One Brick Shy (c)

Patriotism

2011-10-20T12:00:00.000-07:00

My Uncle Buster congenially referred to me today as a “Mooch” via text. It hurt my feelings. I can think of no reason in the world that he'd say such a thing other than this: I have successfully mooched off him for 31 years. However, Ahem. I prefer the term “Professional Interloper.”

“Mooch” is just so crass, don’t you agree? It sounds slimy and I am most certainly NOT slimy. Perhaps a touch “musty” or “goatish” on occasion, sure, but never slimy.

Well, generally not slimy. I got home today from my second “Sleep Study” at Piedmont Hospital to investigate the source of my potentially terminal snoring - and hopped into bed. A disembodied hand reached out from beneath the covers and patted it's way up my neck face and ears, then mussed my hair (ostensibly to determine if I were friend or foe) until suddenly sticking fast, glued to my forehead.

Ewwwwwwww WHAT IS THAT?! Tyler shuddered – now wide-awake, pillows erupting in a shrieking crescdendo of goosedown. YOU HAVE SNOT IN YOUR HAIR!

Apparently the Sleep Study Technician didn’t clean the electrode glue out of my hair. My bad. I’m just the critically-ill person here. Didn’t mean to offend you with my illness.

Anyway, THAT was slimy, but in general – I reiterate: Not Slimy.

It’s not that I haven’t TRIED to pay my way here and there, but picking up lunch when somebody just planted your cornfield for free are two friendly deeds separated by a little matter of magnitude. It’s just that the things I like to do cost WAY more than I’ve got to spend. What am I supposed to do? Quit doing them and only do things I can afford???

BAH! I’m an American!

If I can’t afford it, but I want it anyway – then OTHER PEOPLE MUST PAY FOR ME! It’s in the Constitution.

It’s my God-Given right to kiss on the first date, drive 10 miles over the speed limit with no repercussions, spend more money than I’ve got to do things I can’t afford and maintain a lifestyle of general excess and frivolity. If people like ME don’t keep up our frantic pace – there’d be nobody to buy Ferraris on credit, rent snowmobiles, or fly to the moon just for fun. THEN do you know what happens? West Nile. Swine Flu. Mumps. Rubella. End Times. Everybody starves to death.

The bottom line is: I’m not Mooching. I’m stimulating the Economy! So, don’t do it for me: Do It For America.

The Unwary

2011-10-12T08:11:00.000-07:00

Tyler D. Ewing, the woman perpetually convinced she's on the very cusp of burglarly, attack and pillage had this to say from bed when I entered the house late Sunday night (and I quote):

"Zzzzzzzzz. Haammphhhhh. Snaaaarrkkkkkggglee. Zzzzzzzzzz."

I've included a brief graphical representation of my movements about the house upon my return from a long weekend of sporting pursuits (below):

I tromped in and out of the house multiple times - slamming both doors each time, opened the fridge, walked in our bedroom and took one shoe off. Then, I sat down and scratched a tick bite on my leg. Yawned. Walked out. Later I brought my overnight bag into the bedroom, dumped its contents on the floor, took my other shoe off, turned the fan on, walked outside, closed the fridge, and came back in with my dopp kit. I rummaged around in my kit for a toothbrush, brushed my teeth and simultaneously texted my cousin Maggie. Finally, Tyler rolled over and said "Wello! Well, look who's back!"

"I've been home for a half hour. I've slammed the back door 5 times and turned on every light in the house. You have not so much as stirred."

"Oh? Yeah. Hmm. Yawn. I thought I heard something."

Say Uncle

2011-10-02T11:54:00.000-07:00

Hilarious. Make the guy uncomfortable with newborns hold the new kid. Ok! Fine! I'll do it. I won't like it, but I'll do it if I HAVE to, but that's it. Once. After that: no more holding.

I don't deal with children under 6, furthermore I don't INTEND to deal with children under 6. That's right: I'm an ogre. No, I'm a man. No, I'm an ogre. Either way - they're purely ornamental, right? Bring them to me when they're strong enough to hold a BB gun and wear a life vest. Until then - they make me too nervous. That's right - I'll take my chances with an armed 6yr-old over a newborn that could cry any minute and make me feel all guilty and weird.

We've got a hospital room full of women over here flipping the tiny thing around like its a football and driving it crazy and it makes me anxious. As if blasting out into the world with a bunch of people hollering at you, blood and guts everywhere, crying, and wailing isn't bad enough - somebody immediately hits you hard enough to make you cry, then 400 people you dont know show up and insist on handing you around in midair for the next 72hrs straight.

Take me back to the womb, please, Mister.

To make matters worse - there's a 50/50 chance somebody stuck a vacuum cleaner on your head, then sucked so hard it squished your skull all out of shape. You think THAT didn't hurt? Sweet Lord. "Welcome to being a human! Hurry up out of there, or we'll smoosh your skull." It's your first taste of the world telling you you're too fat and slow. Learn to love it.

Plus, you can't think much, grip anything, walk, talk or see straight and what do you have to live on? Milk that somebody gives you anytime they feel like you may be hungry? If I had to wait on Tyler to feed me when she thought I might be hungry, I'd be dead. Or skinny. I don't know which is worse.

It's amazing any kid makes it out of the hospital alive - what with all that hard floor rushing up to meet you. That's what's underfoot in the hospital - basically concrete. 4,000 sick and infirm people, newborns, the elderly, bodily fluids skeeting around right and left, half the chairs have wheels on them and you pave the entire place in a slick hard substance? The emperor has no clothes. Soylent Green is PEOPLE, and when I'm 80 please don't store me in any place sheeted in hip-crushing rubberized concrete.

Know what happens when you get old? YOU DIE. Fine by me I guess, but I know a caretaker who loves me wouldn't let me slowly break apart over time in a series of high-impact falls. Make me a tent out on the front lawn. I'll take a tree fort in your backyard. Anything, at all - please just don't put concrete floors in my bedroom for crying out loud.

Back at the hospital I held the kid, anxiously, until Tyler saw my lips moving and the beads of sweat glistening feverishly on my forehead and she finally said "well, I guess I better get Jimmy on home now", made her apologies and led me out to the car.

It's a good thing, too. My imagination was about to spin completely out of control.

Nine (or Ten) Toes

2011-09-22T10:45:00.000-07:00

Tyler has LITERALLY been talking about our 1yr anniversary for 11 months. As we near the big day (Sunday) she's reached a fever pitch. A few minutes ago I received this brief communique (no preamble):

As part of our ANNIVERSARY weekend celebrationssss (that's THIS WEEEKEND), I propose we go to Blue Ridge Grill on Saturday night for drinks and a light dinner. I mean, that restaurant IS a foundational element in our relationship journey. Thoughts?

Also: what did you get me for a present? You can tell me, I won't tell anyone.

It's almost like we're reaching some kind of milestone. Normally, I would insert a photo montage of some kind to illustrate our 12 short months of marriage, but I'm not. Instead, let me take this opportunity to remind you: Tyler has a webbed toe:

so she can't wear toe-shoes.

Thanks everyone for your last 12 months of patronage. Here's to Year Two.

Jimmy

Silage, The Silent Killer

2011-09-06T08:50:00.000-07:00

If you’ve spent any time at all in a rural farming community you’ve probably heard the term “silage” ("sigh-ledge"). If not – you won’t know what it is; but now you’re wondering, aren’t you?

Do read on.

The first time I heard the word it was in reference to the large crop of irrigated sorghum standing just behind me on a dove shoot. A man said "just saw a big 'ol rattlesnake back there in that silage."

That bit of information piqued my interest and I felt it worthwhile to follow-up.

Whatt silage? Where?

Yonderways. (vague gesture towards 200 acre sorghum field, 10' high)

Didja kill it ?

Naw. Didn't have a sack to put 'im in.

Uncertain of how to respond, I simply nodded and filed the term away with a mental snapshot of a sorghum field and went on about my business. I know farming. Now, I know "silage" too. I am brilliant.

The next time I heard the term “silage” it was in reference to a corn field. If sorghum is silage and corn isn’t sorghum then corn can’t be silage, can it? I took the SAT. I know words.

Clearly, I am a sharper farmer than the farmer pointing to his corn and calling it silage when, obviously, that’s wrong. I chuckled to myself, pleased with my smart farming sense, and thought “I pity this farmer who does not know his silage from his corn. His cows must be very sickly.” But, I left it at that. Silage = sorghum field. End of story.

This weekend my friend JB stood with me in the bright sunlight surveying a dove field. It was hot. I mean 101 degrees hot. So hot, nobody was really talking - just standing; limply draped across the sides of my truck bed praying for rain and waiting on 3 o'clock. Finally, JB reached into the cooler for a water and broke the silence: "Whoooeeee. It is some kinna’ hot and that pond sure looks nice. You know your Great-Granddaddy Burke Sr. used to fish right over there in that pond."

Uncle John leaned both elbows on the toolbox, fanned himself with his hat and mumbled “he was nearbout blind as long as I knew him. Couldn’t barely see to cast.”

"Yeah, that’s right John. His friend Mr. Blunt used to go down to Macon in his Cutlass to pick him up when he got to where he couldn’t see good, and he’d bring him down here to go fishing. Funny thing was – couldn’t neither of ‘em see good! It was the blind driving the blind!

Well, Mr. Blunt got to where he couldn’t see so bad that he couldn’t figure out where to turn off at to get to the pond. They drove around for awhile until Mr. Burke heard the silage truck go driving by. Now Mr. Burke may not coulda’ seen the driveway, but he sure knew the sound of that o' silage truck headed for the silage pit right by the lake, so he hollered at Mr. Blunt “follow that truck!” figuring it would get ‘em close to where they needed to be.

Now, at this point in the story all I can hear is the term “silage” rattling around in my brain like a pebble in a tin can. It has shaken my entire foundation in farming terminology. What in the blue daisy-scented hell is silage anyway? Where is the sorghum field? What kind of pit does it go in? What about corn? Does that fit in here? Could I climb around in that pit of silage and make little tunnels? Because I’ve always wanted to dig a series of interconnected tunnels and caves in something. It would satisfy the same urge as making a blanket fort under the dining room table, but infinitely better.

Also: is it dangerous, this silage pit of glorious tunnels? Where can I learn to understand more of mysterious silage? I entirely lost the thread of the story, time slowed, I imagined myself creating an entire kingdom of underground silage tunnels and all I could hear was the thunderous word “SIIIILLAAGGEEEEE” echoing through my brain. I did not understand this silage word and, because I am far too curious, there can be nothing that I do not understand or I will likely die. I felt adrift. Lost. Shaken. Miserable.

I came back to myself in time to hear JB finish “So, they followed that silage truck right on down to the pit…and drove right off the hill into it!” Couldn’t neither of em’ see good enough to figure out what they had done! There they were, nose-first in a silage pit 20 feet deep in the hillside with fishing rods hanging out the both back windows and rear wheels spinning in the air. We had to send a crane down there to lift ‘em out. That about ended their solo fishing trips. After that your Granddaddy would just send somebody down from the shop to take ‘em both.

"Heh heh. JB, I reckon they’re lucky that pit didn’t explode."

WHAT? SILAGE IS EXPLOSIVE??!!? God help us. Is there nothing safe to tunnel in anymore?
I blazed a quick trail that night to Wikipedia which said:

"Silage is fermented, high-moisture fodder that can be fed to ruminants (cud-chewing animals like cattle and sheep)[1] or used as a biofuel feedstock for anaerobic digesters. It is fermented and stored in a process called ensiling or silaging, and is usually made from grass crops, including corn (maize), sorghum or other cereals, using the entire green plant (not just the grain). Silage can be made from many field crops, and special terms may be used depending on type (oatlage for oats, haylage for alfalfa – but see below for the different British use of the term haylage).[2]Silage is made either by placing cut green vegetation in a silo, by piling it in a large heap covered with plastic sheet, or by wrapping large bales in plastic film."

DANGER FELLOW TUNNELERS!!

"Silos are hazardous, and deaths occur in the process of filling and maintaining them. There is a risk of injury by machinery or from falls. When a silo is filled, fine dust particles in the air can become explosive because of their large aggregate surface area. Also, fermentation presents respiratory hazards. The ensiling process produces "silo gas" during the early stages of the fermentation process. Silage gas contains nitric oxide (NO), which will react with oxygen (O2) in the air to form nitrogen dioxide (NO2), which is toxic.[5] Lack of oxygen inside the silo can cause asphyxiation. Molds that grow when air reaches cured silage can cause toxic organic dust syndrome. Silage bales are heavy, and can fall, roll or overbalance."

The Gator Hunters

2011-08-26T08:46:00.000-07:00

Ever been "Gator Huntin'"? Me neither.

Austin and I dumped an airboat, the most dangerous form of aquatic conveyance in the world, captained by a man I'd never, met into Mobile Bay - a location I've never visited, in the dark; with absolutely no synapse firing in our brains other than a vague sense that we fully intended to capture and kill a live alligator. I had a knife a camera a life jacket and a flashlight. Austin had a hat on. That, in essence, comprised our entire survival kit.

We left the dock at roughly 930PM with a roar, practiced on floating debris for a bit with the gator harpoon, and we were off.

Mobile bay is not exactly a backwater location. It was, in fact, quite populous with fishermen, docks, and bridges. It was also quite populous with alligators. I quit counting inside of 20 minutes at "75". Between the hours of 10PM and 4AM we saw over 300 individual alligators - probably 100 of which were over 8ft long. The next day we passed over the bay on our way to dinner and saw...waterskiers.

If there is one thrill I'm not willing to tempt a 12ft gator into attacking me over - its having a big outboard motor drag me all over the pond with boards strapped to my feet. Sounds like a blast, but I don't want to be selfish: I'll let you soak up all that fun for both of us. To me it sounds about like hang-gliding over the lion cage, but don't let me slow you down.

The airboat guide would basically come flying down the bay with a spotlight then cut the rudder hard towards a set of glowing-orange eyes and kick it. We'd run straight at the gator until he started to get furious, then the guide would swing hard right to put the diving gator on the port side - which is perfect for a right-handed throw.

Our final contestant was successfully harpooned by Austin with what amounts to a modified shovel handle with a detachable harpoon head on it. This particular gator (all 10' 6" 300lbs of him) took two harpoons and about 30' of line w/styrofoam floats, then proceeded to snap the harpoon in half and bite the heads off two steel shark gaffs. After that he bit holes all in the side of the boat and tried to kill me, the guide, and Austin in four-part-harmony.
At one point the guide suffered an attack of some sort and began horsely screaming "GRAB HIS OTHER LEG. GET IN THERE JIMMY DAMMIT GET IN THERE. DAMN YOU" while viciously applying his right Sebago to my posterior.

I was, in short, "reluctant."

In order to comply with the Captain's orders I had to go chest-deep headfirst over the side, grab the gator's left leg, and pull. That put his left eye and my left eye literally 1" apart. At that point two wraps of electrical tape and a college education start to look pretty silly.

Staring fully into the depths of his unblinking, yellow, reptilian eyes was life-changing. I haven't felt that intensely loathed by any creature since Mandy '03 and I could tell - he really did want to eat me. I've never experienced "wanting to be eaten" by a carnivore before. It was truly refreshing - so much so that I felt it incumbent upon me to mull the moment over from my favorite thinking spot high atop the propeller cage.

Eventually, Austin and the guide got the front of the boat over him and wrapped his jaws shut with electrical tape while I hopped up and down on top of the motor offering sage bits of wisdom. Then, all three of us had to drag the live, furious gator on board and I had to HOLD HIM DOWN while Austin basically killed him with a bowie knife.

