Recently, I went camping with a group of gays in the middle of what I was told later was Maryland. I haven’t been camping since at least the seventh grade. That was back in Arkansas when I had my brief flirtation with the Boy Scouts. We met in the basement of a Methodist church. I was initially drawn to the neckerchief, knee-high socks thing, but Troop 71 bordered on the paramilitary side of things. I assumed ‘being prepared’ was knowing how to whip up a quiche for unexpected company, not how to trap and skin wild animals. So I decided that pleated green shorts weren’t for me, and I didn’t make it past the pussy willow badge.
Needless to say, camping left a sour taste in my mouth. But I thought I’d give it another try. And just in time for my friend Luke’s biannual camping trip, comprising 25 rather ab-y and affable gay boys, and me with my shirt on.
We started out Friday afternoon and after some driving stopped at a liquor store in rural Maryland. This is where I saw my first Confederate flag in a long while. But it was a sticker in the shape of a heart and attached to a Volkswagen bug, so I wasn’t exactly sure what message I was supposed to take away there. But the liquor store did sell rose in a can, so I considered it a win overall.
By Brock Thompson – Full Story at The Washington Blade
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