When I woke up Saturday morning, a headache was knockin’ on my cranial door.
Friday night was long for me, and I went to bed hours before many of the other guys.
In the morning outside the main door, I found the above flag waving around. It was tied up sometime that morning. One of the Texans was carrying a bottle of Honey Jack Daniels and a PBR. He said, “What do you think?”
“Looks pretty cool,” I said.
“Right?” He responded with a thick Texas dialect.
In the morning, there was also a guy there whom I faintly remember from the night before. He was an interesting looking guy with a balding skull cap and hair circumventing the edges as far out as Einstein’s.
It was just before noon, and he was drinking a beer. He told me he was leaving in 10 minutes and it was nice to meet me.
Three hours later, he was still drinking beer and telling stories of following Phish on tours, showing off his space rock, dropping acid, and going from atheist/agnostic to full-on God believer. It seems that during one acid trip, a fellow tripper (or a hallucination, you choose) proved God exists through math.
And you can’t argue with math.
You also cannot argue with LSD.
Saturday the group shot a variety of guns, including a sniper rifle, an AR-15 (I think) and a very womanly 38-special. It was a pink jobber with a kick and a pow that would scare the shit out of any perpetrator (seen below). After that was a game of skeet shooting. Every time I nailed a clay pigeon, I hollered like a local (or a fanatical muslim, you choose) shaking my gun in the air and screaming.
That night, we all cooked. I grilled dogs and asparagus on one grill. Another grill carried a big-ass loin covered in a weave of bacon.
The night ended (for me) with s’mores and a campfire.
Sunday morning, I rounded up what was left of the groceries, made a pot or two of coffee, and cooked breakfast for everyone. I made scrambled eggs, sautéed asparagus and onions, bacon, and jalapeño-infused kielbasa.
“I love cooking for that many people,” I kept saying.
What a great weekend.