It was exciting.

We returned to the public boat ramp around 4AM, at which point the guide slid the dead 10' 6" gator off his boat with a meaty thud, shook Austin's hand and wished us a hearty good luck with the skinning process. 7AM found us still publicly skinning a gator to the intense delight of 45 various fishermen who showed up that morning to put their boats in at the ramp. It was a four-alarm goat rodeo of epic proportions, complete with commentary.
Hey. wheredja kill that thang
where you guys from
is that hard
did you kill it
is it dead
it dont look dead
wharabouts where you
what time is it
you guys tired
you look tired
boy im glad i aint got to skin that thang
boy that thang stanks
wherebouts you from. not mobile prolly. hey earl wherebouts you think they from
you want all that meat ill tradja some crappie
hey look here ralph
(ralph) dammit lijah - get in the boat
hey fellers can i get a pitchur.
can you guys move over a bit
hey guys wait right there let me go get my kids.
here little tommy sit on the gators head

It was exhausting....

....but I guess that's just part of being gator hunters!

High And Dry

2011-08-15T06:32:00.000-07:00

“I think we’re stuck.” Fred announced, happily, from the front of the boat.
His next communication: “Lemme see”, was proceeded by the sound of pockets emptying, then followed immediately by a splash and the sound of thrashing water.

“Yep. I knew it. Stuck, Jimmy! Terribly, terribly stuck!”, he continued, sounding elated.

“I reckon I’ll have to matriculate us off this here sandbar we’ve found.”

A little grunting and straining and the 38-year-old jonboat, purloined from Uncle Buster, once again floated under its own power.

Fred flopped back into the boat chuckling to himself and gave me the “hammer down” signal – a vague tilt of the hand indicating your fellow boater’s willingness to die, should the need arise, and we were once again underway.

The Chattahoochee River, dark-30, is no place to be at full-throttle, but when there’s smoke on the water and the motor is running like it ought - who am I to let off?

Hammer Down.

Dead Man's Curve

2011-08-09T11:34:00.000-07:00

Having spent a fair amount of time in Sandy Springs I can say with great confidence: the Abernathy / Brandon Mill Rd. construction project has been a whirlwind of emotion for the locals.

We’ve laughed.

We’ve cried.

We’re ready for it to wrap up.

In my opinion, one of the most important; yet oft-overlooked key elements to any street system is its constancy. By that I mean – when I’m on a blacktop road anywhere else in the United States, I can drive the speed limit with nearly 87.3% confidence that the road itself won’t peter out, suddenly turn into a goat path, run off into a river, or climb a tree.

When I pull up to the Brandon Mill / Abernathy Rd. light tomorrow morning – where will the lanes go? Each day dawns a new and exciting commute adventure filled with surprises. Last Monday I managed to end up on the backside of Arlington Cemetary before I realized I wasn’t nearly to work. There is a nice little neighborhood back in there somewhere – it’s a pity I’ll never be able to find it again.

Remember when you could top the rise on Brandon Mill without pulling over to pray first? Those were happy times.

I’m not complaining though. I know these things take time. As an educated, long-time resident of the city I have a much broader view. I also take great comfort in knowing that one day my now-unborn children will drive off to college knowing that the interchange will be completed very soon. Of course, that assumes some unlucky motorist doesn’t sail over dead man’s curve at the Brandon Mill / Abernathy intersection and put an exclamation point on my obituary.

For you who are unfamiliar with the intersection and construction project of which I speak – I’ve included a small graphical representation below. You may have to click on it to view. If you click several times to no avail – please stop clicking

Beard Buster

2011-08-01T13:06:00.000-07:00

To the woman ahead of me at Wal-Mart with a cart full of nothing but miscellaneous hygeine products, 3 super-size cans of "Beard Buster" shaving cream, and a fistful of coupons; I just want to say this:

Unless you're planning to take a Saint Bernard all the way down to his skin; if it really requires "Beard Buster" - you've got bigger problems than a 20% off coupon can fix.

Elevator Etiquette

2011-07-28T05:30:00.000-07:00

Having recently rejoined the HighRise Horde I once again have the luxury of shooting all the way to the top of the building via elevator each morning. The elevator means I don’t have to trudge up 17 flights of stairs, so color me pro-elevator. If I had to climb 17 flights of stairs to get to work I’d probably just quit.

Unfortunately, it appears my elevator etiquette is a bit rusty. Each morning I’m finding it hard to totally ignore the fact that I’m sharing 16 square feet of floor space with 5 strangers and, as we all know, that is the key to successfully navigating a highrise – pretending no one exists but you.

I’ve made all sorts of mistakes lately like looking people dead in the eye, hitting the wrong button and (blatantly) getting off on the wrong floor. All big no-nos. Just last week I got off on 16 by mistake (I was thinking about dinosaurs), then back on to go up to 17 and everybody in the elevator audibly sighed when I hit the button. Sorry to waste your 12 seconds, buttholes.

Give me a break.

I may make the occasional faux-pas, but I’m never just plain elevator-rude. I don’t, for instance, blatantly pick my nose (poorly executed “roundabout” between floors 12 and 14 by a lady in a green jacket on Tuesday). Lady - no matter how fast you cram your finger in your nose and back out again – it still counts! And the question remains: what do you do with a booger so horrible that couldn’t wait 38 seconds? I definitely don’t want it.

I also don’t wink and change into gym shorts between floors either (thanks for that Mr. Tall Asian Guy in basketball shoes) for a split second I thought you were going to try and plunder my carnal treasures. Thanks for not. Hearing the totally unprovoked stranger behind you drop his pants on an elevator is just plain unsettling. If you don’t have enough alone time built into your day to change your pants solo: join the priesthood and get the hell out of my elevator.

My personal favorite is the loud phone talker who got on with me; then proceeded to loudly coordinate drinks with her girlfriend all the way to the ground floor, hang up, loudly announce “Ok. I’m that girl. I know it’s so rude to talk in an elevator” and stomp off. By the time she waddled out of the elevator I was the one who needed a drink.

Let me point out that saying something is rude while you’re doing it actually doesn’t make it less rude - it just proves that you’re an insufferable bunghole and I hope a big eagle swoops down and eats you.

Interesting stuff, I know; but what I really want to talk about is this: the door-close-button. IT DOESN’T CLOSE THE @#$#@$ DOOR.

I’m 31 years old and in that entire time I have never, not one time, period, ever seen the door-close-button work and yet, as soon as someone pops through the not-yet-fully-opened door, there is instantly a logjam of grimy pointer fingers miserably scrabbling to get that button pushed.

WHY?!?!?!? Is there a place in the world where the hurry-up-and-close-the-door button works and everybody else in the world has been there but me??? Wait. Am I dead? Is this Hell? I need to go to that happy place because the unwavering faith which led me to unyieldingly engage that button for the first 28 years of my life nearly drove me mad. My New Years’ resolution in 2008 was to never push that Devil-spawned button again and by god I haven’t.

But it kills me.

The Singed Shingler

2011-07-27T12:33:00.000-07:00

Having been a bit slack on the up-keep lately (job change, house change, two weeks of vacation) let me just say: I’m back.

In the last two months I’ve started smoking (meats on the grill), assembled an AR-15 rifle entirely from scratch, cut down two trees, applied for a permit to hunt alligators like "Swamp People", cleaned my workshop, stole an entire aluminum boat from my Uncle John and, the most significant accomplishment of my summer: I signed my wife up for shotgun-shooting competitions and boxing classes.

Ahthankyou.

Having been married approximately zero times in the past – the surprises keep on a’ rolling in. It’s been a month of ups-and-downs. Last week I was shocked and saddened to find that some sort of rodent snuck into the house during an exterior door renovation project and made merry with my turkey feather collection – eating the entire top off my most favorite gobbler beard.

That’s not the big shock though, so hang on; everyone who read the TurkeyRat post knows that rodents think turkey parts are candy. The shocker is this: Tyler didn’t care. What she DID care about is that there was a mouse in the house at some point. I’m standing there in torment, I mean truly suffering over the loss of this magnificent dangly turkeybeard, and all she can do is squeal shrilly over the presence of a larcenous mouse.

I call that INSENSITIVE.

To make matters worse: I also had some of my favorite gear stolen out of my truck this month. Clearly some jaundiced, hell-bound bag of garbage thought he needed some of my favorite hunting and fishing stuff more than I did. Congratulations, sir, you are the owner of several fine things for free. I salute you.

I suffered manfully through the shocking waves of loss and violation that washed over me for a number of days after the sanctity of my vehicle had been violated, then I finally took a break from moping around the house just long enough to clean out the gutters. Unfortunately, I got a late start - so it was over 100 degrees on the roof by the time I got up there.

I knew it was hot, but I practiced mind-over-matter and ignored the scorching heat radiating off the black shingles; the long-term impact of which was: I managed to burn my butt. I mean my right cheek literally looks
like you took a belt sander to it.Seriously - it is raw.

I’ve made everyone who expressed disbelief in the present condition of my terribly singed buttocks take a look for themselves, so you don’t have to take my word for it – drop by anytime.

The Fall Ain't So Bad

2011-05-20T09:37:00.000-07:00

We forayed out into the wilds of Brookhaven this week to participate in a High Museum Young Patron's get together at Pour wine market and one of those drink-wine-while-painting places.

As a recently-married man, I can say confidently: The Fall sneaks up on you.

I hadn't been confronted with how far I'd trundled down the road to married complacency until I realized, too late, that I had just paid $40 to enter a room filled with 25 easels, 23 women, 32 (open) bottles of wine and a cheese tray. No man I consort with would stoop to purchasing a cheese tray. He might show up at your house with a block of cheddar and a pocketknife, but definitely not a cheese tray.

It was a hard moment for me, facing that.

I used to own jean shorts, oakley sunglasses and a superfast boat and here I am in khaki pants, a golf shirt and a smock with paint all over about to sip wine from a plastic cup and paint a tree with purple budding flowers.

Then I looked down and realized: I'm carrying my wife's purse. My shame was complete.

Like I said: it was a dark moment. There was a bright spot, though. When we pulled up to park, my lovely wife flounced leggily out of the car, bent down, popped back up and said "oooooh! look what I got!!" and handed me a wadded up $20 bill she found laying in the parking lot.

I was ecstatic but she, seeming generally unsurprised, shrugged and said, "yeah, this happens to me all the time."

Heh!! If I had a skill like that I'd put it on my resume: "Can Be Counted On to Find Free Money Often".

The fall ain't so bad, I guess - depending on where you land.

Improvisation

2011-05-20T08:48:00.000-07:00

I noticed this photo in a recent report on Art In The Park in Sandy Springs:

and you know what? This kid is playing with a dead fish.

The use of an improvised toy brought back memories. When I was a kid we were so broke - if a branch didn’t fall off a tree in our yard overnight I didn’t have anything to play with all day.

This kid’s folks have gotten even more thrifty and creative: it’s a pet, it’s a toy – its dinner! Genius. That right there is stretching a recession dollar.

It's nice to see parents these days taking a page from my parents' book. One Christmas I didn’t get anything that didn’t come from a garage sale. Later in life Mom used to tell people that and laugh “Heh, heh. He never even wondered why nothing came in a box and everything had scratches on it! Heh, heh.” She thought that was hilarious.

The joke was on me I guess. I was also allergic to milk and eggs – so, I got to be the weird dietary kid without new toys.

Thanks a lot, God.

You could be the lumpy weird kid that smelled like curry and talked about unicorns and if you had cool enough stuff to play with – everybody was your friend. You’d get home from school and four kids would be standing in your front yard waiting on you to break out the radio-controlled cars (I still want one). Chances are good you drove right past me in my front yard frantically waving a magnolia limb over my head.

Later in life this kid’s own parents will almost certainly tease him with this photo, but the joke’s still on them: you should be really nice to the kid who’s going to pick out your retirement home.

New Blog

2011-05-17T10:51:00.000-07:00

I've recently started writing a little blog column for Sandy Springs Patch. So, I've re-run some of this blog's entries and I also write some new material here and there too.

Now I can piss people off in two separate venues! It's all so very exciting.
http://sandysprings.patch.com/blog_posts/in-marriage-there-is-no-ice-cream

Beau Slocumb Has Left The Building

2011-05-10T08:52:00.000-07:00

My first cousin, Burke Lowe Slocumb, IV (“Beau” or “Hey You”) had the unmitigated gall to get critically ill the day before my 2nd 30th birthday. Going forward nobody in our family is allowed to get extremely ill on or near my birthday month or at Christmas. Any other time you want to shuffle off this mortal coil you go right ahead; I’ll be along presently.

I told Beau if he sullied the memorial of my birth for all time by giving up the ghost on my most hallowed day of days - I'd be forced to sift his ashes down Ryan Newman's gas tank.

The threat to his good friend and favorite NASCAR driver’s fuel lines seemed to keep him off the heavenly registry for a bit; but it was not quite as long as we'd have liked. On April 8, 2011 with 8 minutes to go in the last lap - Car #8 left us all in the dust.

Boy does it suck when people die.

I got to tell Beau I loved him before it was all over and, surprisingly enough, it didn't even feel that gay. He said "Huh? Is that a new watch?"

I took it as a compliment.

I know Beau didn’t want to be the first grandkid to set sail on the afterlife with Granddad to greet him at the pearly gates and who could blame him? You and I both know nobody's Granddad is about to manage his own television set when he’s got a grandkid handy; and eternity is an awful long time to spend changing the channels for somebody else. I’m just glad it wasn’t me or we might have all ended up in purgatory for swearing.

From a family standpoint we’re not at all unfamiliar with loss and the aftermath; but the upside is - I don’t think any of us are particularly afraid to "go" anymore.

I know I’m not. Bring it on!

I’m serious. I plan for ‘em to find my freckled corpse next to the dead body of the lion that killed me. If I’m in a loincloth: even better. No need for the undertaker, thanks, just call my taxidermist.

If you think about it – birth and death are the only things you’ll ever have in common with 100% of the rest of the world. That’s depressing, so I spend a lot of time ignoring the certainty of it all, but buddy it’s coming - and that’s as sure a thing as I know of.

It's inescapable. Everybody is engaged in at-risk behavior, but you still never see the train coming until you're wrapped around the whistle. Beau, for instance, did his utmost to kill himself with sheer, wicked, mind-numbing velocity for 25 years - boats, cars, trucks, atvs, motorcycles - you name it - and what got him? Cancer.

Uncle Buster can’t climb off a tractor without ending up in crumpled heap under it
My cousin Ashley breathes in strange women’s foot-dust all day at her shoe store
I can’t understand Uncle John on the phone without a cigar in the outboard corner of his mouth, and
Uncle Robert hasn’t taken a deep drag of air he can’t see since 1960.

We’re all at risk for something just by being alive - and I just ate a bag of pork rinds.

Something, one day, it could be soon, it might not, who knows?, is going to get us all. If you’re lucky, you might get some warning, but that's about the best you can hope for.

You can Bible-it-up all you want and you still can't even exactly look forward to the afterlife because nobody has the foggiest idea of exactly what's going on up there (or down there if you're the unlucky sort) - or if it's any fun at all. And that's not blasphemy on my part - go give Revelation a spin and get back to me. I'll give you a hint: IT'S NO HELP (unless you love dragons).

