After much thought, I’ve decided to go to school. I’ll attend the Community College, and get my pre-req’s out of the way, before transferring in to a University somewhere. I am going to study writing.

I’ll leave Napa on July 5, the day after my sister turns 19. I’ve created my own route. I’m going to follow the Pacific Coast Highway farther north, and hit Seattle. I’m going to stop there and see Don and his lovely family. Then, down to Yellowstone, and on to Denver, to see Paul and Cat. From there, I’ll go to Mount Rushmore, and then on to the end part of The Oregon Trail, on to Chicago, where I’ll see Lisa and Corey, Derek and Missy. Then home to Pittsburgh, to see where my relationship stands, to enroll in college, to find a job.

I feel good about this decision. It feels right.

This past weekend, Blake and I attended the San Francisco Pride Festivities. He had a room rented for the weekend, and invited me. Go me! We stayed at the world famous Fairmont Hotel, where the U.N. Charter was first signed. Yay, Fairmont!

We proceeded to spend the vast majority of our time partaking in our favorite of childhood past time: Mocking people. We are world class mockers. We could have taken the gold in ‘93. First up: The Tonga Room on Friday Night. The Tonga Room is actually pretty cool — it used to be the indoor pool of the Fairmont, until they remade it in to a bar with an island theme. It thunderstorms every half hour, and there’s a boat that wades in to the middle of the pool with a band on it.

We shared a Lava Bowl, which is some sort of fruity drink with rum, and watched what can only be described as the female version of Napolean Dynamite. This poor girl took the phrase “shake your booty” literally. I thought she was going to throw her back out. Furthermore, she danced by herself, except for the few times her mother — or grandmother, or something — joined her, shaking her flabby upper arms in what I suspect was an attempt to “raise the roof.” There was also the Asian couple who had the distinct advantage of being sober and identifying a beat, and the older couple in matching Hawaiian shirts.

This was prime mocking territority. I also ordered something called “A Zombie,” which was described as “grog with a spash of rum.”

“Ugh, this whole thing is liquor!” Blake made a face when he tasted it.

“That’s not true. There’s ice in it.”

Some friends of his dropped by the room and one of them gave me a haircut, which was a good way to start the weekend. We went to Lefty O’Douls for a drink, and called it a night a lot of hours later.

On Saturday there was the bridal party where the maids were all put in incredibly unflattering sleeveless dresses of a green shade we shall call “puke.” We walked down to the bay and made fun of more people, including the obese children playing their favorite game, “beached whale.” After a brief reprieve of watching yet more Deadliest Catch, we headed to the Castro. They close the street off for a few blocks, and people walk around drinking and being, well, you know.

On Sunday we headed to the parade and the party, hooked up with Kim and Tracy and Mike and Noah, and ate Indian food. Then we met other people and ate sushi. Then we drove around with Mike and finally got back to Napa around 3AM. Which is the gloss over version, I know. But I think my impressions of the day are more interesting than what we actually did.

I had been told that the Pride Celebrations would be lewd. In fact, I expected to find nothing more than Leather Daddies and Drag Queens. Instead, I found a celebration of all sorts of liberal causes, from gay equality to safer cars to fuel economy. I saw people of all shapes and sizes. I saw families enjoying the afternoon. And the people, gay straight, transgendered, all of them just like every group of people I have seen at any concert or street fair.

Frankly, I’m a bit disappointed it wasn’t more sinful. If you want to see some fairly boring pictures, go here.

So let us assume, for the moment, that you love me. Let us assume, for a second, that you don’t know how to show me that love.

You may show me your undying admiration by buying me a tee-shirt from A Softer World. I want the Zombie one and the Be the Trouble one. I want them now.

Do it. You know you wanna.

On Saturday, my cousin David, Luanna, and I went to a Pirate’s Festival. It’s just like a Renaissance Festival, but with pirates. I was actually surprised at the number of people there in costume. They got really in to it. Josh said afterward that I should have dressed as a ninja, and he’s completely right. I want to seek out another pirate gathering, just so I can get a posse of Ninja together.

I got a picture of a pirate exiting a port-a-potty. Because it’s hilarious. More pictures can be seen by clicking here.

On Sunday I went camping with some friends from high school. I had intended to go for the day only, but then they whined about me leaving, so I stayed. I had no provisions, but I did have my SUV. I laid the seats down and slept there. I can’t recommend it as comfortable. But it sufficed.

Updates on my return route will be coming soon.

It’s so hot that Blake and I made a run to Trader Joe’s for popsicles and mochi’s. We’re adults, and we can eat ice cream for dinner if we wanna.

Canoeing became kayaking. I did not go kayaking. Do you realize those things aren’t waterproof? And there’s no place to set your laptop? I mean, seriously.

We went snipe hunting. When my Uncle first mentioned snipe hunting, I asked if it was anything like hunting snark. Turns out, it is. It is, in fact, exactly like hunting snark. Neither exists. I asked what to do if we found a Jabberwocky along the way, and my Uncle laughed, knowing I had beaten his incredible ruse.

I played along, though. We got paper bags and clappers and flashlights and headed in to the – well, not the woods, but the brush around the campsite. We made a lot of noise, trying to lure the elusive snipe, and I was certain other campers were running toward the security guard, to complain about the incredibly large insects they heard out in the bush.

