So I was eating lunch at work today, talking to my friend Greg about how I wish I could be a professional camper. You know, just like when I was in boy scouts, taking off once a month to venture into the wild frontier, canoe down a river, and later get all jacked up on marshmallows and chocolate. After cursing a world that holds a man down, depriving him of his innate desires and instead making him settle for a diluted version of what he’d really like to be, I thought “hey, I can still go camping, it’s not like I need to do it for a living.” In fact, I’m learning that the very act of making something my livelihood seems to leech the fun right out of it. Now don’t worry, I’m not going to run off and make myself miserable 8 hours a day just so I can enjoy my off time. A wise man once taught me the downfall of falling prey to that frame of mind. Instead I decided to start a club. I might call it, the Los Angeles Camping Society. No, that’s not right...how about the Westside Outing Club. Yeah, that has a nice ring to it. Since there are several distinctions that separate westside L.A. (Santa Monica, Venice, Marina Del Rey) from the rest of this sprawling city. We could meet together every two or three months and take a trip together, splitting the cost of gas and food. It would be a good way to see the rest of California that I’ve been hearing so much about...