Its official

The world has often tried stifling my attempts at greatness by typically requiring asinine amounts of paperwork to legitimize said efforts. The world apparently knew how lazy I am, so these attempts usually worked. Because I have become buddies with a little thing called the internet (that along with my two dogs raises my friend count to a boast-worthy three), I no longer have to go anywhere, write, turn in, or really do much of anything to sign up for or officiate various endeavors. And good thing, because my John Hancock would be limp by now with the amount of productive signing up I've been doing lately.

Doughnuts and dollars aside, I've made the horrible and possibly life-threatening decision to race the Tour of the Battenkill. While the name may suggest, this is not a baby-seal clubbing contest, but instead something possibly more inhumane: a 62 mile bicycle race with major portions being on dirt roads. The race is isn't until mid-April, but my terror and anxiety have prompted me to begin serious training now. My regiment is so serious in fact that it is completely embarrassing, and thus worth a separate posting altogether. This is the first legitimate race that I'm planning to ride in, and I have learned that apparently I need some kind of license to participate; I'm guessing in the same way that gun owners, medical doctors or fashion police need licenses to practice. Basically I have to pay money to have my name on a rectangle of polymerized tree pulp, of which there are two options: a one day or an annual license. Since I'm still mulling over the math, I've decided to further practice non-committal avoidance by not purchasing one yet.

What I have purchased lately are as follows: Wool, thread, hot dogs, and a full table for February 1st. The punks at R5 finally made re-arrangements for the winter Flea Market, and unlike my riding speed I was quick to act. Dan and I, along with a mountain of hand-made goodies, will be present and representing our business empire, Camp Cupboard. The hot dogs are not for the sale, I was just hungry now.

To further solidify our attempts at computer commerce, I also signed up for a domain on the world wide web. Now the Camp has moved from the free, yet cumbersome-to-say-out loud campcupboard.bigcartel.com to the more official and dignified www.CampCupboard.com (the capital Cs command respect). Currently my website building skills fall somewhere between my ability to scuba dive and my knowledge of post-colonial naval ship reproduction, which is to say they do not exist. Fortunately for me and perhaps unfortunately for military reenactors, free online CSS tutorials abound, so I have no doubt that within the next one to six months I will become effortlessly adequate at bettering the site.

And finally, what can legitimize a business endeavor more than business cards? Sure- one can attempt to build a brand, design goods, grab market share, and sell quality items for profit, but all of that is worthless without a card. This is because the business world is a lot like elementary school, with all the cutting and pasting and glue eating, and business cards are like Valentine's Day cards for grown-ups. Giving out cards gives hope. A special, tingly hope.


Hope that perhaps the exchange isn't just an obligatory ritual or an attempt at networking, but that maybe- just maybe- you really do think of them y'know, like that*.

Happy Riding.



*For future reference, I think of everyone like that.