The Northern Brigade, Dispatched

Hi.

Some of you guys might not know this about me: I tricked the U.S. government into paying for me to vacation in Africa for a few years. Thanks, America. Yes, the Peace Corps was silly enough to hire yours truly for a tour of world-saving back in '03 - making the world a better place, spreading American agenda, you name it. Anyway, it was right out of college, and I got to ditch the real world and sweat a lot in the 120 degree weather of northern Ghana and not pay bills.

I could tell you things about the human digestive system that would leave you flacid for years.

See for yourself. BAM.

Anyway, I got on pretty well with some of the volunteers, and am fortunate enough to still talk with them on a somewhat regular basis. Sidenote: this is not the case with a lot of the other ones, who were really, really lame. You know those save-the-world types that demand you speak in politically-correct terminology, don't shave, never shut up, and get offended by practically everything under the sun? Yeah. Those people. I don't talk with those guys anymore.

One of these ol' Peace Corps compatriots, Lauren, got married over the weekend, and a handful of the ol' Northern Brigade was converging (is that the right word?) in the Florida panhandle for the event. Susannah, Jenny D., and the Thunderstruck.

Vasquez was too busy sleeping under a sombrero to make it out this time around.

So Friday afternoon, Luke flew in to Orlando, and together we set off on an eight-hour road trip in my beastly Ford Focus (that's how I roll, ladies - tell your friends!) to Grayton Beach.

Now, we were crossing a time zone (traveling back in time, mind you), so technically - by some weird law of astro-physics, or geography, or whatever - we were only traveling seven hours on the road. But it was still eight hours in the car. I can't stress that enough.

Also, for practically having a PhD in Geography, Thunderstruck can't read MapQuest directions for shit.

By the time we finally ended up rolling into Grayton Beach, it was 9pm. We were ready to cut loose, after having spent 30% of our day in a clown car, but the gods weren't in our corner. While we had anticipated meeting up with the rest of our ol' crew at a local bar, they were either retiring for the evening or else were 'three sheets to the wind' by the time we got there (I'll spare you the details, as I don't want to get a lecture from anyone*).

A house in Grayton Beach. Pretty sure someone was murdered here.

So, having been ditched by our comrades, Luke and I had little choice but to establish headquarters in our two-story, oceanfront, ultimo-bachelor pad... with a half-gallon of Sailor Jerry's and Goodfellas.

Behold the Man Fortress:

Condos (ours is the yellow one)

...is that a genuine Ford Focus in that driveway?!

Third Floor - Kitchen, Bathroom, Dining Room, Living Room

Third Floor - Kitchen (note: megaphone - not to be left at home)

Third Floor - Stairwell and Nerdery Center

Third Floor - Command Deck

Second Floor - My room

Second Floor - Thunderstruck's room

Views from Porch

The next morning, after a few breakfast Mary's (Maries?), we decided to hit the beach.

After walking fifty feet (awesome), we hit the ocean (er, gulf, as it were). Alas, we were unable to enjoy the local scenery, as the wind-gusts were somewhere in the F3 neighborhood.

Grayton Beach... beach.

We did get to try and help a handful of young ladies out who were struggling with putting their beach umbrella into the sand... but, on account of the horrid wind and the fact that neither Thunderstruck or myself are particular 'shredded' individuals, we couldn't seal the deal.

Too windy for a pipe?! Screw you, beach.

Anyway.

Following this less-than-satisfactory outing, we decided it was time for a coffee/breakfast pit-stop, so we opted to hit up the world's creepiest coffee shop (I'm calling it, folks).

Delicious muffins. And scary.

In order to paint you an accurate picture of this place, folks, imagine if your grandma ran a 'bed and breakfast' type coffee/breakfast cafe out of her house. Now imagine that your grandma hadn't been out of this house in the past 40 years. And that she was mondo in love with this Jesus guy. And that she was also in love with knick-knacks. And that also, she did heroin.

There you go.

Good coffee, though.

Steady as she goes, Jesus!!!

A more enjoyable pit-stop... (note: creepy murder house in background)

Anyway, after a less-eventful - but equally enjoyable - pit-stop for a lunch beer at a local bar, we headed back to our Man Fortress and prepared for Lauren and Joe's wedding. The event took place on the beach (which, by that point in the afternoon, was nowhere near as windy), and was a small affair by most standards. They kept it simple and short, which was awesome, and it was a really service. Following the nuptials, the reception started immediately... twenty or thirty feet from where I was sitting.

Imagine this picture with a bunch of people in it. That's what Joe and Lauren's wedding looked like.

Cowabunga.


Being the first person in line to get a drink from the bar was an honor, and it more or less set the tone for the rest of the evening. I'll spare you the details of the rest of the reception (which ended at '- ?', but did you ever see the movie Labyrinth? Remember that one? With David Bowie? Okay, pretend Labyrinth happened on the beach. That's what Lauren's wedding reception was like.)

Screw it. I'll let the pictures speak for themselves.

The Reception House - multiple stories, hidden staircases, balconies, walkways, and pit traps. Throughout the 12 hour reception, there was never a dull moment. Rest assured.

Susie and Jenny D.

Please note the black and white cup I'm using - courtesy of the Tamale Sub Office.

Remnants of the Peace Corps, Northern Legion

On one of the balconies of the Reception hall...

Inside the Reception house

Lauren, Jenny D., and some chick I don't know but vaguely remember talking to...

?

A short time later, we found that we had mysteriously time-traveled to 9am the next morning...


After bidding our crusty, old compatriots farewell, what was left of Thunderstruck and myself once again boarded my trusty Ford Focus for our mind-blowing, eight hour adventure home. We landed at my house in the evening, just in time to grill up some chicken in the backyard and throw Luke to my kids.

The next morning, horribly exhausted and utterly spent, I somehow was able to successfully drop Luke off at the Orlando International Airport. I'm assuming - since I've not heard otherwise - that he was able to fly back to his home in Ottawa, Canada, where he's probably busy at finishing up that Doctorate in Not Being Able to Read MapQuest Directions Despite Having a Superior Understanding of Geography.


...so that was my weekend. How was yours?

- Col. Brian J. Hough
Maliguna of Sankpala
Commanding Officer of the 9th Royal Donkey Cavalry Brigade

P.S. Here's a summary of our adventure Luke and I left in our condo's guestbook. Hopefully they like it:





* Susannah.