One of my cousin’s classmates, Jessica, also pegged this as a ruse. She and I hung back from the group describing what a snipe must be. We finally decided that it was a giant polka-dotted gerbil with feathers and huge fangs that guarded a magical pot of gold.

Speaking of magical, there was a Recreational Vehicle (which is what you call the tents that drive themselves) for sale on the campground. There were people in it, but they had a for sale sign and a flyer you could take. So we took one.

This thing is decked out with Tiffany lamps and a fucking satellite dish. It also features Miller’s Amazing Magic Coffee Table. I figure an amazing magic coffee table better figure out that I need coffee before I do, and should make it to my brain specifications without me ever uttering a word. Like a more advanced version of that replicator on Star Trek. But no. A Miller Amazing Magic Coffee Table is simply a table that folds and changes to be different sizes. Lame.

We left the campsite on Tuesday and went to Goat Rock beach for a few hours. It was blistering cold, and windy. Too cold to go near the water, which is fine, since Goat rock, with its sleeper waves and incredibly strong undertow, is considered to be one of the most dangerous beaches in California.

Now I am back in Napa, with the staggering heat, trying desperately to find the motivation to write.

We are going camping. I haven’t been camping since I was 16. I’m not entirely sure what to expect, but I recall there being tents, and sleeping bags, and fishing, and dirt, and bug bites, and swimming, and rocks in your back, and peeing in the bushes, and merriment.

Step 1: Pack. Clothes, toiletries, towel, teddy bear. It’s just like packing for any trip, right?

Camping checklist:

 High-end digital camera? Check.
 Cellular phone? Check.
 Laptop? Check.
 High-speed internet service? Checkity check.
 Socks to keep my arm covered in the glaring sun? Triple Check.

Yes, I am ready to get back to nature.

Something that I hadn’t realized that had changed are tents. Tents are now gigantic, and on wheels, and you tow them with your incredibly large vehicle (tents don’t drive themselves) and they now call them “campers.” It’s so cute. There’s no need to ever leave a camper. It has electricity, and water, and air conditioning, and a nice screen door to keep out the bugs.

After a hectic day of preparation (or, in my Aunt’s case, several days of hectic preparation) we took off in the half-ton Suburban, towing the incredibly large camper, around 6PM.

I don’t know if I can describe this camper properly. It sleeps six, at least. There’s a stove and a fridge and a microwave and a bathroom. It has an awning you unfurl. There’s a television.

We took the scenic route, through Bodega Bay, to Casini Ranch And Campground, on the Russian River. The cellular phone turns out to be useless; there’s no service here. But, in the vein of The New Camping Experience, each camp spot has a water and electricity hookup. And, there being no cell service I figured my Verizon internet card would be just as useless, but it turns out it was unnecessary – Casini Ranch has its own wireless network. Each camp site also comes with a cable hookup. Cable TV. Internet.

Seriously, welcome to The Great Indoors.

Regardless, it’s beautiful. I can see the stars, so brightly, so clear. We’re here with 10 families from my cousin’s graduating class. They’re all camped near each other (though we’re one of only two families with a giant home-on-wheels, and the other have a special needs child, which kind of mandates it, whereas, to me, this just seems like pampering), mingling back and forth, from fire to fire.

There’s talk of going canoeing in the morning, and I can’t wait to see how boats have changed.

It appears I’ve gone beyond Sunburn. My arm is actually suffering from a second degree burn. Sunburned Squared.

I don’t remember the last time I had a sunburn. (Wait, that’s not true. I managed to burn the top of my noggin when boating in Orlando in 2005.) There’s a fair amount of Portuguese in me, and my sister and I always turn out more mulatto than red. We darken. We don’t burn. But in this case, I’ve scorched myself something fierce. It will take several more weeks to heal, and I’ve been instructed to keep taking an antihistamine, and I’ve been given a new cream to apply twice a day.

And I have to keep it out of the sun.

Now, I’ve been trying to do this. I’ve been staying in the house. I’ve been leaving the house with long sleeve shirts on. However, we’re going camping this weekend, and hiding indoors is no longer an option. Unable to find anything resembling the few lightweight, long sleeve shirts I own, I’ve developed an ingenious plan.

Socks.

I’ve purchased several pairs of knee-length socks; one of them is blue argyle! I will cut the toes out of these socks, and fashion them in to sleeves. Sleeves to wear only on my left arm. Blue argyle sleeves. I do believe this will become the height of fashion in the summer of 2008.

I’m starting a trend. I know I am.

It’s been a terribly long week and a half without Lappy. I missed him terribly, and thought of him often. He’s back now, all charged up with a new AC jack, and I am $150 lighter than I really need to be, but he seems happy.

You may recall my previous posting about a rash that appeared on my arm after I sunburned it. Now, the burn wasn’t really so bad, and all the information I have dug up says to take an antihistamine and put an anti-itch lotion on it, both of which I have done. For three weeks. It should have cleared up in 7 to 10 days. It has not. Three weeks. So itchy!

Wanna see what it looks like?

So. Itchy.

So today I will see a doctor, a nice California doctor. I will update with the inevitable diagnoses of death-defying skin cancer. Or something. But first I have to go buy more lightweight, long sleeve shirts. To protect my arm from further harm. It actually tingles in the sunlight. How weird is that?

I Drove Route 66 And All I Got Was This Horrible Burning Itchy Skin Rash.