PART THREE: "Gomorrah", Wisconsin - Apple River Hideaway

*I should've been putting Gomorrah in quotes, like this: "Gomorrah". For the Biblically illiterate, this was a Sin City that God destroyed in the Old Testament. There's no such thing as Gomorrah, Wisconsin. Happy reading!

Let’s see… where did I leave off…. Oh yes. The baboons next door were putting on a show. What I’m about to describe is both disturbing and side-splitting hilarious. It was a toss up between: Do I laugh at their primitiveness? Or should I be repulsed by it? We laughed, but with eyes wide open in horror at the same time.

I didn’t actually take a head count, but I believe there were four of them. They were playing your everyday, club- mix clichés. They already lost originality points for that one… It was also rather obvious that none of them were old enough to drink. In fact, I would place a bet that at least two of them were only seventeen or eighteen. But then again, people that act like apes are hard to gauge in terms of where they’re at in their maturity. But judging solely on the way they were dressed and the amount of hair they still had on their heads and the baby face pretty boys that they were, I think it’s safe to guess that they were under-aged. This fact (or fiction) point is only being made because this is relevant to a later part of the story. I’ve drank with under-aged people before (I won’t name names…). I’m not here to judge on the matter. But this was the leverage we should’ve used when we thought about calling the cops…

Anyway. I promised a graphic plus hilarious description of what they were doing while we were playing Mad Gab. Their tunes were pounding loud through their clearly expensive sound system (which is a waste when you don’t play proper music on it, can I just say?). The doors of the SUV were wide open. They perched themselves, feet on the bottom of the doorframe and hands gripping the top. Already, they were in monkey position. You know, when a baboon is up in a tree and his long arms and hands are gripped to the branch above him and his feet are gripped to the branch he’s standing on, and he shakes both the branches and screeches for what most of us believe to be for no reason other than to say, “I AM MALE. I WANT MATE.” This is what happened. But even worse. They were shaking the vehicle in their positions, up and down went the SUV. They were hooting and hollering. And here it is: they were humping the air as they did this. Like, graphically having imaginary sex and being really, really excited about it. Their lips were pursed in “oot” positions as they looked at each other side to side, humped the air, and “oot ooted” like apes. At least, that’s what my eyes saw. In truth, they were just yelling, “Wooooo!” and then really going at it with the humping. It became, like, the thing to do. They were all very proud of themselves. It was the most ludicrous, barbaric thing I’ve ever seen. What was humorous about it was the fact they clearly thought they were cool by doing this. I mean it. They thought they were the clever hit of the party. Kudos, boys. Kudos. How so very original and witty you are. You were definitely a hit. But not quite in the way you wanted to be. To me, you were the clear evidence that just maybe, not necessarily all of us, but clearly some forms of humans truly did evolve from apes. Your ancestors would be proud. Especially when a woman would walk by that you were attracted to, and you would refer to her as a “Vagina”. “Check out that Vagina!” And many more offensive variations of this vulgar, sexist, repulsive-to-the-core act of babooness. You want to get back on to the SUV again and have imaginary sex? Let me take a picture… If only I had. They had hopped off when I finally dug around for my camera. I would’ve posted it. I think it’s safe to say that their illiterate, un-evolved, passing as an evolved human just because they wear a stupid blue bandana around their head and shave their face, prime-time dysfunctional qualities that make good MTV reality entertainment, less-than-capable of being able to pick up a piece of reading material that doesn’t have boobs on the cover, raunchy, mindless, wasted breathing beings and shells without souls, their stupidity to not understand the word “asinine”, and their being the epitome of having a most ridiculous existence that nobody on the planet could possibly care about because they have nothing to offer to it other than being a delightfully fun description for a run-on-sentence addicted writer make it undeniably certain that they will never, ever in their lifetime read this or have any idea that it exists. So. In short, I think it would’ve been safe to post their pictures because there’s no way they would ever see them.

Now. That was a lot of hate compacted into just some stupid idiots humping the air listening to club music. My anger and vindictiveness derives from what happened later on that night.

Now, me and my company had a swell game of cards going on in the “master tent” that lasted until about midnight. It was good times, and it was really, honestly the best part of the evening. (It was NOT boring). Eleven o’ clock was when the Hideaway campsite requested “quiet time” begin. It didn’t settle down completely until about twelve thirty. No big deal. We expected that. I mean, come on. Party it up and have fun. That’s the way it is. In fact, I was a little impressed that the noise didn’t last longer. I had been worried that it would, that it wouldn't be quiet enough for me to sleep...

