You have the beginnings of a cold, and after pressurizing and depressurizing twice in the air, you’ve gone deaf in one ear, and when you get off the plane, you almost hit your head on the door overhang. It’s warm out. You stand on the runway and wait for the Couch Baron, who also almost hits his head on the door overhang, and you do the Jackie O wave and he does it back. You both walk along the painted path and into the little airport, and voila: AB Chao.

You have arrived at Chao Camp.

You have gone to camp before — riding camp, tennis camp, arts camp. Chao Camp is different. Chao Camp doesn’t have horses or tennis courts, and you don’t have to make scary crooked ashtrays or build a goddamn pinhole camera out of goddamn shirt cardboard — just a few of the many reasons that Chao Camp is the best camp ever.

Another reason is that the Chao Camp Shuttle stops at a gas station to buy cigarettes, which cost a mere $24 a carton. In New York City, you pay nearly that much for a single pack. You can scarcely resist doing a handspring in the gas station mart.

“Chao Camp rules.”
“Girl, I told you.”
“It ‘rulz,’ even. With a ‘z.'”
“I know that’s right.”

Also, Chao Camp doesn’t have tents. Chao Camp is a house. It is a really nice house. You announce within ten minutes of putting down your suitcase that it is now the house you live in. You will sleep on the porch. You will drive carpool. You will wash the dishes, and the dog, and whatever else needs washing so that you never have to leave. You plop down in a chair with a Diet Coke and a fresh pack of Camels and stretch your legs. You love Chao Camp.

You love Chao Camp, but it isn’t until the fried seafood shows up that you want to marry Chao Camp. Standing in a kitchen bigger than most Manhattan apartments, eating a piece of breaded catfish the size of an oar and listening to the Chairman plonking away on the piano, you say, “I love Chao Camp and I want to marry it.” Well, actually you say something more like “I wrf Chrrr Cmpf rrr I wkkrp f mrrfle rrt,” because you took a gargantuan bite of shrimp po-boy and then rudely started talking through it, but everyone knows what you mean.

Even in the car on the way to Enoch’s, when Special Ed is howling the chorus of that horrid Phantom Planet song directly into your good ear, you still want to marry Chao Camp, for better or for worse.

“Californi-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”
“Okay, could you –”
“HERE WE COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOME!”
“Okay…the thing is, ow, and also –”
“Dance dance party!”
“I…okay.”

Enoch’s, a.k.a. Chao Camp Field Trip. You all get settled around an outdoor table with a round of drinks, and then…oh, then. Then. Beteldouche.

Beteldouche is so profoundly…whatever that he’s almost awesome. Beteldouche is wearing a watchband that occupies nearly his entire forearm (and attached to it a Timex Indiglo, apparently without irony), and commemorates anything you say or do — ordering a drink, lighting a cigarette, quelling a sneeze — with a high-five. And not just a garden variety high-five, but a high-five preceded by a musical cue, like so:

Other Sarah: “I need another drink.”
Beteldouche: [raises hand] “Den nen nen nah nah.” [slaps Other Sarah five]
Other Sarah: “Like I said. Need another drink over here.”

Initially, even though out of the corner of your eye you can see Other Sarah self-medicating her way through a “conversation” with him, you find Beteldouche’s enthusiasm…or, you know, whatever…sort of sweet. But then the bartender brings over a round of shots, and Beteldouche asks her if she can stick her finger into his shot of Jager and make it sweet.

No. Seriously. “Can you stick your finger in my shot and make it sweet?” Direct quote. A voting adult actually said that. Out loud.

The bartender cuts him a side-eye that could shatter a diamond, so Beteldouche rubs her back all “cantcha take a joke?” You pop your eyes at AB all, “Did that just — that didn’t happen. Not really. Did it?” The Couch Baron has his entire head up his shirtsleeve, trying not to guffaw. Moments later, Beteldouche turns his head away from the Chairman to clear his throat, and coughs — on you. Your eyelashes flutter.

“That dude is…he’s kidding, right? It’s, like, performance art?”
“Welcome to Monroe, lady.”

When you leave Enoch’s, Beteldouche is hitting on a young lady by the door. You put forth the idea that perhaps one or all of you should go back, grab the young lady in a fireman’s carry, and flee, saving her from Beteldouche, but everybody else is too busy singing that horrid song again.

You get back to Chao Camp. Lots of Miller Lite. Special Ed surfs using a stool. A Journey song is sung very very loudly. You eat cold French fries.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is Chao Camp.

“Here, have a boudin ball.”
“Oh, I can’t — it’s got meat in it.”
“Have one.”
“I…can’t. It’s…got meat in it.”
“It’s a boudin ball.”
“Does it have…meat…in it?”
“Sure it does, it’s a boudin ball.”
“Then I can’t eat it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s…got meat. In it. Like I said.”
“Here. Try a boudin ball.”
“No, thanks.”
“Okay, okay. Here, try some of this sausage.”
“I hate you.”
“Boudin ball?”
“Hate.”

This is also Chao Camp, which you want to marry, except you can’t, because Lane, Builder Of Beds And Empires gave you a crawfish tail in the shape of a ring and now it seems that you will marry him instead, which is fine, because he’s cute, and if he’s not around to act out Aaron Neville during games of Celebrity, it’s just all going to go to hell.

You sit in the living room. You sit on the porch. You sing. You tell Special Ed to shut up and eat his salad. You wear your sparkly stretchy bracelet that Mad made for you in five minutes. You accidentally flash the plumber. You take Polaroids of Mad and the dog. Mad takes Polaroids of you and the dog. The dog declines to take Polaroids of you and Mad.

“Blue belt? Or pink belt?”
“Blue belt.”
“You sure? But the pink is so cute.”
“But that’s what I mean. Everyone’ll get the pink. You’ll get the blue. You’ll be a visionary.”
“I like the way you think.”

This is Chao Camp.

“So I said, get the blue, you’ll be a visionary.”
“But it’s…a belt.”
“Eat your salad, Couch Baron.”

At Chao Camp, a shrink-wrapped ham dated January 18, 2003 will mysteriously manifest in the driveway and terrorize the entire compound. Nobody knows where the ham came from, or why. The ham just…appeared. The ham, according to the writing on the shrink wrap, is “for pea salad.” You wonder where the pea salad got to, then, if the ham is at Chao Camp…or if the ham had heard about Chao Camp and decided it just had to go.

“Here, have some ham.”
“I can’t, it’s got ham in it.”
“Come on. It’s for pea salad.”
“Shut up.”
“Eat your pea salad, Sarah.”
“Shut up.”

Chao Camp is so fun, people. Go. Drink. Drink more. Have a Phantom Planet song grow on you. Break the toilet. Get betrothed with a crawfish. Make new friends. Discuss engagement ring settings very seriously while sunning yourselves in the side yard. Beg the Chairman to start a band with Beteldouche. Eat po-boys and pasta. Open that other bottle of wine. No, the other other one that still has wine in it. Start speaking with an accent.

“So we’ll see you next week?”
“Yeah.”
“Not really, though.”
“No.”
“This is sad, missy.”
“I know that’s right.”
“So what are you going to write?”
“Hell if I know.”
“Write that I’m pretty.”
“You got it.”

March 12, 2004

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