I second that emotion but doubt seriously that I'll go back -- even if ol' high-flying, leaflet-dropping Amelia Leatherheart would be welcome. The intervening time has taken me from someone who couldn't dream of not spending August in the Michigan woods to someone who can't remember why I ever wanted to suffer the heat, the bugs, the horrible food, the oppressive politics, the cold, hard ground, the tornadoes and torrential rains, the cold showers, the utter disdain for the health of the attendees when mass transmission of dangerous GI infectious diseases were imminent, the pretend egalitarianism amidst the reality of privileged excess, the eye-crossingly maddening PC mushmouthed royal-we'd illogic when Lisa & BooBoo & Lisa were exercising their pre-Magna Charta-esque monarchic power, much less the arbitrary swift enforcement of it by their oversized Iowa City henchwomen -- and that's just the short list.

No, they can keep it. I'll find true feminist justice and pleasure as a het pool attendant brings me drinks with little umbrellas to sip in the whirlpool spa as I prepare for my heated stone massage before a five-star dinner -- of red meat and shellfish, a scintillating gay-themed play, and a nightcap at the piano bar before toddling off to a bed with 1000-thread-count Pratesi sheets and enough pillow-topping and memory foam to make even the princess lose track of the pea!

Then fully rested, I'll have breakfast in bed -- an entirely edible breakfast with fresh everything and not a hint of birdseed or tofu.