Here’s another embarrassing fun fact about me that I’m about to throw out to the public in the name of story telling: I’m pathetically a high maintenance sleeper. I don’t know when this happened to me, but it has happened. I used to be able to sleep on anything, anywhere, as long as I was warm enough. When I lived in Pittsburgh in my early twenties, I didn’t have a bed and slept on a make-shift pad of blankets on the floor for an entire year. I’ve fallen asleep on all sorts of lumpy, smelly, crooked, “what stain is that?” sort of couches in all sorts of environments, and I’ve slept under towels and on top of crusty, hard carpets of bachelor pads. I grew up falling asleep to the sound of bulldozers moving and beep-beeping from the lumber yard behind our house. I’ve lived in the city, I’ve endured the noises and the life of late night civilians. But a few years ago, insomnia became a growing problem. I’ve always had a bout of it now and again, but nothing as severe to what I’ve been dealing with in the last couple years. I now have a ridiculous ritual that I have to abide by to keep my body happy enough to sleep properly.

1) I have to stay out of my bedroom until about an hour before sleepy time. This tells my body that it’s now time to sleep.

2) I have to turn on my fan for the noise and the feeling of a breeze on my face (even in the winter under a giant pile of blankets).

3) I have to either watch an hour of TV, a movie, or read a book for an hour lying down until I get sleepy.

4) I have to turn on my “lullaby” music.

5) Then, here’s where it gets even more ridiculous: I have to lie on my back for awhile until that position is uncomfortable, and then I turn to my side to doze off. If I skip the lying on my back stage, I’m awake for hours. I’m not exaggerating. It might sound like I am. But I am not.

So.
Camping is completely out of my comfort zone. It never used to be, though, I can assure you. I grew up camping. I went camping a few times in my early twenties, and loved it just as much. I loved the smell of the tent. I loved listening to the crackling of the fire and the soft voices of the people who were still up. I loved curling up in my sleeping bag and feeling like a bear in a burrow. But now? It was going to be a challenge for me to fall asleep. However, at this moment in the still quiet air, my iPod at my side for soft music, I was feeling positive and hopeful. I had brought my own, cute little pup tent that I bought five years ago when I had recklessly planned on doing a back-packing trip that never happened. I had never slept in it and was so excited to. Sounds stupid, but I was really excited to sleep in it. I was hoping for that “bear in a burrow” feeling again that I used to be able to enjoy.

To aid my sleeping needs, I took two of my anti-anxiety pills. I usually only need a half to knock me out cold. Two puts me near into a coma. That’s what I wanted. So, I curled up in my state of the line expensive sleeping bag (that I had also bought for my back-packing trip that I never went on), had my nifty head lamplight (another smart purchase for the trip I never went on) strapped around my head, and began to jot down notes and random observations in my “Hating Minnesota” notebook. I didn’t write very much. The pills kicked in faster than anticipated. I also wasn’t quite in the mood to write. My tent was damp from the storm that had just passed through. I was impressed with its waterproof-ness, but my sleeping bag felt dewy, and I wasn’t quite comfortable. So I packed up the notebook that contains a jotted note in it that says, “Not a camper camper.” That’s all it says. Line two: “Not a camper camper”. I have absolutely no idea why I wrote this. Following this was a bunch of boring facts about prices and “registering took forever”. It wasn’t very detailed. I finally decided it was time to try to sleep. I had forgotten my pillow at home but said to myself, “You are the queen of make-shift and do-without luxury…or, at least you used to be…”. So, I folded up a spare sweatshirt, and it sufficed. Sort of. I couldn’t get warm. I was chilled from the dampness of the tent. My sleeping bag is supposed to be able to keep me alive in -20 degree weather. I was doubting that at this moment. I decided to watch the movie “Millions” on my iPod until I passed out. It sort of worked. It took about two hours of switching positions, wrapping myself up tighter here, tucking in this part there, and closing up this draft hole here before finally at 2:30am I was warm, comfortable, and was starting to drift off into dream. I was in that place where you’re technically still aware of your surroundings, but your thoughts are crossing over into dream… when It, happened. Out in the still, quiet air that had comforted me with hope in sleeping came the rupturing noise of booming club music, vibrating the earth with obnoxious bass, announcing to the world that the baboons had returned. My eyes flung open with alarm. Then, the rage pulsed. I was a dragon that had been wakened. I heard in the tent next to me my friend crying out, “You’ve got to be kidding me!” She was just as ticked off as I was.