Ever been on a date with somebody who doesn't get what's funny? You think that was bad? What if God doesn't have your sense of humor? This is ETERNITY we're talking about! We're not even certain if you get a real, live, body back sometime and, honestly, I need to know. If I have to spend eternity as some sort of spiritual mist I'm going to be furious.

The whole thing is a huge depressing mystery and you can't get ready for it and you can't take anything with you. We're talking about the single most important trip you'll ever go on - and you can't pack for it.

The only bit of "estate planning" I've ever heard that made sense came from Dad and all he said was "I plan for my last check to bounce." Now, that is something I can get behind. A man with my innate spending abilities was not put here to stockpile money, that's for sure.

Granddad at least went into it with his boots on, metaphorically speaking. The week he finally killed himself with pork products he looked at me over his second breakfast at 10:45AM and said “Let’s go eat lunch. You drive.”

We headed down to a local seafood place on Pawley’s Island and had a bowl of she-crab soup. We talked over a number of important things a man might talk over with his Grandfather; then mid-way through our meal he looked up and said “I just want you to know – I’m not afraid to die. I can’t wait to see my parents again. I’m 68 years old and I still miss my mother.”

The waitress walked off.

“Well. Ok Granddad" I replied, brilliantly.

A few days later I went to Macon to take him fishing, did something else instead - which pissed him off, I went home; then the next day he made a to-do list (mostly to-do's for other people), went to bed and died.

That was that.

After years of provoking each other out of our immense similarity: I take great comfort in knowing I managed to aggravate him just one last time.

Dad always says funerals are for the living – not the dead. He reckons the dead have too much else going on to worry much with us and I guess he’s probably right.

But Beau: just in case you are reading this - as if failing to leave me anything at all in your will wasn't bad enough – I am forced to concede to you for the final win. You got the last laugh. With you, Mom and Granddad all gone ahead and my sister pregnant with the ultimate abomination - a GREAT-Grandkid; now I'll never claw my way up to Ultimate Favored Golden Grandkid status. You got us. No matter what any of the remaining grandkids do - they'll always wonder if you wouldn't have mayyybee just done it a smidge better, richer, faster, or funnier.

You probably would have.

So ride on, Beausie - we love you and we miss you, but we'll catch back up soon.

Until then - do me a favor and tell 'em we all said "Duh Huh."

Precipitation Possible.....Sometime.

2011-03-25T12:57:00.000-07:00

Turkey season opens tomorrow. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but it’s the closest thing we have to lion hunting in Georgia. Terribly exciting.

I checked the weather and was somewhat disconcerted to find an estimated precipitation of 60%. I was crestfallen at first, but I rallied. What does 60% mean anyway? Initially it sounds like it’s probably going to rain, but is it? It might rain. That’s all I know. We have an entire system devoted to weather prediction and all I can tell you based on my usage of that system is: it may or may not rain tomorrow.

I wish I had a job with zero accountability for my projections. If I wandered into my boss’s office right now and said “you know what – I bet those numbers I gave you this morning are probably at least 40% correct” he would have something non-congratulatory to say about it.

This isn't about the weather man himself, as a person though. I actually grew up with the weatherman’s son. He was a prince of a character, as was his dad. All I'm saying is: I do recall that when his wife asked him when he’d be ready for dinner – he didn’t give her a band of percentages and likely times, or draw a sunny smiley face with clouds over it; he said “six o’clock.”

But ask him if it’ll rain?

“Oh it might.”

You know what the most often quoted percentage is on the weather channel? 50%* A 50% chance means “it may or may not rain. Who knows? We give up!”

That’s quite a tip.

I find it offensive that, technologically speaking, we can put a man on the moon, drive around in vehicles propelled by millions of tiny controlled explosions, speak chinese, domesticate crocodiles, and communicate telepathically and yet nobody is really sure what the weather will do 12 hours out. It might rain. It might not. Who knows?

Even worse: our one weather authority has the audacity to resort to percentage likelihoods that essentially communicate "based on our years of recorded history, satellites literally orbiting the earth, and various scientific techniques: we have absolutely no idea what might happen tomorrow. We hope its not bad."

We’ve spent billions on lunar landings and space stations. Are we allocating our resources to the right places? Really? Are you sure? That ziplock baggie full of moon rocks the space program has generated is neat and all, but would I trade it for knowing whether or not to lug a rainsuit around all day tomorrow?

Absolutely.

Right now all I can do is switch off the weather channel, walk outside, then ask myself: "Self: are you getting wet? If yes – congratulations - we have made a discovery: it IS definitely going to rain."

As long we’re talking about moon rocks here, I’d like to point out that the only reason I’m somewhat dubious about our having actually landed on the moon is this: we haven’t completely destroyed the moon yet.

Now tell me honestly: as an American, how long do you really think we can have access to an unspoiled landscape and not strip mine it or something? Not long I don’t think. History seems to indicate that if you give us access to somewhere new: we’re going to kill everything, then pave it.

I bet there is a rich white guy in Washington right now building a slide deck describing how he wants to take more of those rocks right up there and bring them here - right down here to this rock for fun and profit. Get ready for it.

Last time I checked we hadn’t dug up anything serious on the moon; I guess that's good, but when we do – I hope they employ our tried and true American method of exploration: dig until something terrible happens, then stop.

At least I'm sure it won't rain on them while they do it. Well, pretty sure.

*I have no basis for that statement.

So Cute

2011-03-23T12:17:00.000-07:00

Hey – guess what? It is true. I’m 30 for the second time, still married – and I’m still mostly alive.

Thanks for wondering.

I’m also getting older every day, I found a gray hair on top of my head instead of just near my ears, I have a few liver spots on my hands and I recently had a nose hair grow so long that I could stretch it all the way to the other nostril.

I thought that nose hair was worth waking Tyler up at 2AM to look at.

She did not.

The point is: I am officially out of control.

You wonder how a grown man lets himself go to the point he has a small cabbage patch of wiry hair growing from each ear hole and a vague arrangement of multi-day crumbs on his shirt? This is how it starts.
Also, for the record - we are not pregnant.

But your little heart leapt in your chest at the thought of it though, didn’t it? Ha! Sucker. Rest easy - nobody around here is getting pregnant except my sister who is 100% pregnant already and couldn’t possibly be pregnant-er. Want to talk pregnant? Call her up. Nothing doing over here.

Tyler spent the night with her sister and our young niece recently, came home and announced “I’m not ready for kids”. Generally a situation like that should lead you as a husband to immediately act like you DO want whatever it is your wife doesn’t want (in this case - kids) BADLY – which ordinarily solidifies in the woman’s mind how badly she doesn’t want what you now supposedly DO want – thereby keeping you safe just a bit longer.

I tried that tactic by immediately saying – “Aaawwww!! Well, they are just so cute though! I think maybe we want one next year!”

Based on her statement about not wanting kids yet - I expected a long litany of reasons why kids are a terrible idea, which I would slowly allow to convince me that it's true - kids are a terrible idea.

That did not happen.

Instead, she immediately responded “ok next year sounds good” and flounced off; leaving me stricken and dumbfounded - having overplayed my hand in the most dangerous poker game of all: kid negotiation. Yet another miscalculation on the short road to complete lack of autonomy.

I tried to recover by spending the last two weeks smugly pointing out the petulant wail of every newborn we come across in a restaurant and highlighting for Tyler the miserable, grim faces of its loathsome parents - to no avail.

"Awww he's so cute though" she says.

Who's Your Indian

2011-03-21T14:19:00.000-07:00

Having finally lost all patience with the "Townhouse" situation and my complete lack of accessible workshop space - I proposed a trip to the Tandy leather store for some supplies and a little arts and crafts project suitable for miserable confined Townhouse living.

I wasn't really paying attention as the man helped us check out, but I noticed the salesman trail off a bit midway through his recital of my purchase, "belly leather, punch set, snaps, leather dye......children's moccasin kit..." and I looked up to find him staring quizzically at me.

"Is this yours, sir?" he asked. I started to respond in the negative when I caught sight of a hand flapping from across the store "Halloooo!!!" Tyler trilled, grinning over a mountain of leather skins. "Ummm. Those little shoesies are for meeeeee!"

I looked at the package which said "no instructions needed" in bold type and shrugged at the salesman who, girded in his heavily-tooled leather belt, and disgusted, I'm sure, with our amateur purchases - continued ringing me up.

Then, entirely too fast for her to have walked all the way across the store, I heard hissed directly in my ear: "Ah. Can we find a bathroom?" Startled, I turned to find Tyler standing directly behind me twisting around in her shoes with a look of intense concentration on her face.

"Whoa! How did you get over here that fast?"

"I have to go to the bathroom."

"What? There is a bathroom right there in the back of this store. I can see it."

"No I don't want to go in that one."

"Why?"

"Because. I don't. Also, it says 'employees only' on it. Let's find a Chick fil a."

"What? What are they going to do? Arrest you? Really? A fast food restaurant? What is wrong with you? Go in there."

"No. I can make it until we get home."

"Home is 30 minutes away. Just a second ago you said you had to find a bathroom immediately. I am confused. What dark magic is this? "

"Well, now I can make it. Lets go home."

From that I can only assume that anytime she has to find a restroom - all I have to do is argue with her and everything is fine.

I am up to that challenge.

Last night we began our leatherworking attempt. I stood at the counter in the kitchen lost entirely in my own thoughts and plans for my little leather pouch, but I periodically heard various frustrated musings coming from the direction of the couch and the rawhide moccasin sewing attempt occuring thereon. Finally, after about 45 minutes of silence, I heard Tyler D. Ewing, 1/16 Cherokee Indian, grumble to herself from the wreckage of a maimed children's moccasin set:

"Argh. I must not be an Indian after all."

Goodbye Black Widow

2011-03-02T13:10:00.000-08:00

Last month the painters managed to unplug my carport freezer - effectively destroying everything in it; in particular: my best preserved specimen of a HUGE female black widow spider. It was the size of an average pecan and she'd been in there on ice for a number of years.

I feel like that says something about me, but I'm not sure what.

It Is Not Good For Man To Be Alone

2011-02-03T09:56:00.000-08:00

A real man is a complex, many-splendored creature. He is rough and unrefined, yet fits comfortably in a tuxedo. His mane of glorious chest hair bespeaks kinship with God’s lesser creatures, yet he is not bound by it. God made him different. Rather than spend a lifetime pinching fleas, he developed technology, culminating in the electric beard trimmer, in order to subdue those obvious ties to the animal kingdom.

A man is competent, capable, potentially dangerous, strong. A man is not a delicate flower. A man does not loofah. A man does not know about soap varieties or why you should wash a towel that serves only to dry water off a clean person.

A real man smells of lye soap and leather and fury and brimstone.

A man is why we have razor wire. A woman would take one look at 14-foot-high barbed wire and think “I’ll keep looking” – not a man.

A man spends his first 20-30 years of life evolving into a unique organism entirely capable of caring for himself and dominating his environment (after a fashion). One day, convinced that he alone is in control, he seeks out a mate to affirm his dominance who, impressed with his manliness and general ability to destroy; chooses him as a life partner.

All is well.

Shortly after the elaborate yoking-together process is complete, everything changes. After months of subjection to the dark, mysterious, arts of womanhood; a man finds himself sitting alone in a townhouse on a Tuesday night weakly staring down a sackful of Krystals, no television, no internet, no workshop, and no wife to entertain him with lively jokes and knowledge of where stored foodstuffs are located in the mysterious kitchenette area. Two aligned synapses fire weakly in his primitive brain and the man realizes – “God would look upon this and say 'it is not good'.”

Suffering with the pain of his abdicated manliness, the man mutely stumbles about the chilly townhouse, blindly grasping at air and throwing in an occasional JUDO CHOP for good measure until finally he tires, lowering his body to sit upon the sofa. Suddenly, mid-crouch, he freezes and hears in his mind a distant female voice whispering “you are not supposed to sit upon that couch." Instead, he plunks down upon the floor, next to an empty couch, all alone.

As he sits on the floor, next to the couch that must not be sat upon, gazing into the emasculating stack of gas logs that passes for a fireplace and upon which things must not be burned or roasted; he realizes: “I am no longer in control.”

He remains, allowing the realization to wash over him. All appears lost.

Suddenly he reaches out and nudges a bowl of "company-only" pistachios off the coffee table; watching gleefully as they bounce and rattle across the floor. Satisfied, he gets up and puts himself to bed.

That bowl of nuts should never have crossed him.

Simple Simon

2011-01-27T10:23:00.000-08:00

I enjoy cooking periodically. I don’t do it all the time, but when I do – I like to make a production of it. I also like to experiment. There have been a few noteworthy failures as well as the occasional success, but what stands out most vividly in my mind is the general shock and amazement our friends exhibit when I do chance upon a winning combination in the kitchen.

I like to cook and I couldn’t possibly care less about football. The horrible truth is out.

Someone asked me not long ago how it came to be that an individual so completely incompetent in so many other domestic areas came to know his way, comfortably, around the kitchen. I hadn’t thought much of it, but when she asked I realized there actually was a turning point. I wasn't born with it. I had an epiphany that led my otherwise peanut-butter-and-jellied feet into the kitchen many years ago – and I guess it just stuck.

In approximately 1991 Mom suggested I assist in snapping the ends off some green beans. I had been reading several historical accounts of pioneer and Native American families about that time so, I calmly responded with “I would, but that is women’s work.”

Did you ever say the wrong thing?

It happened to me.

That afternoon I found myself dropped off smartly at the front of the grocery store with a children’s recipe book in one hand, a fistful of grubby singles in the other and strict instructions not to come out until I had everything I needed to cook dinner for 4 – 5 if I wanted to eat too.

Later that evening I turned out 10 of my signature “Simple Simon Pies” – biscuit dough baked over the cups of an upended muffin tin and filled with a sautéed beef-and-ground-cheese concoction - canned green beans to garnish and $1.38 left over after coupons. Dad was, to put it mildly, “amused” at her diabolical punishments for chauvanism; hypocritical, I think, for a man who grew up with a cook and housekeeper and to this day prepares meals consisting of not more than one food group at a time.

Cooking alone (Mom retired to the couch with a book on parenting) was a bit of a challenge for an 11-year-old as I had to stand on a small footstool to reach the stovetop, but I learned to get around pretty sharp in there. Anyway - I had to…..every Tuesday night that summer.

I guess Mom’s the one to blame.

A Most Costly Miscalculation

2011-01-17T15:29:00.000-08:00

I rarely ever get sick, but on the odd occasion it happens – its bad. I fall completely apart, my mind goes blank and I devolve into a flailing gelatinous blob of misery. My coping wheels come completely off and I end up, emotionally speaking, deep in the bottomless ditch of ultimate human suffering cursing the fates for bringing me to such low station. In extreme cases I may even stoop so low as to attempt what, for a man, is the ultimate sign of submission: an immersion bath.

If I had a large readership I might not ordinarily divulge this information, but here goes: this is the only situation in which I can be killed. And yes, that's a hat. And no - I don't want to talk about it.

I’ve been basically well for about 5 years so I guess I was due for a bout of nameless typhoid. Any other day in 2010 you couldn’t have killed me with an axe, but a few Fridays ago I realized I didn’t feel well, so I got in bed and I stayed there…..
....until Wednesday.

I tried everything Tyler could think of to make me feel better, but only one thing worked: Tyler’s full, complete, unwavering, mind-altering focus on my every need.

A man faced with his own mortality can't be confronted with simple daily tasks like toweling himself off after a shower or pouring his own water. Even that brief lack of focus on getting better and I may well have died. Advanced typhomasticolitosis is no laughing matter.

