comes to coffee. I would set the whole mechanism in place, and provide coffee for the entire crew of twenty, except for one minor detail.

There is no storage space large enough that I have encountered, that will house THAT much coffee in advance. So, it’s every reggaer for him or herself!