It took me two seconds to decide what to do. I knew there was no way this music was going to end any time soon. I am not a person who hesitates to address a conflict. Not to mention the fact that I was in a right rage for having just found my sleep spot and was right on the verge of dozing off when this monstrosity decided to erupt at this most unfortunate cinematic moment. I sat up, adrenaline pumping. I whipped up that zipper on my teeny tiny door and crawled hands and knees out of my wee little pup tent, managed to slip on my flip flops and march over to that damn SUV. I walked right up to the window. The baboons were sitting in the two front seats. Blue Bandana guy was in the driver seat, the window to which I was now pounding on. He didn’t even look over. Granted, he was completely piss-drunk wasted. But dude. You seriously don’t see movement right next to your face? I pounded harder. Had I a crowbar in hand, it would not have been a pretty sight. Finally, he opened the door. I took it and swung it open. Blue Bandana didn’t even look at me. I had to scream at the top of my lungs to get them to hear me over the music. I said something to effect of, “Can you turn that down, please? People are trying to sleep. Show a little courtesy?” In a “Come on, Man!” sort of tone. Passenger Seat guy said, “Oh sure. No problem. Yeah, we’ll turn it down.” And because he was drunk I couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or if he was mocking me. He did turn it down, though. But I knew what was going to happen next. Apes are predictable. Scenarios such as these, are predictable. This is something that would go straight into a script. Or, in my case, straight into a blog.

Firstly, I should mention that my friend’s husband came out of their tent just as I was finished with my futile confrontation. He apologized for not getting out of their tent faster than me, and handling the situation. It was very chivalrous of him, and I was grateful. But I didn’t want him feeling like he had failed in that chivalry just because I beat him to the window. When I get angry, I move very quickly. ‘Surprising for a little tike my size, but adrenaline gives you super powers you never knew you had.

Now. What happened next as I was meeting my friend’s husband out in front of the tent? The music was turned back up, full blast. Of course it was. You knew this was coming, Reader. We all did. This time, my friend’s husband took the goat by the horns. He did the same as me. Pounded on the window. Nothing. This time, it took more effort. He had to open the door himself. Blue Bandana guy was ignoring us completely. The look on his face was nothing more to be described than soulless. I saw a spoiled rich frat brat who’s never had to fen for himself in his entire life. I saw a dumb little kid who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about anybody in his life (even his own mother) other than himself. I saw a friendless, loveless, pathetic asshole who was so drunk that a puny little girl like myself could’ve beaten the crap out of him if I had wanted to take it to those measures. The look on that face… It was so dark. So mean. A bully throughout his whole life, no doubt. The kind of person that will never know that he’s on the bottom of the totem pole, not everyone else. Reader? I secretly hated him. I don’t know why my feelings were so vehement and full of such dark rage, but I hated him. I had not one cent of sympathy or compassion, or even pity! To spend on him. Rage was pumping those two pills right on out of my system. I wasn’t tired anymore.

Blue Bandana guy started to pull on the door, trying to slam it in my friend’s husband’s face, but he was too weak to do it. I think this was the moment I wanted to get violent. It was so rude. Even for someone who was as drunk as he was. It was so… RUDE. F’s husband finally let go of the door and it suddenly gave way, and it shut. It seemed to surprise Blue Bandana a little bit. He then attempted to lock the doors by starting with the back one. It took him a long time to do this, manually pushing down the locks. That, was a little bit funny. But I still hated him.

Now that I was up, I had to go to the bathroom. F’s husband offered to walk me there. Safety first! We saw a group of Apple River Hideaway staff in a group in front of the check-in area. We decided to tell them what was going on. Up close, we realized that they were drinking too. Swell. We told them our story. We pointed to the spot that we had just come from and said, “Over there by the volleyball court”. We pointed. Twice, if I’m remembering right. And, yo. They had to have seen where we came from… Right? How much of a moron do you have to be to not realize that that area over there to which I’m pointing to is where the disruptive idiots are. Am I right? I’m right.

It got worse, Reader. Everything got worse…