I was never a Boy Scout.  For that matter, I wasn't even a Cub Scout.  But while it was never a requirement in our household, I'm fairly confident that my older siblings may have taken the oath at some point, worn the handkerchief, the sash, and learned to tie some knots and build a shitty birdhouse.  And as for me, I wisely stuck to activities that better suited my behavior at the time.  Some of the more important ones included watching copious amounts of television, drinking maple syrup directly from the squeeze-bottle when no one was looking, and even rallying the neighborhood kids to help me throw rocks at the windows in our garage until all were broken - which my father sincerely appreciated.  As it turned out, the Scouting organization didn't award merit badges in the aforementioned categories.  Maybe that's why  years later I ended up being the only kid struggling to stay afloat with a kickboard and water-wings in the shallow end of the YMCA pool, getting scorched by 2nd graders and watching my St. Mary's classmates laugh wildly as they launched gainers off the diving boards.

     So in an almost comical ode to my childhood, I currently find myself obsessed with the world of the survivalist.  And by this, I once again reference my undying commitment to the viewing of 'copious amounts of television.'  Sadly, a personal testament to the triumph of the human spirit against insurmountable odds didn't trigger this obsession.  I wasn't dropped from a helicopter into the teeth of an Icelandic blizzard and left to escape with only a piece of tinfoil, a flashlight with no batteries, and a tampon in my rucksack.  And no, we're not talking MacGyver here, this is real life and death stuff.  Although in retrospect I do suppose Richard Dean Anderson would take any gig available these days.  I simply enjoy living vicariously through the misfortune of others from the comfort and safety of my recliner after a long day of not taking any unnecessary risks.

     And let's just get this out of the way.  I can't, in good conscience, recommend Survivorman.  The premise is just too outlandish.  The guy claims to have no crew with him as he documents his adventures with only his own camera equipment.  Come on dude, no one's buying that you just set up your Nikon on a tripod to get a shot of yourself hurtling down the rapids in your homemade canoe, only to turn around and hike back upstream five miles after getting that perfect footage to retrieve your camera.  I would like to officially call shenanigans on that bullshit.  However a few of the better shows match-up awkward duos in order to make the viewer that much more uncomfortable.  In Dual Survival for example, they pair a portly, Southwestern hippie who goes barefoot at all times, with an ex-military, hillbilly woodsman from Ohio.  Drop them in the rugged jungles of Thailand and watch the hyjinks ensue.  Or how about trying Man Woman Wild, where a former Special Forces survival expert and a TV journalist, who just happen to be married to one another, must survive together for days until rescue.  Here's a sneak-peak; she names the rooster that he has to kill for their dinner. I Shouldn't Be Alive, which should need no further explanation, is my wife's personal favorite.  She would suggest watching this immediately before bedtime if you enjoy experiencing night terrors.  And then there's Man Vs. Wild, the gem that set this entire phenomena in motion for me.  Perhaps it's because some of my own personal experiences seem to parallel what Bear Grylls deals with on his show.

     If only his camera crew were following me that time I locked myself out of the condo.  It was a brisk 53 degrees, with strong cloud cover and a setting sun.  I was equipped with only a mobile telephone, tri-fold wallet, and the neatly folded grocery list located in my front left pant pocket.  As my wife wouldn't arrive home for at least another 2 hours, my choices involved either a grueling 3.66 mile hike through the wilds of Westerville to my mother-in-law's house to retrieve the spare key, or construct some sort of makeshift shelter.  I chose to stay and make camp.  In the meantime, I would need to concentrate on locating a food source.  Using my shoelaces, I set some crude snares to catch either ground squirrels or the local dumpster raccoon I had recently seen rummaging around the adjacent apartment complex.  But before any of this could happen, my biggest priority was making fire before nightfall.  While I could have shorted the battery in my cell phone to ignite a tinder bundle consisting of the grocery list and contents of my wallet, I ultimately decided to light the damn propane grill instead.  And as the animal traps came up empty and conditions continued to deteriorate, I was forced to seek nourishment by pilfering birdseed and sneaking sips from the neighbors garden hose.  As a cold rain began to fall, I quickly huddled underneath our gigantic patio umbrella - muttering beneath my breath and cursing audibly.  Only one certainty remained.  I would not drink my own urine.  "Touche Mr. Grylls, touche."

     It's experiences like these that really connect you with your own mortality.  Maybe that long-awaited camping trip that we can't seem to schedule will be my shot at personal redemption, albeit at the expense of my own family.  But in the meantime, there's still more television training to accomplish.  In the event we become enveloped by an avalanche while skiing in the Oregon backcountry, I'll need to start calculating our odds for a successful self-rescue.  And as for those of you who consider an air mattress as essential 'camping gear,' please stop laughing.