How long has it been since someone brushed your teeth for you? For me it’s about two weeks. It’s that sort of attention to detail that made the difference in my tenuous hold on life and I’m not ashamed to tell you – my singular ability to focus and carry on in the face of immense illness and adversity is why I’m alive today.

I made one ill-fated foray into the land of the living in order to pick up a prescription from the CVS drive-thru, but I coughed and moaned so loud Tyler got embarassed at the window and took me back home.

After 5 days treading the gray bordelands between Sandy Springs and the Hereafter; my gynecologist, Uncle John, was able to intervene with a timely application of antibiotic and I began the long, slow, arduous process of improvement.

As I sprawled in bed on Wednesday looking back on the immense amount of trouble and misery I caused my lovely young wife during the period of my life-threatening illness - I felt generally satisfied. Without even intending to - I had set the behavioral stage for a lifetime of spousal indentured servitude during bouts of common illnesses. I, James G. Ewing, Jr. spent an entire 5 day period completely unencumbered by any of the daily tasks completed by an ordinary person with a modicum of self-respect.

Life was good.

Then, on my last day of horrific illness - shortly after my bedside lunch, but before my afternoon pillow-fluffing and hot tea; I sallied forth on a strength-building mission into the kitchen. Halfway down the stairs I overheard the hushed tones of my lovely wife talking with a friend on the phone and I stood frozen, paling in the realization of my first gigantic marital strategic error.

I heard:

"Yeah. He's been a huge pain all week. It's embarassing really. He's had a bad cough and a headache. That's about it, but you'd think he was knocking on death's door by the gigantic nuisance he's made of himself."

(pause)

"No. He's fine. At one point I actually put a cold cloth on his forehead. It was pitiful. He claims he hasn't been able to come downstairs, but I can tell by the cushions he lays around down here on my clean couch when I leave."

(silence. friend talks for a moment).

"What? No. are you kidding me? I've looked after him every minute for the last few days. Hand and foot. You think I'm missing an opportunity like this?"

"When I'm pregnant he's going to be my slave."

All is lost.

Christmas Comes Whenever It Wants

2010-12-21T09:32:00.000-08:00

Christmas comes early and often for the Ewing family. Santa forced his chubby butt down our chimney in the wee early morning hours this Sunday and he's coming back on the 25th. Its two solid weeks of Christmas revelry.

We've kept him unusually busy over the years for the simple reason that we're not afraid to sidle one of the holidays out of its normal spot if it serves us - we make them work for US, not the other way around.

I believe it was about 1989 that Dad got sick of hauling wrapped presents all the way to Macon, unwrapping them, then loading them all back up so, Mom just up and moved Christmas. Does that mean we get an excessive amount of Christmas booty and we should be ashamed of our wanton destruction of Christmas and its substitution with a day marked by the expression of greed in its purest form?
No, of course not.

But it was unprecedented. No one in our family knew what to expect. Could Santa still find us? "Was he even ALIVE?"; a question Uncle Robert casually intoned into the keyhole of the coat closet where he'd locked me to think about it.

1989 was an emotional year, full of uncertainty and doubt. Would I get everything I wanted like a good American always should? "Did Santa allocate gifts in direct proportion to the size of your house (small houses - small gifts)?" "Was "Santa" really an anagram for "Satan" and was I certain "Santa" didn't take anything when he "broke into" our house?" - all questions thoughtfully posed by Uncle Robert.

No one seemed to have the answers, but my cousins and I agreed - smoking one last Carlton Menthol purlioned from Gma's purse would be the least of our naughty-list worries. Plus, we knew she'd fib for us if we got nabbed by humorless parents and do-gooder aunts; staunchly claiming she "gave us" a few Christmas cigarettes and not to worry, "they're ultralights" - just to keep us out of trouble.

It was my older cousin, Seth, who executed a perfect smoke ring from his perch on the highest peak of Gma's roof and sagely suggested that Santa was like God and Granddad - immortal and always watching. Then, he stubbed out the glowing coal on an asphalt shingle and casually flicked the butt high over my head. Impressed with his technique, I watched it fly across the roof rapidly losing speed and falling in a perfect arc -straight down the chimney. It disappeared from sight; immediately thereafter (we were told) to drop two stories straight down, bounce twice across the hearth and roll to a stop in the center of the den floor - right in front of the television.

We didn't know we were pinched until we heard Granddad's voice bellowing up the brick flue "I'VE TOLD YOU TO STAY OFF THE ROOF. YOU ARE GOING TO BURN THE HOUSE DOWN AROUND MY EARS AND I AM GOING TO HAVE TO KILL YOU."

It's a good thing Christmas comes twice.

I Wish I Could Draw

2010-12-01T12:23:00.000-08:00

I find myself in need of a better form of graphic communication than I can personally produce. I’m constantly in situations wherein if I could just DRAW a picture of what is actually going on compared to what I see in my mind – you would understand.

Instead, I'm forced to resort to snapping poorly-framed photos of things on my crummy blackberry thing. Now that I think about it - I wish I could use my Blackberry to take a photo of how crummy my Blackberry is right now, but I believe that’s a thought loop; isn’t it? Now I’m thinking about Eternity and what it feels like to know that you can’t die and now I’m thinking about what I’m going to look like dead, but alive in eternity. I hope I look like my 20yr old self. Now I wonder what dog food is made of, exactly, because its definitely not all meat even though dogs are carnivores.

That’s me.

But usually, instead of a good thought picture – you get junk photos like this:

That’s my special little deer hunter, dead asleep in a deerstand leaning against my left leg and completely destroying my circulation. When the pins-and-needles got to be too much - overcoming my entire being in waves of shrieking dead-limb sensation - I shifted. Slightly.

"Ack! Quit jittering around" she said. "I'm trying to sleep!"

Ok. What about this:

If you have to stamp “DELICIOUS” in italics on the outside of your food packaging – I immediately know it tastes like toe joey poached in dishwater. Get it away from me.

No amount of italics or “Delicious” or “Scrumptious” wording is going to fool me. You could say EAT THIS AND EVERYTHING YOU THINK OF WILL TURN INTO AN ASTRONAUT MADE OF CHEESE and, even though that would be fascinating and I would LOVE to go to and fro throughout the earth creating astronauts made of cheese; I wouldn't touch it. It's communist. It’s communist packaging. This company is telling you what to think and you better think its delicious OR THEY WONT GIVE YOU THE ANTIDOTE.

Classic case of communism at work.

How about this one: Gunbearer Newest Ewing in a Glock hat toting my custom deer rifle out of the woods:

YES.

GO TEAM AMERICA!! She was not pleased about this picture. Tough lighting apparently.

She also generally refuses to be photographed around weapons or dead animals; but at the same time she is physically incapable of not grinning for the camera - a very exploitable trait.

Or this:

This appears to be a tough night out on the hot Macon, Ga street scene for some young hellion - sure to be followed by an exciting morning spent plumbing the depths of that porcelain-no-man’s-land at the front of the toilet with his chin bone. I hope the concert was GREAT because it has almost certainly left a mark. I also bet you dont know where your car is. Yes you do. It was impounded wasn't it? Again.

I just cover too much ground in a week of being me to get it all down in crayon.

Technically Family

2010-11-22T07:41:00.000-08:00

I haven't quite gotten used to being technically "married" yet, so when the full magnitude of marriage hit me on the way to the mountains for my first Officially Sanctioned In-Law-Event - I suddenly I looked at Tyler and blurted "do you realize we're family now."

She blanched.

Who knows what mental image being in my "family" conjures for her? I'm sure a snapshot of my Uncle Robert sitting in his recliner at 3AM clutching a gallon of ice cream, gray hair to his shoulders and only one shoe on; lighting a fresh Benson and Hedges off the butt of another flashed through her mind at least once.

"People keep calling me Mrs. Ewing and I feel panick-ey. I may be having an identity crisis" she coughed, blowing a handful of slobbery BBQ sunflower seeds into my passenger-side air conditioner vents.

"Lets not talk about it."

Then, after a brief pause and a slurp at her Diet Dr. Pepper:

"Have you added me to your checking account yet? I need $200."

We continued on through Dawsonville in a fog of life-merger technicalities and headed northeast for Blue Ridge.

On arrival my mother-in-law greeted me with "I heard you're on a diet. Can I get you a beer?"

God bless her. Good mothers-in-law don't just grow on trees.

The next day we awoke bright and early to the sound of cheerful toe-music and slamming refridgerators outside our bedroom door. As newlyweds - the lowest rung on the family ladder, we have been supplied with the only bedroom that opens directly into the kitchen. Its a sink-or-swim family indoctrination process that serves a dual purpose: 1). keeping me as fat as possible so I can't run away and 2). ensuring that we don't miss any conversation going on in the house - no matter what the time.

After a lovely breakfast we forayed into the wilds of North Georgia in search of a producing apple orchard that might allow us to sample their wares.

Wouldn't you know it? We found some.

Unfortunately, so did 98% of the toothless denizens of the county. Never let it be said that dentures and fresh fruit don't mix. Apparently we Georgians have developed a new technique for gumming an apple to death.

My father-in-law, Duane, and I agreed - we got lucky - the apple orchard was entirely wrapped in signs boldly announcing "Closed For U-Pick"; a bit of redneckery we understood to mean they didn't want us picking our own apples. I thought to pick a few anyway, just to prove that I'm an American and I'll pick an apple any-damn-where I please; but the scarecrow they had hanging by his neck in the front yard next to a cheerful sign in red proclaiming "APPLE THIEF" took the wind out of my sails. There are few places left in the world where you can hang a threatening man-sized effigy off the ground with a noose around his neck and not end up in the paper. This is one of them.

Tyler handled this crushing bit of no-apple-picking news with her usual aplomb and immediately tugged me into the country store. The indoor scene was a brisk business in pre-picked apples ("non-u-pick" apparently is the technical name) and hot breaded apple desserts sold to relieved Dads from all over the state. We dove into the crush of sharp-scented humanity for a peek at the non-u-picked wares. Somewhere towards the back of the building my lovely wife cheerfully flounced her ponytail at me and promptly disappeared into the crowd in the direction of the Granny Smiths; leaving me quite alone by the fresh-fried pork skins.

I lingered for a bit until several irritated stares suggested I was blocking ingress to the rock candy section, so I flung myself back into the river of rednecks and floated along, carried around the store by a wave of sticky-fingered rat-tail exhibitors.

I thought I could manfully power through until I found my wife, but I could only take so much. I clawed my way back through the crowded throng and burst into the parking lot just as my will to live shattered.

I collected myself, taking a deep breath and blinking in the bright sunshine for a moment, then I heard a cheerful "Yoooo hooo!! Ohhh whooo hoo hooo! Hallooooo!!" floating out over the crowd behind me. I turned to see Tyler standing half way back in the snaking checkout line energetically hoisting a large sack of apples over her head and grinning.

"Um! Heyylooo!!" she chortled. "Look whattt I founddddd!!! AAAPPPLLEEESS!!"

"Did you bring your wallet?"

Voodoo Lunch Magic

2010-11-19T11:23:00.000-08:00

In some families I think its probably hard for the husband to tell when the wife is mad at him. I don't know that for certain, but I guess its probably so. There's a certain personality type that hides irritation, anger, and various forms of silent fury quite well. I guess it probably shows up in husband/wife interaction from time to time.

Then, there are the sort of wives who put this in your lunch (double click, then enlarge to read):

Poison is such a historically over-used method for tumbling despots that I'm surprised it showed up so rapidly in my lunch. Surely there are much subtler tools available.

Obviously, this sort of situation adds a whole new twist to the ancient voodoo concept of "reading the bones." One can't simply crack open the lunch bag and dive right in - the contents require a certain amount of study and life-application. I suspect a careful evaluation of the contents of this bowl could well predict the future; at least the immediate future - the part between home arrival and bedtime. This particular casting of the bowl (so to speak) did not bode well; and it turns out: it was spot-on.

Did I deserve it? Sure.

Was it an adventure?

Absolutely.

Crowding My Action

2010-11-10T09:12:00.000-08:00

The problem with having a blog is: ultimately your entire family wants to horn in on your action. It's not enough to have ONE person try to be funny - you post up a blog and pretty soon you've got a flock of half-crazed mini-Steve-Martins running around and it's complete chaos. There should only be ONE funny person at a time. The rest of you should clean up after the ONE funny person and generally take care of him and laugh at everything and make sure he's happy and well-primed with funny and red meats and cheeses.

Unfortunately, this is reality. Instead of an Andy Griffith life wherein everything is basically ok and you run the show and get to smoke cigarettes on the front porch while Aunt Bea washes up; you have to periodically allow a guest-post on your blog and, periodically, that guest poster will be your wife. I will grudgingly admit that occasionally she will reflect the light of your glorious funny in a somewhat-dimmer-rendition of you, and thereby also appear funny.

See below, but bear in mind: SHE'S ONLY FUNNY BECAUSE OF ME!!, so don't get distracted.

Upon returning from our honeymoon and realizing that the lovely housekeeper from the hotel didn’t come home with us; JGE and I decided to split our familial chores between us. It was our first family caucus because, apparently, “two people don’t warrant paying for a maid” in his mind.

Does that mean adding kids to our newly formed family does? My sources were unclear on that.

Basically, I agreed to the traditional womanly chores (kitchen clean up and dishwasher duty, cleaning bathrooms, vacuuming, dusting, laundry, etc) by uttering the simple word “yes” in agreement to the proposed bylaws. In taking on these chores, I took a giant leap back in time for all you liberated women from the 1970s who worked so hard to achieve equality among men and women.

Oops.

We decided that Jimmy’s chores would consist of the traditional manly household duties that involve tools or trash, as well as anything money, tax, or car-related, or dealing with workmen or household help of any kind.

Fair enough.

This agreement has worked out quite nicely un-altered except that Jimmy has added dishwasher duty to his chores. He acquisced during a minor evening meltdown on my part brought on by raging hormones and a white hot bolt of sheer fury at the dishwasher.

He also agreed to fix me breakfast every morning - for LIFE. WHA HA HA AHAAA!!!! Put one on the board for the home team.

All in all, we have been carrying on well. Married life is fabulous.

I do laundry every 1 to 1.5 weeks so we generally always, or almost always, or usually sometimes have clean clothes. The problem is putting away these clothes - not to mention the hunting clothes which require separate washing in non-scented detergent.

Basically, our laundry situation has slowly devolved into a massive slough of laundry despair and I have been in complete denial. I almost realized it when every single one of our laundry vestibules were unavailable, but I figured it counts if they’re clean, right?

We finally ran out of places to throw our dirty clothes because all the dirty-clothes-holders were full of clean clothes. It was an embarassment of riches, so we came up with the short-term solution of just throwing our dirty clothes in the hallway at the base of the staircase leading to the laundry room.

This solution was actually awesome. I’d come in from a run (a "run" is when I'm alone - when JGE accompanies me its a "forced march"), disrobe in the hallway, toss my clothes in the dirtystash and jump in the shower.

It was a well-oiled machine. Then, we were out of town for three weekends in a row and the generally-manageable pile suddenly turned into a massive out-of-control pile that may or may not attract wild animals.

By Tuesday morning, it was really bad. As I left for work that morning I passed the mountain of dirty clothes and made a mental note to start a load of laundry that night. I figured I'd worry about where to stash those suckers later.

