There is muck in the creek, it snags your body and you are green slime when you climb back onto the float. The sun is a yellow glob through the foliage. You are sick of this shit! You want to fly away to where it’s always between 60 and 72 degrees. The sweltering summers and frigid winters have marked you like a cutter. Once your skin had a sheen but now it’s ridged like they say the moon is. What do they know? They have spoiled every dream. This week they say don’t eat romaine from California. Before that you had to chuck out the peanut butter in your cupboard— peanut butter that sustained you over a lifetime. Soon the ocean will be O-U-T. And forget those chilled shrimp cocktails, five hanging off the glass rim and the spicy well of red sauce. Forget what you know and love. Buy a ticket to Space Camp. All the commercials and roadside billboards say Reserve Your Place in Space Camp (before the slots run out). Who ever thought… is there room for your bicycle on the thing-a-majig that will transport you to Space Camp? Will you have to share an outdoor latrine like at Girl Scout camp? Will they serve pork & beans? Will you wear a silver one-piece suit like Star Trek? Whatever… but one thing makes you happy: they’ve promised a temperature that will remain a steady 60 to 72 degrees Farenheit. Or was that centigrade?