A longtime lover of the classic ironic film, “Wet Hot American Summer,” I am a perpetual sucker for a story about summer camp. Combine that with the waning nights of the summer of 2008, and I’m simply hankering for an experience that allows me to relish the last moments of warmth and daylight before darkness and snow invade New York. Thank heavens, therefore, for “Camp Summer Camp,” the latest piece put up by the always irreverent PS 122, a performance space in the East Village. The last time I attended this landmark institution I was present for the always auspicious Avant Garde-O-Rama, an event that culminated in a fat naked man performing a stirring monologue.
Camp Summer Camp, believe it or not, had even less of a narrative line than the disparate, incongruous shorts of Avant Garde O Rama, yet it pleased nonetheless. Little more than a glorified party where hipsters mingled sipping jungle juice and reminiscing about summers in Vermont, the act was less theatre and more fiesta. Along with my best friend, I entered a beer chugging contest and lost, though frankly I think we beat the other teams rather handily. It was a photo finish, no doubt.
After the games, I got two tattoos which read, “I love anal,” and “I love S&M.” I now have to go shower them off. School starts tomorrow.
