a jew walks into a tent

rumor has it that some of you (you know who you are. well maybe not quite yet since i haven't said anything. but soon. you will know) think it funny that i might be camping with my lady friend (lady friend, you are one of those "some of you"). the thing is, i am with you. when i became the one least likely to sleep outside is unclear. i have, i am ashamed to say, a semi-hippie past which included walking and/or sleeping in nature. i don't know if my wholesale rejection of all things hippie has, by it's very nature, meant that i no longer view camping as a calming, meditative retreat. i perceive it now as an uncomfortable and uncomfortably quiet and, therefor, disquiet endeavor. i am woody allen. i need buildings and traffic noise and indoor plumbing. when i feel the need to escape the city i only think of going to another city. i don't dream of riding my bike over trails. i dream of riding over bridges. big metal bridges with cars whizzing by. i look at skyscrapers with the same wonder as some look at redwoods. so this weekend's possible camping excursion (which came about because maria and i are going to milwaukee to see the brew crew take on her hometown cardinals) has turned me into a cartoonish fool asking questions about having to shit in a hole and picturing how inept i will be in setting up the tent. if you are one of those people that i said would know who you are, you are very much right to think this is funny. at least i embrace my urban jewness and see my future bumbling for what it is: a chance for ridiculous photos and self-mockery. a good jew knows how to mine everything for humor. i am nothing if not a good jew