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The Reek of Success (Part 1)

The outdoors are dangerous, I have proof. Also, we never sang that song.

So, I know I told you I was going to get you a post yesterday . . . but that fell through. It’s alright though, as you probably

  1. Didn’t notice.
  2. Didn’t care.
  3. Wasn’t even aware this site had a blog.

Honestly, it just fell through. I am not going to lie, I was busy all morning and afternoon and I felt my entire evening feeling terrible and playing Assassin’s Creed II for multiple hours.

My dad even offered to write the post . . . and he did, kind of. He didn’t finish it though, and at the end he didn’t want me to post it. I thought it was fine . . . but I guess he did talk about Preparation H and “lolled” over the unfortunate name of my other comic, Poop in Bed. I enjoyed it.

My plan for yesterday was, in essence, to describe to you a camping trip that Noah accompanied me and my family on oh-so-many-years ago. I would love to say that Good in Theory, or as it was known at the time “Gamer Candy,” was conceived on this trip inside our shared tent . . . but for some reason the tent circumstances and word choice make me uncomfortable.

Anyways, all throughout living and growing up in Alaska, my family went camping. My parents were wild, untamed beasts who craved the outdoors, constantly encouraging me to go outside. I never really saw the point as there was nothing for me to do outside that was not some kind of labor. My parents always advocated sledding, which might be considered fun and exciting to people living in places that do not receive a thick, yearly blanketing of snow, and did not live at the bottom of a hill. I always considered the walk up the hill to be particularly discouraging.

I did enjoy camping though, as it combined my slothful nature with being outdoors . . . I would sometimes bring my Game boy, and combine a favorite indoor activity, with a semi-outdoor (I was in a tent after all) activity, that typically kept parental scorn at a somewhat tolerable low.

Anyways, Noah moved to Portland somewhere in late 2005, and came up in the summer of 2006 for a . . . two or three week visit. This was a summer that I hold high in my list of summers as it was essentially the last summer I ever officially had, and it contained enough epic adventure and fond memories to fill a quarter of a lifetime.

Not just because of Noah’s visit, I went to Italy and Greece in a class trip, and my mother and father worked so I was partaking in A LOT of computer games.

Er . . . my standards for “epic” can be kind of low at times.

Anyways, Noah came up that summer, and we spent a good portion of the time playing a combination of Resident Evil 4 and Oblivion until the extreme early hours of the morning. My parents did take us on a trip camping in some mosquito and bear infested portion of the state.

I don’t even remember a whole bunch about the trip, except for watching Land of the Dead, 28 Days Later, Dawn of the Dead (2004), Shaun of the Dead, Day of the Dead, and the original Dawn of the Dead on the DVD player (which was hot shit at the time). We like zombies is what I want you to walk away with.

We camped and hiked, I remember that much. There was also a bike ride of relative length that was probably what I remember best about the trip (it’s possible I only imagined watching some of those zombie movies at that time).

It began with putting our Schipperke in a milk crate connected to a short leash. At one point she jumped from the basket, attempting to hang herself quite efficiently. This was somewhat horrifying, but I unsnapped her collar and saved her from . . . you know . . . death.

We biked along, and at some point, Noah fell behind. A car passed us three, but stopped for Noah, who was a ways back. They informed him of a bear up ahead on the road. Noah cried out to us with alarm, alerting us to the several hundred pound predator potentially lurking ahead . . . of which the driver had only seen fit to inform Noah.

This has been an incredibly boring blog post, but I feel somewhat accomplished for writing it? It’s better than nothing . . . just barely.


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