While pecking away at my computer, I received a call from a cheery realtor who wanted to know if she could show my townhouse in 3 hours. This is good news. We chatted for a bit about logistics then hung up.

Suddenly, my palms began to sweat. I envisioned the dirty laundry pile. Then there were the clean piles that were everywhere, not to mention the clean clothes strewn across our bedroom from searching through the clean piles. Then I remembered breakfast…the smell of turkey sausage, fried eggs and toast was probably still lingering in the kitchen. And the guns and gear from the hunting trip that past weekend were stacked in the living room. It looked like the Branch Davidian compound if the women had gone on strike.

I immediately gchatted Jimmmay, who clearly didn’t grasp the severity of the situation:

Me: OH CRAP. Just got a call. Our house is being shown around 3:30-4:00 today. I have to go home and clean it up it's a wreck!!! and smells!!!

Me: Um, Hallloooo?

Jimmy: WHOAOAOAOA. oh man oh man oh man that is neato man oh man oh man house showings yayyyy wowwwyyy.

(and he swears that he doesn’t drink on the job)

Me: Oh man. Ooooh man. This is not good.

Jimmy: We've not been THAT messy really. Don't worry about it.

Me: Well I hope they love it! Oh CRAP. The vents in the two guest rooms are still half hanging from one screw. I thought you were going to fix those! I tried pushing them up last week but they need another screw
and our laundry. This is so bad - and I’m swamped at work today

Jimmy: Take two toothpicks and break them in half

Me: Huh?

Jimmy: Stuff them in the screw holes of the vent then rescrew the screws and the toothpicks will take up space in the hole and help provide substance for the threads to grip.

Me: One screw is missing, plus - I ain't got toothpicks.

Jimmy: Did you try to tighten the one screw? Ok, use a matchstick with head broken off instead of toothpick.

Me: Oh man. I have no matchsticks.

Jimmy: Clearly, you are not a man. Ok, I’ll fix it with my handy bucket o' screws that Gene Maddux gave me.

Me: I may just tape it. Tape will have to do.

Jimmy: No tape. Just pull a screw out of another vent.

Me: Gaaah! Ok, I’m running home, I’ll be back.

Apparently a constant litany of bootleg solutions are my husband's plan for holding up his end of the domestic bargain. We are in trouble.

What happens when one day our child falls out of a tree and sprains an arm? Am I going to come home to my child’s arm wrapped up around a chainsaw bar and Jimmy saying that’s all he could find to stabilize the arm?

As I pulled into the garage, I realized the situation was much more serious than I realized. The garage was full of wedding presents still in their boxes. I walked in and was greeted by even more wedding presents that lined the entire staircase up the kitchen. I had completely forgotten about those.

The next approximately 32 minutes involved me running around the house like a maid on crank - cleaning up the living room, stashing things here and there, airing out the definitely smelly kitchen, moving all of the presents to what hopefully resembled a neatly organized stack in the garage, emptying approximately 2/3 of a Glade air freshener can all over the house (God bless Glade), moving guns to the garage and discovering that, based on the immense amount of camo covered gear now in there, the garage closet has now apparently become our hunting closet. I was on warp speed.

Then there was the laundry. I have never stuffed that many piles of clean clothing in so many drawers, hidden shelves, the armoire, and any other location I could think of that wasn’t a logical space where a potential home buyer would feel bold enough to open. An armoire is personal, right? That doesn’t come with the house so they shouldn’t be looking in there. Thank goodness for my extra-tall bed. You better believe things got stuffed under there.

As for the pile of dirty laundry, that was relocated to the inside of both the washer and dryer, full to the brim. It took three trips to get all of the clothes up to the laundry room.

And the vents, you ask? Turns out, not only was a screw missing in each of the two vents, but we also don’t seem to have a screw driver in the house (I thought husbands came with tool kits?). I therefore had to use a dull knife to unscrew a screw from a floor vent and attempt to stuff it in the ceiling vent, which of course didn’t work. I resorted to my grand idea of tape. But all I could find was flimsy scotch tape, which doesn’t take to ceilings too well. In the end, one vent was temporarily fixed and one vent was hopeless. I said a prayer that the potential homebuyers just wouldn’t look up when they entered the room.

As I finished the world’s fastest and most amazing house cleaning job, I surveyed my work, arms akimbo, as I gasped for air. I must say I was quite pleased.

Later that evening, when I returned home to my shiny, clean, good-smelling, organized house, I discovered the realtor never came.

...And I apparently misplaced someone's "favorite deer rifle."

Editor's note: I found my very expensive, highly accurate, custom 7mm-08 deep-woods rifle, literally, hidden under a throw pillow.

That settles it: The Natural Born Hunter is being domesticated.

Feeeeeeelllinngggssssss, Oh So Wond'rous FEEEEELLLINGGGSSSS!!

2010-10-24T08:46:00.000-07:00

We had an ongoing pre-wedding disagreement about Tyler’s wedding-day performance. She feared she would suffer from giant wracking sobs while walking the plank, err – aisle; and embarrass herself.

Based on her performance during “The Time Traveler’s Wife” a few weeks ago I, on the other hand, was supremely confident she would do just that. That was the disagreement. She was not sure she would lose it, but she was concerned about it. I was 100% positive she was going to flip out.

I can honestly say that I’ve never seen someone wail so steadily and consistently through a film before. I may have shed a tear during Braveheart and Forest Gump, but never have I ever been subjected to a steady stream of flowing tears and miserable sobbing such as this; and over something we PAID for.

Ruined it.

I couldn't even make fun of the story line without getting a taste of The Elbow of Silence. A guy randomly travels in-and-out of time and Rachel McAdams is all he has to look forward to? Blech. If it were me - at the very least I'd have been shooting evil dictators, or sneaking onto the space shuttle, or something interesting.

I got her back though. Ernee The Attornee and I took her to see "Let Me In" - a newly-released vampire movie. She's already terrified of the dark, horror movies, parking garages, and being home alone so she generally refuses to see anything involving violence, darkness or "creatures."

To get her in there we told her it was a comedy; then when it was over I had to peel her rigid catatonic limbs off the arm rests.

BWAH HA HA HAHAHAHAHA!!!

Live Short and Prosper

2010-10-23T08:44:00.000-07:00

A brief follow-up word on The New Regime under which I have been duped and enslaved:

Operating autonomously as an adult these many years now, I had grown subconsciously accustomed to certain niceties of singlehood. Certain “freedoms” if you will. I’ve recently discovered that certain of those certain freedoms have certainly departed to parts unknown.

Such as:
1. The freedom to not have someone’s packing-plant-cold-feet pressed against my warm buns all night.
2. The freedom to arise after 7AM without someone poking me repeatedly in the chest, arms, and back and pressing that someone’s (freezing) nose against my face while repeating over and over “Um. Hallo. Hallo? Are you Awake? Wakey, wakey, eggs & Bake-ey” every minute, on the minute, from 6AM onward.
3. The freedom to taste food without lipstick on it.
4. The freedom to not carry a woman’s credit card, lip gloss, and drivers license in my pocket to every party I attend.

Those freedoms have been stripped from me entirely; not unlike the bedsheets which are stripped from me at approximately 6:12AM daily and replaced by a pair of running socks tossed callously at my chest. The old life was good. The new life is apparently “healthy.”

The new life will “help me live longer.”

The question is: do I want to?

Guest Post: Salman "Strib" Stribling, Esq.

2010-10-22T07:00:00.000-07:00

I generally only allow guest posts under extreme duress. However, I believe the following email received from my good friend Salman "Strib" Stribling, Esq. is entirely worth your attention.

For the past 36 hours, we have had a clogged toilet. Not that big of a deal. When my lovely wife (henceforth referred to as MLW) begins by asking if we should "call a plumber," my wounded ego politely declined.

Heck no, we don't need a plumber. I can handle a clogged toilet!

I could not unclog it. I plunged and rooted and splashed until I had blisters on my hands - all for naught. Whatever unholy thing was lurking under that murky water had become firmly entrenched behind bulwarks of murky destruction.

Being a man of finer tastes as I'm sure you're aware; I did not want to risk putting my hands into a liquid smell of this magnitude; especially with no clear understanding of what may await my timid grasp.

It was bad enough to be in such close proximity to utter foulness; but the thought of actually immersing part of my body in sheol was entirely too taxing for my refined constitution. I tried to convince MLW that we needed her more delicate and sensitive hands to reach in and pull out whatever was in there. With four children I've seen her handle substances that would green the gills of the Roto Rooter man, but surprisingly, she preferred to call a plumber.

I, again, in my great wisdom and powerful man-knowledge of all things home-related, refused.

I stood poised over the bowl for what felt like hours as I slowly worked up the courage to do what must be done. Finally, I tore apart my own inner will and with a gasp and a plunge - reached into the depths. Much to my distress, I found nothing.

I decided to hold off and wait it out a little while because - you never know, sometimes these things fix themselves. My car has done that on numerous occasions. So, I left.

Imagine my consternation upon my return to find the toilet in the same sad state of disrepair. It had not magically fixed itself. I, a full-grown educated man with four children, actually believed that the clogged toilet would "be better" when I got home. I forgot that there is no such thing as magic.

As the matter had grown somewhat more serious, I made a quick trip to the Home Depot in search of a tool. Buying a tool is a sheer-intimidation-offfense move. Sometimes just the act of buying the tool fixes things.

Returning with what I thought was going to be the final solution in my hands, I knew the end was in sight. I am sure it has a technical name.

I simply called it the $8 toilet unclogger.

I jammed this puppy in there and started twisting and tugging and shoving and pulling. Nothing. I plunged some more. Nothing. Finally, I had MLW go out to the garage to retrieve some vice grips so that I could take the toilet off its moorings and really get to the root of the issue, but before I could do that, I had to empty the bowl.

It was awful. I mean it was like something out of Trainspotting.

I am still trying to block out certain scarring images.

MLW had to go to the sand box in the back and bring back a couple of buckets so that I could begin scooping the mess out, filling said buckets, and dumping them in what must now be a toxic swamp on the other side of the fence. The plan was simple - I would fill a bucket and either hand it to her or bring it outside myself.

The plan was working smoothly. I handed the first bucket to MLW who, complaining bitterly, hauled it out. The second bucket was far larger, probably holding about 4 gallons of sand in its heyday. I filled it with at least 3 gallons of toxic childsludge. I then gingerly picked it up by the sides, gently laughing to myself, "Wouldn't it be funny if I dropped this?"

Want to know what is even funnier? When the bucket you are holding with 3 gallons of stuff that you did not know your children could generate, breaks. The rim to which I had attached my ninja death grip snapped off with a loud CRAAACK like the snapping of an angel's wing. The bucket hit the floor from a height of about 3 feet and cracked right in the middle.

Imagine if you will - me, standing there with two pieces of plastic bucket in my hands, mouth open wide, eyes the size of dinner plates and the sense of impending doom.

When I say it was terrible, I am doing it a disservice. It hit the floor with a loud splash and before I knew it, had successfully sheeted everything in a light brown liquid wash of filth. It was on the walls, cabinets, filled my shoes - everything. Before I even had time to cuss good I watched a slow-motion tsunami of sewage go out the door, into the hallway, and quickly work its way into the playroom which, incidentally, was filled lots of lovely things Little Win likes to shove in his mouth. I was powerless to stop it.

I heard the unmistakable sound of ultimate human suffering emanate from MLW's mouth as she nimbly blazed through the room picking things up before they could get wet - including the hallway carpeting. I just stood there. I earned it.

This woman is quick. If I am ever in a fire I want her to come and get me out.

Finally, after cleaning up the hazmat tidal wave, I was able to take the toilet off its moorings, run the $8 toilet unclogger in reverse, and pull out a child's building block that my wonderful 4th child shoved in, probably at the urging of the devil. He gets that attribute from MLW's side of the family.

I then burned my clothes, showered in the hottest water I could stand, and have not returned to the scene of the crime. I don't need to - the memories of that wave of sewage will haunt me forever.

In the future, when MLW asks if we should call the plumber, I will humbly, and with a shiver, say "Yes".

Editor's Note: Perhaps this fact has escaped your attention, but as I myself am schooled in the ways of Toilet Scuba, it hasn't escaped mine: Strib, in his total ingorance and obvious innner turmoil - dove in bareback. Skin-on-toiletwater. That is totally unnecessary. Friends: two hefty sacks double-bagging that arm will save you much of young Strib's turmoil and distress.

A Regime Change

2010-10-21T07:15:00.000-07:00

"Welcome to your new life" said my new wife, grinning, totally unfazed by the last 2 miles of my sweaty flailing and constant grumbling.

"We'll start running again at the next telephone pole."

I stood slumped over the slate-shingled mailbox of one of Buckhead's wealthier denizens, grasping both sides of the brick box and breathing rapidly into the open slot in lieu of a paper bag.

"You go on. I'll catch up" I wheezed.

"Please let go of the mailbox, you're embarassing me. Stretch your calves. That will help. Then get moving."

I helplessly watched her go; trotting merrily down the street, wandering in-and-out of traffic at will - leaving me psychologically deflated and podiatrically ruined on my favorite curb.

As if the sight of my massive frame lumbering along behind a skinny 6-foot blonde wasn't enough to emotionally wreck me, she proceeded to run halfway down the block then, to my horror, turn and progress back in my direction; merrily bopping along to an inaudible melody. When she reached me, shambling along the curb at an embarassing crawl she began, literally, jogging in circles around me shouting forms of encouragement like "just to the next mailbox" "you can do it" and "If you start running again now, you can have toast at home." At one point she ran behind me prodding me along like a water buffalo in the traces.

"It would be much easier if you would just cooperate" she chirped, prodding me one last time before zooming past in an undernourished blur of pink running gear.

She was right. It was easier to just keep running. At least that way the kids passing by on the school bus don't point and laugh.

I hate kids.

Week three of marriage: Blow Ye Violent Winds of Change.

Aphrodisiac

2010-10-08T06:57:00.000-07:00

I hear that certain Asian cultures believe the raw oyster is nature's most powerful aphrodisiac.

Me? I'm an American, so I can't be certain.

I cannot attest to their powers on a standalone basis, but I'll tell you that spending 5:00AM - 5:20AM on a Thursday night screaming raw-oyster-flavored bubbles into the toilet will get you a shoe thrown in your general direction, but not much more.

In "sickness and in health" couldn't have prepared her for this.

Sometimes You Just Know

2010-10-06T07:40:00.000-07:00

When I was little Mom told me that on a lovely spring day years before; she was seated in the garden outside her college sorority house when Mom felt Dad, who was standing behind her, lean gently in as if to whisper in her ear. She thought to herself "what lovely thing will he say to me next?"

Dad said: "Jenny, I think you've got a bald spot."

Mom, horrified, turned to him and said "Have you lost your mind?"

I guess with such forebears it is no great surprise that I managed to marry someone who interrupts my work day to relate such as the following:

Tyler: My friend asked me this afternoon how I knew you were the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

I told her you had a flat-screen TV with DVR and that was it! I knew you were the one.

Guess What We've Been Up To Lately?

2010-10-05T07:30:00.000-07:00

Let's hear it for honeymoon activities, eh? How'boutcha? Eh?

In the event it has escaped your notice that I've been mysteriously absent for the last week immediately following my nuptials - that is what's been up. We were not in a monastary contemplating eternity. We were honeymooning.

It's an ugly truth, but it's true. Why fight it?

I love it that the freshly-honeymooned, when asked "how was the honeymoon?!?" so often burst into a vivid litany of their various sporting and outdoor pursuits. It's another of society's many transparent falsehoods that I desire to debunk.

