Periscope Depth

I know I won’t be leaving here with you

I drove up to New Hampshire this past weekend for a bachelor party at Indian Head Resort. At first I thought the name was just morbid (“it’s just past Settler’s Corpse; if you hit Gangrenous Amputation, you’ve gone too far”) but then I realized what it meant. Oh. Now that the Old Man of the Mountain has crumbled*, Indian Head has a monopoly on geological features which sort of resemble a human profile. That, plus moose, is New Hampshire’s chief source of revenue.


The beer sampler.

I had just missed out on ziplining by the time I arrived, but I rendezvoused with the crew at Woodstock Station in North Woodstock, NH. The menu serves nothing but meat and potatoes fare: nachos covered with pulled pork, baked potato skins drizzled with sour cream, etc. “There’s nothing on this menu I don’t want to eat,” Bobby observed. One of our guests was served a two-and-a-half pound burger, which came with a knife through its center and a small side of mashed. “You don’t want to attack that all at once,” I advised. “That was Hitler’s mistake, going into Russia.” I picked the analogy because of the burger’s size, not because Mike reminded me of the Fuhrer. Also, I’d had two of the restaurant’s delicious local brews – the Pemi Pale Ale and an Oatmeal Stout – on a light stomach.

The rest of the crew filtered in while we ate, DJ coming last. True to form, he had a driving anecdote to share. “I had to get off 93 early,” he explained, “because I passed a cop going the other way. I was going fast enough that he hit his lights. So I took the first exit I could find.” DJ has a history of saying the wrong thing to cops, so I couldn’t fault his logic. The waitress overheard this anecdote and confirmed that DJ had done the right thing. “The cops have a saying around here: ‘come on vacation, leave on probation.’ ” This would have shocked or confused me before I read Arrest-Proof Yourself; now, such behavior among traffic cops doesn’t shock me. See also the recent NYPD roll call recordings (aired in the Village Voice) that document arrest quotas.

“DJ,” I said. “Don’t get arrested!”

* Not to be confused with the founder of the hashishin.