The news is way too serious for summer. In this season of beach parties and backyard barbecues, no one wants to worry about Texas banning abortions or the Supreme Court dismantling the voting rights law. We’re in that nether world known as summer break, and the bad news is striking a discordant note.
Factories are closed for vacation, professional offices are lightly staffed, kids are off to sleep-away camp and moms and dads are kicking back.
Even teenagers, taking on jobs at the shore, heading out on teen tours or attending resume-enhancing classes at Harvard Summer School, aren’t dwelling on Paula Deen’s vile, racist remarks or Nelson Mandela’s precarious health. Adults aren’t engaging in intellectual debate, preferring to get deep into Candy Crush rather than discuss where in the world Edward Snowden is.
Who besides me is left at the desk to ponder the preposterous candidacy of Anthony Weiner for mayor of New York City? I sit here quietly celebrating the Supreme Court rulings supporting gay marriage and realizing that no one really wants to think serious thoughts in July and August. The world has gone fishing. Slather on the sunscreen and pass the margaritas. Apparently, it’s only SCOTUS and me and a few other news hounds keeping the office open.
So I’m outta here. I want to go to camp, too. I never went as a kid. I can afford it now, and I deserve a few weeks of R&R. Thing is, I don’t want to go to any of the so-called “adult camps” presently available. I know there’s a cowboy camp out West, a la “City Slickers,” baseball camp for paunchy men who want to hit a home run, cooking schools in France for wannabe Julia Childs and writing workshops for my sort.
I’ve thought about this, and I know what I want. I’d like to go to a camp where I can play Scarlett O’Hara in “Gone with the Wind.” I want to swish a fan as I sit on the porch of Tara, rip down the green velvet drapes and exchange suggestive remarks with Rhett Butler.