My mom just got a camper. It's a tow-along type thing, but not collapsible, so it has a shower, a toilet, a stove and a fridge - all the essentials.

Now that she has it, she's all about going "camping", and it occurred to me that there are some fundamental differences in the way people think about camping.

When I think about camping, I think about a clearing in the woods that it took at least an hour or so to find. I think about calculating how much water you'll need for the length of time you want to stay gone, and about coordinating who's gonna carry the trash when you leave.

I think about securing the food against animals and drawing straws to see who carries the liquor bag. I think about catching dinner at least once per trip and then arguing about the best way to prepare "varmint", and I think that usually it's best to wrap it in tinfoil and bury it under the fire.

I think that if you can still hear the interstate, you haven't walked far enough.

I like the idea of bringing my guitar out there, but I'm not too thrilled about carrying it, my sleeping bag and the tent on a five mile stomp through the woods.

I like tents. I like the idea of a truly portable roof , but as cool as campers are there are just too many places I want to go that you can't really fit one ... They are cool though: I can't tell you how many lame trips I've been on that margaritas would've fixed right the hell up.

For me, the point of camping is to get away from all the things that everyone else seems to want to pack up and bring with them.

I love music. I mean I actually love it. I don't know if I could live without music, but I happen to make music as part of my excretory process, so I got lucky there.

But that's not to say that I have to have it wherever I go. Sometimes I think it's nice to just keep it down for awhile and let the world make its own music. It's hard to hear sometimes, but that music is there. I think we spend so much time surrounded by the cacophony of modern life that we forget what it's like to quiet for awhile. Hell, I know people who are uncomfortable with silence. I would feel bad for those people, but that's not really my thing. Really, I just can't comprehend what life would be like without music, so I tend to hear it everywhere I go whether it's playing or not, and that's how it is out in the world - there may not be a radio playing for miles around, but I promise there is always music.

I read recently that everyone has a song: a personal song that is theirs and theirs alone, and that it plays for them every moment of their life. Sometimes you can hear it like the band is right there in the car with you. Sometimes it's like listening to a radio underwater, but it's always there: the music of your life.

This music is different for everyone: some people live their lives to a constant marching tune with a brassy chorus and a snappy beat. Others have a more sedate theme: something soothing and calm, with long interludes that bring to mind the kind of landscapes that Enya was always going on about.

I think more often it's a combination: we are all capable of towering crescendos and low, slow litanies. At any given moment, we can be in the middle of a snappy chorus-line-type refrain and suddenly slip into a gritty, bluesy, nasty funk where even the major keys seem clash with your roots.

Sometimes you can't hear the tune at all. These are the times when I feel at my least prepared, least connected with the world. Without my song, I have no anchor, no basis from which to explore - and that's scary as hell, even for someone who would rather use a machete than a microwave.