Listening to: “Kalamazoo” – Ben Folds
Let’s just call a spade a spade here, huh? Or in this case, let’s not call it a spade if it’s not a spade. So here’s your lesson for the day: NOT CAMPING does not equal CAMPING.
According to the ever-incisive, journalistically daring, in-no-way-lame Boston Globe’s latest trend-wank piece, the glamping craze is sweeping the country like a plague of boils. Yes, glamping–“glamorous camping.” The latest insipid portmanteau to worm its way into the lexicon, possibly even worse than such botulism-inducing “words” as staycation, infotainment, and Newgrass.
The idea of glamping is that you go camping and experience the great outdoors, except without actually camping or experiencing the great outdoors. Not uncommon are “camping butlers,” WiFi stations, and s’more delivery services. Cause you know, s’mores are incredibly difficult to make oneself:
“Lori Karger of Weston may be the ultimate luxury camper. In April she and her husband, Stewart, spent a night in a two-story air-conditioned, beautifully appointed treehouse at the year-old Winvian resort in Litchfield Hills, Conn. Winvian sits on a private 113-acre estate with a a French–trained chef and 18 themed cottages designed by different architects. Several of the cottages evoke the fantasy of being on a wilderness camping trip.
These include a $1,700-per-night “camping cottage” with trees painted on the walls and a ceiling painted like a night sky, and the $1,950-per-night “charter oak cottage,” with an actual charter oak poking up in the living room. All cottages, including the treehouse, have fireplaces, jacuzzi bathtubs, Italian linens, espresso coffee systems, radiant floor heating, and pop-up plasma TVs.”
THAT’S NOT CAMPING, you flaming, flaming bags of douche. That’s a fucking luxury hotel room with a fucking tree in it.