Contrary to popular belief we have, in short, not been kayaking. Nor have we been parasailing, snorkeling, or sunbathing. We didn't watch Manatees or swim with Dolphins. Why would I? I hate animals with blowholes. They're very off-putting.

We didn't scuba.

I never surfed.

We just didn't. I cannot tell a lie and at this point - I lack the energy to put forth the normal farcical responses.

For those of you who've either given us terrible advice (Mark Stephens) or been kind enough to make completely inappropriate suggestions (Uncle Robert) let me just say that Mark's signature "move" The Vertical Souffle - which allegedly involves a luggage rack, two gallons of coconut oil and a fair amount of dexterity - does not sound that great to me. To my Uncle Robert: thanks, but what in the world am I going to do with a fan made of ostrich feathers and a leapoard skin suit?

My Dad asked the ubiquitous "How was the Honeymoon?" question yesterday and I said "I think I threw out my back." He paused, then tactfully rejoined with "Well, how was Florida?" and I said "We were in Florida? All I saw were curtains and a ceiling. Could've been Ohio. I never could tell."

I knew I had struck a chord when I heard George howling in the background and realized: the whole family is on speakerphone.

So, to all you honeymooning parasailers out there let me just say this: You're Retarded.

While its true that candy can be dandy and liquor certainly is quicker: at least sex won't rot your teeth.

Ruined

2010-09-22T08:00:00.000-07:00

During a recent dinner discussion wherein I attempted to convince My Future Bride (MFB) that I am worth the effort and small, occasional, difficulty created by my unique personality and various idiosyncracies such as: inability to clean things, ability to complain about food, inability to wash clothing regularly, inability to effectively communicate plans, inability to choose clothing to wear, inability to avoid hunting trips, ability to complain about waiting for anything....etc....this happened to me:

Me: Pfft. I'm totally worth it. You know it! Don't "front."
Tyler: Hm. I'm not so sure. I think you should probably shape up. Also, don't say "front".
Me: Please. Shape up!? HA! It's too late!! I've already woo'd you with my ways!!
Tyler: ....and now I'm woo-ined.
Me: ....
Tyler: Get it? "Wooined?" Like "Ruined?!"! Get it!?!?"
Me:....

After Saturday at 7PM I've officially signed up for 50 more years of bad puns and shoes on credit.

Somebody stop me.

Attack Mantis

2010-09-22T07:41:00.000-07:00

Even the natural world does very strange things to me on a daily basis. I pulled out of the parking lot on Friday, checked my side-view mirror to merge left and when I looked back; this is the sight that greeted me:

HOLY CRAP.

A 29-Foot-Tall Praying Mantis, attacking a Kia.

I consider the experience "startling."

I promptly blew my gum down into my dashboard air vents (forever) and slammed on brakes; slinging empty styrofoam cups and .22 bullets all down into my floorboards, and splashing coffee on the Fulton County Certified Marriage License which has been riding shotgun since last Thursday. Now, when I turn on the A/C the air in the left vent smells like stale Dentyne.

I don't believe in aliens, but I definitely believe in Ghosts, The Legendary HawgBear, Gustave The Killer Crocodile and Killer Praying Mantises - the Praying Mantis being somehow the most disconcerting of the four.

I think it's those weird dead-eyes and how, without ever seeming to move fast, they still manage to kill and eat everything that gets near them. That's a horrifying combination of characteristics to pack into a 29'-foot-tall carnivorous insect pedestrian that eats its mates.

Speaking of mates; did you know I'm getting married in exactly 3,410 minutes?

Grown Man For Sale: Hairy. Needs Constant Supervision

2010-09-20T08:36:00.000-07:00

I've been in a veritable morass of wedding excitement lately. It's inescapable, and so are the people who delight in announcing your daily countdown to matrimonial servitude.

"You're getting married Saturday!! How many days is that? 5??! I think its 5!! Cheryl honey, how many days is that? FIVE?"

Cheryl (breathily): "Oohhhh! Five!! I think so!! It IS five!! Here let me count" (Cheryle starts waggling her fingers and ticking off days) "Lets see. Monday, Tuesday . . . .FIVE!! I think its FIVE!! Can you believe that? FIVE DAYS"

Oh, I believe it.

First of all, you know quite well it's 5 days. I can understand a fair amount of ciphering if we're shooting for September 25, 2042; but we're talking about next Saturday. You don't have to count it out for me on your fingers or even estimate it in hours. No, seriously.

I'm just saying - I'm aware. I'm the one who got myself into this thing in the first place, so trust me when I say: I'm on board with the date. I couldn't tell you for sure details of any sort, but I know where to be and what time to get there. I also know where I live, what pizza is made of, and how to skin a bear; in case you were wondering.

To keep myself on an even-keel I've developed a few not-funny pre-wedding jokes lately. Know what's "not funny?"

"Hey Tyler don't drink that!!! It's bad for the baby!!!" very loudly in the bar line is "Not Funny"; suggested The Elbow of Silence.

Consistently getting the name of the wedding venue wrong? Also not funny.

I am the Un-Funny.

The only problem is; I've changed dates, times, and names around so much - now I'm afraid I've confused myself.

I need constant supervision.

Horrifying Glimps of The Future

2010-09-16T12:30:00.000-07:00

I was pulling through the drive-through liquor store at Weiuca and Roswell in search of bachelor-party supplies the other day and was shocked and saddened to see this:

It is a horrifying picture of what's in store for us in the next 5-7 years. It is as if the heavens opened and tried to warn me of my fate.

But I wouldn't listen.

Also, to these guys - please don't go out in public. Its fine to have kids, but you're supposed to hide them from your buddies and pretend they don't exist until they're 5 or 6.

www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com

Hey Guys Watch This!

2010-09-15T12:00:00.000-07:00

The whole point to a bachelor party is proving to your best friends that you're too stupid to die.

Plus, if you can set your own chest hair on fire with a grill lighter and live to tell about it - you have conquered the single life.

You may as well get married.

Bring Rocker Back

2010-09-14T19:00:00.000-07:00

I was at a friend's house recently and noticed he had a bunch of yellowed Atlanta Journal Constitution newspaper clippings up on the wall commemorating various Atlanta Braves baseball wins. It reminded me of the glory days of the Braves franchise.

It reminded me of them, because its been so long I had nearly forgotten.

Of the 30 people who may eventually read this I'm going to assume about 27 of you know me, and the other 3 had googled "Brick Distributor", instead got me, and don't care. So, I won't bore you with a long-winded philosophical view on professional team sports, or at least televised professional team sports. I'll make it simple: I loathe them.

But you knew that already.

I'm ambivalent about golf. I generally respect it because it's generally one-on-one-combative. I can appreciate that, but I still don't want to watch you play it.

I loathe professional team sports mostly because of the people who come to my house and scream furiously at the television, drone endlessly on about the completely mindless, irrelevant, on-field exploits of their favorite team when there are perfectly alive deer and quail to be killed; or otherwise bore me with talk about who did what with which kind of ball.

I just dont care.

I would much rather watch T-ball, JV Football, Olympic fencing or Jai-Alai; than spend a second of my time on college football or professional baseball or, God forbid - the miserable Atlanta Falcons. Oh man. The Falcons. A good PitBull fight, if somewhat unethical, is still the most interesting sporting event an Atlanta Falcon has been involved in since the Dan Reeves era SuperBowl.

I'm serious. Professional sports have nothing on their lowly un-professional counterparts. In T-Ball a kid could throw up or cry at any moment. Parents might fight. A parent might cry (that's the best). The fat kid might hit one and you might get to see the fat kid run. It's all very exciting stuff.

Jai Alai kills people regularly, Olympic fencing is hand-to-hand combat, and even JV Football has its finer moments; you've strapped a heat-trapping vision-impairing plastic device to an already addled pre-teen's head and sent him out into the Georgia heat to repeatedly bash himself against his friends while his Dad stands by screaming encouragement.

That has "potential for hilarity" written all over it.

No matter how brave a face I drink on before marching myself down to a SuperBowl party: I just can't wrap my head around professional sports. How many different-shaped balls do you need to move around how many different types of fields before somebody finally stands up and says "AAAUGHH!!! Fine! FINE!!!! HAVE YOUR STUPID BALL GAME!! BUT DO IT RIDING ON AN ELEPHANT!!"

That's what I want to see. If you got 10 elephents out on a slightly larger basketball court and said "Gentlemen start your elephants!!"; I'd watch that all day long. You're talking about a "ball" game that could easily squash you. If I thought there was a fair chance I'd get to see Kobe Bryant killed by an elephant during a rebound attempt: I'd have season tickets - and I don't even hate Kobe Bryant.

I used to love playing with a ball, but I just don't love it anymore - why? Because I'm not 4yrs old. I also no longer play with baby rattles or use a teething ring. Playing with a ball is for children. As an adult I want to see something reminiscent of life-and-death struggle happening before me; or if not that: at least something non-repetitive. More importantly - I don't want to watch, I want to DO.

Perhaps in my case the problem is more deeply-rooted. My toys as a 4yr old were (literally) a Barlow pocketknife my Dad ground the edge and point off of; a Red Ryder BB gun, an assortment of cap pistols, a black rubber military training bayonet from that unfortunate Vietnam Conflict, and a red bownarrer with a quiver that you slung over your back like a tabby-cat-stalking Robin Hood. What in the world did I need ballgames for? I was the single most well-armed person in Decatur.

Nurture could be the culprit; I guess we'll never know.

I feel a bit guilty for harping on baseball. I don't hate it, really, and I geniuinely don't want to bash baseball in excess of anything else, but baseball players are just too "good." The only thing that changes is the score - there are only so many places to hit the ball and so many ways to throw it. I just need more action and variety than that; with hopefully a little bloodsport mixed in. Blindfold the pitcher, mix pitfalls and non-lethal concussion mines in down the baselines, arm the catcher with pepper spray - just mix it up for me.

I know some of you love your sports - especially Atlanta baseball. That's ok. I don't mind, but I know you better than you think. I have the secret you've all been waiting for that'll put Atlanta back on top for good - and it's not coaching or money.

Bring back John Rocker, hand him a pipe wrench, a bat, two cans of Skoal and a ball glove - and roll film.

I'll pop the popcorn.

www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com

The Deadly Water Horse

2010-09-13T06:30:00.000-07:00

I saw a blurb on the internet recently that said something along the lines of “all cases of polar bear attacks were instances where the bear was undernourished or provoked.” The statement was, of course, in response to an unprovoked polar bear attack.

I love it when animal people say stuff like that. I think what Mr. Animal Guy really meant was the polar bear in question hadn’t had any man-flesh to eat recently, so he was super hungry.

“Provoking” a polar bear by this guy’s standard could mean any of the below:
A. Throwing rocks at a polar bear
B. Poking a polar bear in the eye
C. Making rude faces at a polar bear
D. Snagging a polar bear with a fish hook
E. Insulting a polar bear
F. Backing into a polar bear with your car
G. Sleeping in a tent near a polar bear
H. Walking in the woods
I. Making fun of a polar bear
J. Looking “meaty”
K. Giving a polar bear a manicure
L. Tasting good
M. Screaming at a polar bear
In his world if you're breathing out-of-doors and it's cold out - you're probably provoking a polar bear. Step lively.

The writer didn’t want you to know the polar bear ate that guy, not because he was furious at the Inuit people for 2,000 years of oppression, or accidentally mistook him for a seal; but because he was hungry and the Inuit look, to a polar bear, suspiciously like a warm hearty snack.

"The Mis-identified Meal" is another of my favorite Mr. Animal Guy TV statements. When confronted with the teary, traumatized, walking-wounded leftovers from "2,000lb Great White Eats Almost All of Surfer"; Mr. Animal Guy basically looks at the crippled human remains before him and says "No big deal, the Shark thought you were a seal."

I've literally never heard a shark-attack interview in which Mr. Animal Guy said anything other than "Boy does your ass look like a seal!". Nevermind that a seal looks nothing like a surfboard, and you're surfing nowhere near a huntable seal population.

Now, if our maimed surfer were happily surfing in amongst a group of 4,000 bloody, frantic, seals - I can see a shark getting over-excited and accidentally slashing the surfer's tires to to speak. Great Whites are bullies, you have to know that going into it, but just out surfin' and WHAMMO! There goes my favorite leg? That's not a case of mistaken identity - thats an appetizer. That shark just ate your leg and he did it on purpose.

As a lifelong Member of The HuntFish Adventure Club (standing in direct opposition to the little-known and generally unrecognized HuntFish Widow’s Whine Club) it makes me really hoot when animal people get incensed about hunting animals. Animals hunt each other, and occasionally – us.

Pretty much everything out there kills us. In terms of nature – we’re embarassing. I saw a program the other night on the Hippo - apparently one of the deadliest African animals for humans to contend with. Seriously, the Hippo - God's fattest animal - is a huge problem for us. According to Mr. Animal Guy: Hippos generally kill people because the (very dead) people in question “got between the Hippo and water.”

I could see Mr. Animal Guy’s interviewer gently nodding in assent thinking “Of course. Well, if you get between a Hippo and water – there really isn’t much choice but for the Hippo to go ahead and chomp you.”

Seriously?

How about the Hippo just go on around you? Or hang back a bit and wait his turn for water? It hardly seems like the punishment fits the crime here, but we’re all going “Ooops better not get between the Hippo and water – or ELSE!”

That’s roughly equivalent to your Dad cutting your head off for slamming the screen door.

I’m personally humiliated that we, as a race, are subject to routine slaughter by an animal the ancient Greeks named “Hippopotamus” or “Water Horse.” Its just plain insulting. You don't ever read naturalist reports of giant Hippo-on-Zebra slaughters - it's always people. We're that stupid.

That in mind - I can’t see a moral issue with hunting animals if other animals hunt each other (and us). Maybe there is. I don’t know, but I delegate you to approach the free-ranging Yellowstone wolf pack of your choice at dinner time and inform them that they’re switching to beets.

I especially love it when an anti-hunter accosts me over the moral implications to animal killing - while wearing leather shoes. That’s my favorite. It’s like a tree-hugger using toilet tissue. I hate to say it: Charmin may be wonderfully comfortable and delightfully quilted, but it’s still made of TREES; and that cow didn't just hand over a strip of hide to protect your feet for free.

I am impressed with carnivores though, seriously. And the polar bear? What an animal! It’s the same color as its background (which is amazing), it has a shark’s toothy grin and the natural equivalent to arms ending in chainsaws. Do you know what I could get done around here if my skin matched the wallpaper? I'd sign up for that in a skinny minute.

To top it off; the polar bear was born with a razor-sharp sweet-tooth for delicious baby seals – perhaps the cutest animal ever to flop a flipper.

Don't you just love nature?

www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com

Extra Mustard

2010-09-09T12:30:00.000-07:00

I read a book once that told the tale of a man who was injured in a far away land. He crawled through the wilderness on his hands and knees for something like 200 miles before he reached a populated harbor and aid. When he was finally rescued, he was so famished that he suffered from delirium and various mental ailments.

Once hospitalized, his health returned and he came back unto himself. After a time he was pronounced healthy by the local physician and began making plans to travel – taking berth on a ship sailing for home.

He boarded the ship and pitched in with the sailors as a normal man would, but over time they began to notice a difference in him; he became withdrawn. Especially at mealtimes they noticed he carefully nibbled at his food, barely eating anything at all and greedily eyeing the other sailors’ meals. He finally took to his bed; suffering from severe delirium and raving bouts of lunacy.

