Certainly somebody should’ve reported the guy. He was out of control—running around nude in the woods. Viet Nam, I thought, you know, flashbacks. But no, he’s too young. Apparently it was some kind of regression to primitive camping. He says to the police, I’m getting in touch with me roots in time. He was killing squirrels with a slingshot, cooking on an open, non-permit fire. He agreed to wear a loin cloth of squirrel fur. But, the fire had to stop. You ask me he was eating them squirrels…raw. Gag me. Lord, what got into this guy. Turns out he’s got a wife and two kids in a condo up the hill and he is some kind of dot com guru who’s big rocket IPO fizzled on the pad. Faux millionaire. Probably burning stock certificates on his camp fires. That’s what worried the locals the most…fire…fair enough. Although it was fall…mist and chill in the air. I’m not trying to justify the primitive camper but I guess my neighbor whose backyard borders the woods…he’s got three young daughters who liked to play back there…but no more! He said he and his wife were terrified he’s a child molester…maybe blossoming serial killer. I demurred, respectfully; it’s an adaptation to loss. the loss of the contemporary. He thought he was a great hunter but he failed to bring home the kill. He’s trying to recover his manhood by retraining in our primitive past. I must say when I finished uttering my amateur diagnosis…the roomful of concerned neighbors stared at me like I’d just bitten off the head of a local squirrel and said it tastes like chicken. I smiled. Was I a candidate recruit for primitive camping, their eyes seemed to ask? Please!