So, I was going to write this entry last week, and had I, it would have been a sweeping dramatic piece of prose that may, or may not, have bordered on the melodramatic. It quite possibly would have flirted with melodramatic. It most certainly would have at the very least sent melodramatic an anonymous shot from across the room, even if it never found the courage to actually ask it out on a date. In any case, I decided to let some time drift under the bridge before typing, and we may never know whether or not it was the right decision.

At any rate, I went up to camp and got to participate in Indian Night. Jim Sitzler kindly let me play a role in the first pageant of the season, and had I written about it last Friday, I would have told you all how powerful the ceremony still is. I would have mentioned that even though the fire didn't light the first time, it still was magical when it did. I also probably would have told you that I cried a tear when the first little girl got tapped into her tribe. I most likely would have then given you all a thesis grade analysis of how it is amazing to me that with all the magic that is systematically removed from the world each day, there is at least one place where those pestering and pragmatic forces cannot reach in and strip away the powerful enchantment that flows into that amphitheater on the last night of each session.

It might have been a beautiful rant.

As it was, I had Tivo'd the Bachelorette and I spent the night screwing around with my iPod trying to get the Simpsons to play on it. All this while surfing the net to find out what Micheal Jackson's basement looked like. So I suppose that was, as they say, that.

I will just leave you with a picture of how beautiful the new headdresses you all bought are and how grateful I am to all of you for supporting our little Alumni tribe and making sure that whatever is out there constantly trying to dilute the magic never reaches Chanco, at least not on Indian Night.