The ship eventually reached land and, once in sight, the man recovered from his insanity. The sailors, who couldn’t have been more relieved to get rid of him – sent him ahead in a dinghy for shore and offered to pack up his belongings and send them in behind.

When they entered his room to gather up his things they were astonished to find that every nook and cranny of this room including his mattress, cracks in his bunk, and all of his baggage had been stuffed completely full of hardtack – the ship’s biscuits.

He had slowly pilfered the ship’s kitchen and garbage, and had even rationed his own meals to prepare against the coming starvation his fevered mind imagined.

So, with that in mind; today when I opened my cabinet at work and found this:

I had to briefly question my sanity. Note that its sauce packages hidden underneath a stack of paper AND a facedown picture.

Why do I hoard rip-off-top-type fast food sauces? I don’t hoard the food itself, and I don’t hoard packets like ketchup (ok, sometimes Horsey Sauce) - generally just the little box things like honey mustard and barbecue sauce.

I’d cross I-75 on a tricycle for an extra Chic-Fil-A Honey Mustard to stash away. I found a packet of Chick-Fil-A Honey Mustard sauce hidden in a box of 12ga shotgun shells (I hoard those too) in my truck last year. I even stooped so low as to come up with a clever ruse to get more than I really need from the drive-through Scrooge; just to make sure I don’t “run out.”

Like “running out” would be a major tragedy.

And why not ketchups? Talk about useful! White people absolutely drown themselves in ketchup. If you can think of a common food in the South – some white person somewhere is skeeting ketchup all over it right this second.

I guess I hoard the little sauce boxes because of the tiny Tupperware – it looks more valuable. Ketchup is just that little foil packet – not much value there, but somebody went to some trouble to squeeze that Polynesian Sauce stuff in that tiny box, then seal the little box with a sticky lid. Of course, nobody ever seems to think about how much glue got down in the sauce in the process.

I know I wonder about it.

And what kind of glue is it? If it’s like Elmer’s – no problem. We’re good there. I know for a fact eating Elmer’s glue won’t kill me - I practically sustained life with it until newborn Margaret was 2 and Mom started fixing lunch again.

I’m going to get better about hoarding one of these days though. I promise. In the meantime if you need a little dime bag of Honey Mustard to get you through (McDonalds, Wendy’s, Chick-Fil-A, or even Publix brand) you know where to find me.

One Stupid Thing I've Done Lately

2010-09-09T06:30:00.000-07:00

I'm going to try to post a blog periodically entitled "One Stupid Thing I've Done Lately" and give you a solid glimps at how dangerous it is to be me, and how incredible it is that I'm alive.

Here's your first glimpse at the mindset behind One Stupid Thing I've Done Lately:

2:41AM: Boy it sucks trying to strip all the line off this fishing reel by hand. Plus, its 3AM and I want to go watch Eastbound and Down.

2:43AM: I wonder if I can just light this stuff on fire, then put it out real' quick before it burns the reel?

2:43:15AM: I better not do that.

2:44AM: If only I had a device that spins real' fast that I could tie the tag end of this line to, and just open the bail and strip all the line off! That would be the ticket.

2:44AM: (eyes scan room. see table saw): HEY! A TABLESAW! THATS A SPINNY THING!!

2:44:15AM: No I better not do that. I'm scared of the tablesaw already. The last thing I want to do is somehow tie something long and pointy to it and start it. Although, now that I've formulated that idea - I'm intrigued.

2:45AM: (still peeling line off reel). Boy does this SUCK. I wonder if Fred is up getting his gear together too?

2:46AM: (speaker phone dialing). Answering machine from Fred. Fred is asleep. No one in the world is up playing with fishing rods, except for me.

2:47AM: I wonder if Tyler is up. No, I already know she's been in bed since 7:59PM.

2:49AM: (eyes scan room. see power drill). I HAVE IT!!! I'll tie the tag end of this old fishing line to a wooden dowel and chuck it in my power drill, then put it on "high!"!!!

2:50AM: (drill spinning, line peeling off reel). I am a genius.

2:51AM: This is still taking a long time. I wonder if I can help it by snatching on the line a bit.

2:51:15AM: Help.

So, I managed to get my hand caught in the drill-end of the fishing line and before you could say skiddley-doo - I've got 10lb monofilament burying itself in my wrist skin until the drill stalls.

Boy did that hurt.

Then I had to to cut it out of my wrist skin with a rusty razor blade I found on my workbench - which also hurt. So, to recap: it hurt, then to fix it - it hurt more.

Then I went to bed.

FootLoose

2010-09-08T06:45:00.000-07:00

I’ve noticed a fairly disturbing trend in the workplace lately: Shoe Removal. I constantly see women at work sitting at their desks entirely barefoot, playing with their toes.

Barefoot in the workplace – are you kidding me? And I have to keep my pants on ALL DAY!? It’s completely unfair.

No matter how you slice it - toes are appendages; and everybody knows - you're not supposed to expose otherwise-covered appendages to your co-workers. Plus, it's unsanitary. Can you imagine the sort of deadly, mutated, recombinant athlete's foot disease that could develop if we all went barefoot at work? It would probably kick off a modern-day Bubonic Plague.

Ostensibly it’s fine for women to take their shoes off because, generally, their shoes are miserably uncomfortable. At least – that’s the theory.

Well, you know what? My shoes aren’t really that comfortable either. Sorry ladies, but you don’t have the market cornered in uncomfortable footwear. Leather hard-bottomed loafers aren’t exactly the cat’s meow when it comes to bathing your feet in luxury, but can I snake my feet out of my socks and sit here, barefoot, at my desk rooting around in my toe crevices with a paperclip?

Not without eventually getting fired.

It’s yet another area in which women have the upper-hand in life. They’re smarter. They do better in school. Contrary to to popular belief they actually get paid better (http://www.forbes.com/2006/05/12/women-wage-gap-cx_wf_0512earningmore.html). They keep jobs longer and respond better to authority in the workplace. They even have higher pain tolerances and to add insult to injury: they live longer!

They actually LIVE LONGER!! Even nature hates men! Look at the facts! Being a man is no easy shakes. It’s tough to be stupid, broke, on the cusp of unemployment and always about to die, but you know what we have going for us?

Impregnation.

They want kids and as far as I can tell - we don’t. Sure, we may go along with it; but I've never seen a man turn to his buddy at the campfire and say "you know Andy, I have this deep, powerful ache inside me for a new little baby and I just can't shake it."

Impregnation is nature’s ultimate bargaining chip.

I’m making my list of to-do’s now, and when they’re all wrapped up we’ll talk kids. But only boys!

The last thing I need is one more person outliving me.

www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com

Paddle Faster, We're Out of Moonshine

2010-09-07T22:30:00.000-07:00

“Hey man, we’ve got a little bit of a problem” Charlton M. Bouchemeyer said from the knee-deep water of the slowly-turning eddy current.

He had an entire deadfall oak snag draped over his shoulders and a paddle in one hand, so I was terribly intrigued.

“What kind of a problem” I said, eyeballing the massive limb. “The kind of a problem where I have to duct-tape a 12-stich-needing gash in your chin back together again? That kind of a problem?”

“No, idiot – and that wasn’t my fault, you know that” he said, shrugging the massive, rotten limb off onto the sandbar I stood upon and reaching into his back pocket for a silver flask.

"There's some more firewood" he said as the rotten log began to crumble from its impact with the ground.

“I got ants all over me” he continued taking a long pull of his signature beverage, “Apple Pie Moonshine” and shivering slightly.

“So what. Everybody’s got ants all over them. What’s the big deal? You’re not seriously allergic to ant bites or something are you? Wimp."

CB squirmed uncomfortably, and said “Jimmy, I’ve got 40 fire ants between my knees and navel right now and I think I feel more in my hair. I’m A L L E R G I C and I don’t have any Benadryl or an epi-pen.”

“CB, if you have a serious insect allergy and you came on a South Georgia river trip with no epi-pen, then I’m face to face with natural selection and its taking sides against you.”

“CB– I got Benadryl!” George piped up from the fireside where he had been preparing hotdogs for dinner (extra sand, light pine bark, hold the bun), “Well. Not Benadryl exactly. Will Tylenol PM work?”

CB, relieved, accepted the proffered pills from George and said “You reckon it’d hurt me to take ‘em with moonshine?” “Nah!” everyone said; except Fred who said “mmppppmmmm!” with an emphatic shimmy, indicating his assent from a position face-down in the sand.

The two Tylenol PM seemed to calm CB down, or at least he didn’t say much more about it, so I figured all was well.

General revelry continued.

We polished off the remaining fruit roll-ups and beef jerky, then James produced a box of Triscuits and Bud dug a summer sausage out of his kit and we started in on appetizers.

Someone set Fred’s radio on fire and someone else got cheeky and burned up the 2lb bag of M&M’s, loudly proclaiming that “Candy Is For Girls.”

Hank pulled himself out of the fruit jar and offered to fight anyone interested, but had no takers.

James, the only one to erect a tent, began snoring from inside it. Judson pulled all his tent poles so it collapsed over him like a giant sack. He did not stir.

George and I had another hot dog.

A short while later I caught a glimpse of Charlton M. Bouchemeyer, East Tennessee River Rat, silhouetted against the fire; lower lip and eyelids bulging and swollen, face growing puffy and red.

“CB. You’re getting all swollen up!” I said drawing the attention of 8 sets of bloodshot eyes to his rapidly-deforming features. “Are you ok?”

“Nah. Not really.” He said.

“I really itch. Bad. Especially my eyelids and face and body and head. I think it’s about to get serious, but I think I’ll probably be ok because I got more moonshine and I just took those Bendadryl.”

“It’ll buff out” mumbled Judson.

When we awoke in the morning we were all relieved to find that CB wasn’t dead, and could only surmise that his fire ant allergy is not actually that serious.

We continued downriver the next day, having gone through nearly all our supplies and soaked all of our dry clothing; ultimately taking the canoes out another 12 miles downriver. We retired to the deer camp and proceeded to recover from our overnight float trip; then followed it up with a traditional southern dove hunt the next day. It was James Galloway, future brother-in-law,’s first shotgun experience.

Afterwards, having done quite well on the field of battle, James approached me and said “you know Jimmy, most people would look at me and see my appearance, physique, eyeglasses, bearing, and demeanor and, they wouldn't realize it; but I am quite the athlete. I may be a bit of an inside dog, but I have great hand-eye co-ordination."

"See!?”

He stood, borrowed 12-gauge shotgun in hand, gleam in his eye, and proudly held aloft two small gray birds."

“I did it!” he crowed, triumphantly.

All things considered: it was a good way to go out.

Adios single life, you’ve been good to me.

www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com

Beauty Is In The Eye of The BeerHolder

2010-09-03T06:44:00.000-07:00

Tyler and I have been postulating about our future children(s)’ appearances and we decided they’re probably going to look like glorious cherubs, then coast through life floating on a fine mist of adoration and love from everyone they meet.

I’m nearly certain of it.

That, or they’ll have my profusion of pelt-like body hair, Tyler’s webbed toes, a cloud will pass in front of the sun and the nurses will run out weeping when they’re born. Right now I'd say it's a 50/50.

What I want to know is: if you have ugly kids (you're not fooling me - I know some of your kids and they’re pretty rough and gangly) – do you know it? I know your kids are ugly, but do you? I'm not so sure you do because people keep telling me: "All babies are precious and beautiful" and it's got to be one of the most fabulous lies I've ever heard.

In case you're wondering - your baby? It looks wrinkly and weird and I do not want to hold it. I've seen cuter Anacondas.

Are parents incapacitated by their parental nature?

Lets face it - to get ugly people you have to have ugly kids. It has to be done. Somebody has to take one for the gene-pool-team, so to speak, or everybody would be Cindy Crawford. We can't have that, can we? If everyone were Cindy Crawford we'd never get to experience the miracle of two horrendously-eccentric-looking people producing a future supermodel - and that's one of my favorite things.

Is there anybody with unfortunate-looking progeny out there? Do any of you look at your kids every now and then and just cringe? You must, or headgear would never have been invented. Think about it: you paid to have a metal bar strapped to your kids face; sometimes in public, and for YEARS! And to top it off - it hurts!!

If that's "love" I want a daily thrashing.

Lets hear it - I want to know before I have kids: Is there magic that makes me not know what my kids look like? I want that magic and I want it fast because I’m not getting progressively deeper as I age - that's been confirmed.

I had a (very beautiful) friend in college who used to say she didn’t want to have kids since she'd be unable to tell what they'd look like beforehand. She was afraid she couldn’t love a fat kid.

That’s a quote and yes, I'm fairly certain she'll go to hell when she dies.

She has kids now, interestingly enough - and they are not fat, but they are so damn ugly it makes my teeth hurt. Fortunately for them: she seems to love them just fine, or if not "love" - at least she hasn't sent them downriver in a bullrush basket. Not yet anyway. So, it must be love. Either that, or she’s faking it - and it's tough to fake love. I should know; I had a girlfriend who did it for years.

Ignored Warning Sign: she always smells like her ex-boyfriend.

So what’s the deal? Do you really think your chubby, pimply, little sausage-fingered Oreo-stuffers are beautiful, REALLY? Or are you secretly horrified by the fruit of your loins?

Any comments posted by my Dad will be immediately deleted, so don’t even think about it.

Merging

2010-09-01T21:00:00.000-07:00

As part of our pre-marital merger activities we've been figuring out where we have duplicative expenses and whatnot. It's actually pretty complicated because apparently certain parties have an unusual emotional attachment to their particular banking relationship. Other items of interest are things like memberships and associations.

Me: Do you have AAA for your car? If not I can add you to my account.
Tyler: No, I've always had D AAA D, so I've never needed it.

Stalking The Halls

2010-09-01T12:30:00.000-07:00

As I'm sure you've noticed I have a number of work-related issues. Most seem to be centered around the dehumanizing public bathroom experience (I see stalls. What is this, a dairy?); but there is more. Quite alot more, actually.

The biggest seed in my watermelon lately is this: The Hallway Encounter. It's messed up.

First of all: just because cars in America travel on the right-hand side of the road; it doesn't mean you are limited to the right side of every space you occupy. Pick a hallway-side and walk down it. Left. Right. I don't care, but if one more lump of human jello plays Hallway-Chicken with me over right-of-way - I'm going to end up on the news. SO WHAT?!?!? I SOMETIMES LIKE TO WALK ON THE LEFT. COPE WITH IT.

Anyway, I PREFER to walk down the left side because everytime somebody has to scurry out of my way - it asserts my dominance. Thats right! You BETTER move! In my mind I'm always in Africa, I'm always a lion, and I'm always hungry.

In my mind I'm surrounded by this:

Unfortunately, reality looks more like this:

This is what I'm reduced to.

Good friend Hank Farmer may have said it best last weekend when he ordered two beverages (called a "BearFight"), handed one to me, then promptly turned around and chugged his. I was still standing there holding a drink when he turned back around, eyes watering, and said "What are you doing?"

Me: Sorry. I didn't realize this was a race.
Hank: Jimmy, we're men. Everything is a race.

If you're a man and you can't identify a situation in life right now wherein you're locked in combat - it's probably because you already lost.

Secondly, even jellyfish at least flap their tentacles at each other when they come into hallway-close contact. Can't you figure out a comfortable way to acknowledge that someone else is breathing your air without blabbing incoherently or running off?

