Fantasy Camp

Over the next hill I can almost make out helicopters darting through the floodlights over Fantasy Camp. La Cucaracha--but I know it’s not that--reaches me as a seismic rumbling, up from the earth, through my saddle, mixing with the warm Scotch in my chest.

It’s after six when I reach the front gates--too late for parasailing. La Cucaracha, I discover, is actually a digitized orchestral peice which, aside from being empirically beautiful, has magically cleared the desert out of my sinuses. The guard, dressed in a flannel cap and nightgown, welcomes me in a voice earily similar to that of my second grade teacher, Mrs. Lawrence: "Welcome to Fantasy Camp, Mr. Honeydew. This is a beautiful animal." She leads my horse away to the main house (I spy the outline of her flak jacket as she goes) while interns gather up my garment bags and lap top computer. I am permitted to drool a moment over the world famous baseball diamond before two sliding glass doors nearly take my head off.

I am here now, and I can’t beleive it. Everyone is wearing war paint, just like in the brochure. I cry when I get in the elevator.