Snobbin: Beautiful Trash in the Pop Culture Gutter

Time once again emerges the winner in its perennial battle to change our hearts and minds, ravaging (perhaps, that's too harsh a word) along parameters that stretch from our youth to our deaths. What are these you ask? Only the old man himself knows and he's not telling. Winter fades to spring on the Elk River and the flood waters recede, streaming rivulets of mud and murk. I pack again for the cabin trip, like every summer since my summers began, excited, except for those few years in high school, when I fled from my parents, a high-minded but foolish youth, escaping into books and records, with friends. We surreptitiously visited the cabin on weekday nights, beers in hand, talk in mind. I pack and pack some more -- the right records, the right books, the right attitude -- looking forward to seeing the Elk overrun its bed or settle back into its groove, and anticipating the smell of the forest, the plants, the early summer.  I make my annual lists and call around...

Every year I go camping when the leaves are changing colors. There is a certain mystique involved in packing up the car, making sure I have my tent and all necessary gear. I double check my list for all the "important" necessities: good craft beer, bottles of whiskey, a radio for tunes (if the campsite has electricity), swimming trunks for that balmy fall day, a fully stocked mp3 player (you never know when you might want to hear some powerviolence or garage rock -- not to mention obscure Texas psychedelia), fireworks, books of various kinds (including a handy volume on building shelters out of gathered twigs), just to name a few. I always meet a small tight-knit group of old friends at the campsite. We will stay up most of the night around the campfire bullshitting, but we will at least entertain the idea of doing more than staring at the fire.Our goal is to find a campground somewhere within comparative driving distance of each of our respective homes, so no one has to ...