Justin calls the place 'the last American bar' and while I think he's over-romancing the spot, it's an okay hang. He also gets a pass for the my parents met here at the end of the bar and conceived me shorty thereafter factor.
It was late in the night, and we'd been holed up in a gymnasium-like room, built of aluminum and cement near the front of the campgrounds. We, the youth, had mixed in with the adults for the last night of Praise & Worship, that longwinded and highly energized close out to the four-night Summer retreat. Our arms hung at our sides like limp noodles, overcooked from long hours held in the air. Our tongues were bruised from slapping against our teeth with Shan-da-las.We walked through the woods on a roughly paved walkway toward our cabin, the youth cabin, feeling high on the Spirit and motivated to burn things. A smattering of mildly-risky teen groups, mid-level offensive rap acts, and mostly-harmless rock bands went up in the bon fire. And then: Sacred Reich's American Way LP went into the flames and started melting. We, the youth, stood gaping at Colin, who'd just tossed the album on the heated pile. He wasn't crying or laughing, which is probably why it's a touch confusing looking back. It should have been either thick tears or deep laughs. That grey area in the middle -- roasting heavy metal records over an open fire in the name of God with a certain concentration and practiced seriousness -- is next to impossible to order and understand in my head today.
It's football season, and I'm trying to pay attention.
see also: twitter.com/decorporated | crizzle.us