Personally, I go with strong eye contact and the tight-lipped smile. It's not a grimace. It's not quite a snarl. It's the hallway man-encounter-equivalent of this:

Its mostly inscrutable, but it does convey something. It says "I know you're over there and I'm watching you carefully."

For all you runner-offers this may help. Here's what I've observed from my 10 years of corporate hallway experience:

There is no escape.

Here's Your Hammer

2010-08-31T19:00:00.000-07:00

Me: What should I get my groomsmen? I can't think of anything. I have a zillion great ideas, but they're all about $2,000.

Tyler: I dunno. I thought you had a few good ideas in that list you sent me.

Me: I couldn't really decide on any of those so I threw them all out. Got any ideas?

Tyler: How about a hammer?

Me: A Hammer.

Tyler: Right. A Hammer. You know. Bang bang. Hammer.

Me: Right. I got it. I just don't know what to say.

Tyler: What? Its useful! Your stupid ideas weren't any better! Everybody needs a hammer! Get it engraved!

Me: So your idea for a groomsman gift is an engraved hammer.

Tyler: Thats right, Bucko.

Sucking In

2010-08-31T12:30:00.000-07:00

My family apparently stays current with my little writing efforts because last weekend I was terribly pleased to receive a real, live, Stihl 250 chainsaw as an engagement gift.

Looks like I may be able to make this "marriage" thing work for me after all!

I've been lobbying hard for tools and various armament as a "wedding gift" from my beautiful bride for months. I haven't seen a new firearm poking out from beneath the engagement tree yet, but it ain't over.

Also, thanks so much to my cousin Sarah for pointing out mid-present-opening-ceremony on Saturday that my middle shirt button had come unbuttoned, then suggesting, loudly, that I should "suck in."

Sarah: I know you planned it so your husband Marlin couldn't come to my bachelor party, but I've changed my bachelor party plans and I'm coming to your incredibly fun, almost-too-tempting-to-turn-down, baby christening this weekend after all.....

Naked.

www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com

Keep Your Hands to Yourself

2010-08-31T08:00:00.000-07:00

During a recent tour of a nearby eatery I noticed no less than four (4) loudly-posted handwashing signs proudly displayed throughout the establishment. And you know what? I’m glad.

I’m happy for you guys to wash your hands after the bathroom, before the kitchen, between customers – whenever. The more handwashing you do – the happier I get, but you know what I noticed? Everybody is all sorts of fired up about service industry handwashing post-lavatory. What concerns me is: I thought that was a given. Of COURSE you wash your hands after leaving a restroom and before you go back to a public-service kitchen.

Of COURSE you do that.

All these signs everywhere makes me think that for some people – maybe not. Maybe they’re not sure. Maybe they get confused – “Is this where I go to WASH my hands, or is this where I go to touch every damp, nasty thing in sight; then go make somebody a sandwich?”

We should take pairs of these folks, superglue their unwashed hands to each other’s faces and let them fend for themselves in bear country until it wears off.

The other thing I think about every time I see these signs is: OF COURSE you should wash your hands after a questionable activity of any kind; but I’m not that worried about that for me, personally.

Like my paternal Grandfather - I’m naturally antiseptic.

What confuses me a bit is - what are people most concerned about - somehow infecting other people with their filthy bodies? Or do you wash your hands to protect yourself from other people? Are you worried that you'll somehow spread your own germs around on your own body? Really?

What exactly are you doing in there anyway?

If you're afraid of what's living in your own pants you really do have a problem, but if you're concerned about keeping your nether regions pristine - I'd think you'd want to wash your hands BEFORE you enter the water closet, then just scurry out on your elbows.

I'm genuinely unconcerned about sullying my hands from a mid-day brush against an otherwise zippered region of my own body. That is a man’s cleanest, most treasured, best-cared-for region and chances are good he’s kept an extremely close watch on that area's daily whereabouts.

I don't know about you, but I'm going to wash up first, then walk in dangling my hands in the air like a surgeon. It ain’t my hands I’m concerned about.

As far as general handwashing goes: of all the fabulous activities in the world that could endanger a man’s paler portions; I’m going to be furious if its a simple handshake that sends me, itching, to the doctor with some kind of fungus.

So, wash up folks; but let's not shake hands anyway - just to be sure.

www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com

Get Down Party Wagon

2010-08-30T07:23:00.000-07:00

During the after-party of yet another Summer wedding; I happened upon the youngest sister of the bride very studiously attempting to paint some appropriate language on the windows of the getaway car.

She, bless her virtuous, kind, sweet-spirited, 18-yr-old heart had chosen lovely "Just Married" type themes for most of the decorations. It did me some good to know that godly innocence is still afoot in this wicked world. Maybe that is why she seemed completely dumbfounded when I suggested "PENIS!!!" in large block print as a good bride-side-window alternative to the somewhat unimaginative "JUST MARRIED".

She also refused to hand over the paint, then refused to discuss the possibility of anything even the slightest bit dirty including such classic phrases as "Nekkid Dance Party", "Get Down Party Wagon" and "Honk If You Love Married Sex".

What is wrong with kids these days?

If you're going to send a wholesome, Christian, couple off into wedded union; I'm pretty sure the rule is you MUST include as many sexual or otherwise off-color references in very readable script as will fit on the automotive canvas.

Am I wrong about that?

I hope not because if so; I have recently suffered the wholly-inappropriate indignity of driving an airport getaway car (alone) from Florida to Atlanta that had been completely covered with large graphic representations of the male member (http://jimmyewing.blogspot.com/2008/05/artistic-expression.html).

Lets face it - if you're a conservative-type living in the South, you're watching the married couple drive off and thinking "They're not fooling anyone - I know what they're up to!", but it's such a relief to see it spelled out properly in white shoe polish. That way you dont have to wonder, guiltily, if you're the only one who knows the awful truth.

So please - take a break from polishing your Buster Browns and decorate away! It's ok! It's the one time in your life you'll get to embarass your grandmother without getting in too much trouble.

Just don't do it to my car.

A RingBearer Is Down

2010-08-25T12:35:00.000-07:00

If you plan to utilize the services of a bagpiper in your wedding – I think you owe it to the crowd to prompt with a bit of warning; maybe even provide earplugs for the elderly or otherwise un-Scottish.

A sudden bagpiping can be extremely dangerous.

Don't get me wrong - I am definitely in favor of any instrument historically made from animal guts, but let's face it: nobody is really Scottish anymore, are they? Is Scotland still around? I feel like I don't hear much from over there.

Ireland - sure, they're still around and they're still hopping mad about something to do with religion, but not Scotland. When I think of Scotland I think of a 1973 Volkswagon Beetle with one of those weird European license plates on it and a bumper sticker that says "It's always tea time in Scotland!" There's a big hairy bagpiper behind the wheel and all he's pissed at is Ireland for not taking it easy.

A Bagpiper is like a cannon - if you're standing near one you definitely want to know when it's going to go off. I know when an ambitious bagpiper began soundly abusing his instrument 4 yards behind me at a wedding this Saturday – I was completely unprepared.

His first sonorous blast caught me full in the chest – knocking the program clean out of my hands and popping a brass button off my blazer ("I told you that button was loose" said an arched eyebrow, smugly, from my left). The Great British caterwauling that followed and my subsequent twitching sent Tyler’s left elbow firmly into my ribs – a move I've been told is intended to "comfort" and "soothe" me. “QUIT SQUIRMING” she hissed. “I CAN’T TAKE YOU ANYWHERE.”

“Oooomph” I exhaled in assent.

Our hushed discourse completed, the now red-faced gentleman lately stomping around the back of the church left off punishing his bag - just in time to save my last remaining brass button, but not quickly enough to salvage my ribs.

I will grant you this though: a bagpipe may indeed produce a lovely, haunting sound. Dad said if you hear it played over a Scottish moor at sundown – it will make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

I definitely believe him about the hairs on your neck because this guy Saturday made the hairs on my chest fairly bristle in fear every time he roared.

Aggressive bagpiping aside, the wedding, mother of the bride, and bride herself were all quite lovely and everything seemed to be in order. Then, about 8 minutes into the ceremony - after
- massive bagpipery
- the tolling of the hour
- the entrance of the wedding party
- the entrance of the bride
- two hymns
- several piano solos
- a violin solo
and
- a word from the father-of-the bride

but before
- the unity candles
- the 4 individual readings
- the bride and groom duet (yup, you heard me)
- the homily
- the exchanging of rings
and
- the processional
(they are quite firmly married from every angle – no doubt about it); the second of the ring-bearers - a dapper young man of about 7 - leaned calmly over mid-stage and quietly puked his ass off right square at the foot of the unity candles.

This was no stifled gag either - it was serious and deep. I saw a tennis shoe come flying out of this kid.

Nobody moved.

Then, everyone (bride, groom, wedding party, preacher, attendants, witnesses, Esau, Isaac and Jacob), just one time - in unison - violently squirmed.

Then: crickets.

For a brief second I thought it hadn’t happened. I remained in a state of disbelief and self-doubt until one of the more alert groomsmen lifted the offending puker bodily off the stage and deposited him behind the organ to heave and lurch in peace. I looked around and the entire crowd was staring straight ahead at the preacher as if nothing was at all amiss.

Except for the sniffles emanating from underneath the organ - you might not have known anything had happened at all.

My squirming and general gawking-about immediately precipitated the rapid return of The Elbow of Silence, but not before I was able to confirm with Will Gaither, Brother-in-Law, that the kid had indeed made a deposit onstage. Ladies and gentlemen – it happened, I saw it, and it has been confirmed.

Naturally, the tiny over-eater had aimed his outburst with the calm, unerring, vomitous precision of a public school cafeteria frequenter; giving the bride the option of:
1. Omitting the Unity Candle step and damning her union for all eternity.
OR:
2. Dragging her train through the chunky puddle.

I consider myself a practiced evaluator of a female set jaw and I could see by the Bride's that no power on earth would keep her from the lighting of that Unity Candle.

By God, she did it; but it wasn’t pretty.

My congratulations to the Groom: she might not walk through fire for you buddy, but we know one thing that won't stop her.

www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com

The Mother Of Invention

2010-08-20T12:30:00.000-07:00

I’m sure by now most of you know I am an amateur inventor. I’m not claiming to be Edison, but – I dabble.

For example: two days ago on my way into our Chicago office I invented the Roll-a-Clean - it’s a revolving door that dry cleans your clothes on your way in the lobby. I loathe revolving doors, but I love getting my clothes back from the dry cleaner; so I feel like The Roll-A-Clean is a great way to start your day.

I’m also working on the IndigiScrubby. It’s like a big street sweeper, but it roams the streets at night in the summer, gently lifting indigents and winos into a slowly-revolving drum of soapy water. I haven't figured out how to dry them yet, so it's more of a "seasonal" service. Don't be the only city left with unwashed bridge people.

I also invented "Flush Magazine" the magazine for toilet accessories and "Foot Flush" - an aftermarket chrome foot pedal flushing device for your commode.
"Lost Your Hands? Its OK!! Foot Flush Saves The Day!"

I have a few other things in the works too - like:
- Chefrolet - a small portable oven that uses heat from your engine block to bake while you drive.
- ScroogeDriver - a customizable electronic GPS device that kills the power to your wife's car if she gets within a certain distance of "problem stores".
- Mr. BelvedEAR - a spinning ear cleaner attachment for your electric toothbrush.
- Poopalicious - a tasty aerosol solution that dogs can't resist. You spray it on dog poop and the next dog to come along simply can't resist the now-tasty poopsicle. No more pooper scoopers! No more jogging around with warm little baggies of waste! Put the neighbor's dog to work for you!

Long Division

2010-08-19T19:13:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I spent ten minutes standing just inside the open doorway of an MD90 at O'Hare waiting on the 300lb structural marvel ahead of me to shoehorn her lumpy butt into a seat entirely too small for it.

Due to the immense quantity of lumbering flesh in my path, I found myself parked against my will right outside the bathroom. It soon became abundantly clear that someone was inside the airplane bathroom doing their best to destroy the atmosphere. We are not airborne. We are parked at the gate. The A/C is not running.

I don't understand why anyone would sit in an airport right outside a large, land-based bathroom for 2 hours and "hold it" until you get on the plane. I can certainly see "holding it" until you get off the plane, but the other way around just doesn't make sense. Perhaps one might do that if one had some kind of weird fetish, but I truly don't know what kind of fetish category that falls under. It certainly doesn't sound like the kind of wicked fun most fetishists seem to crave, but it must have seemed reasonable to the idiot in 2A.

I genuinely hope life punishes him for it long-term.

I'm standing there in the apex of a swirling smell storm with a 1" thick accordion-style folding door between me and an overpowering odor that I can only describe as "hot", and I'm landlocked by the morbidly obese. The whole front of the plane smelled like somebody snuck a dead zebra on in their luggage.

This is my day.

Naturally, I'm desperately casting about for something to take my mind off the aluminum-skinned box of hell Delta has put me in, so I look over my left shoulder into the cockpit and I see the captain sitting at the controls. He has a pad of paper clipped to the yoke in front of him and and he's staring at it hard, brow furrowed in intense concentration, pencil in hand. Upon that piece of paper he, the captain of an airplane full of unsuspecting people, has written this:

And you know what? That's fine. I'm sure there are millions of people out there who struggle with math, but it really, really, really worries me to find that a person in charge of something with this many parts:

can't perform long division.

Leadership

2010-08-17T13:34:00.001-07:00

I believe as husband and leader of a fledgling family unit, I deserve at least a modicum of respect. That is why I hardly think it is appropriate to be addressed as "Troll" by my future bride.

Tyler: Have you finalized the rehearsal dinner?
Me: I don't know.
Tyler: Can you please pick some readings for the wedding?
Me: No.
Tyler: Do you want to see my to-do list?
Me: I wanted to ELOPE.
Tyler: Either step it up, or get back in your cave, TROLL.

The Deer Camp

2010-08-17T10:15:00.000-07:00

For those (12) of you who have regularly read my blog in the past for one reason or other - I'm sure you've noticed that The Deer Camp has factored prominently in my life since childhood. Ah, The DeerCamp.

I don't doubt that some of you may be confused by it.

What is it exactly?

Well, it's a Deer Camp - a camp for hunting deer. You know I do love aptly-named things.

Where is it?

It's just outside a tiny town south of Atlanta called "Smarr" - about 75 miles from my back door. If you've ever been through Macon on I-75 headed South from Atlanta - you've driven right past it.

Built in roughly 1990 by Uncle Buster and the Maddux family to accomodate kith, kin, and a fortunate few crossover not-quite-blood family; it is the site of the large majority of my deer hunting experience, the final resting place of my very best and third-best bucks ever, the site of my biggest hunting screwup ever (I got overexcited as I tend to do and I attempted to shoot buckzilla at 4 yards with "Jude The Obscure" in paperback), and it's the single property in the world most covered with things initialed by my pocketknife(seats, trees, bushes, sticks, steps, bullets).

I made my longest shot on a deer there as a nine-year-old in 1989 (200+ yards, walking between two trees 6" apart - shot square through the heart). I had my first extremely unfortunate, yet educational run-in with bourbon whiskey there in 2001. Two years would pass before I could safely whiff brown liquor without turning green.

I put diesel gas in a gasoline-powered ATV there in 1991 (sorry Uncle Buster - that was me), I almost shot a hole in my own ATV late one night chasing coyotes in 1996. I watched Tripp shoot a hole in his trailer while laying down a heavy line of covering fire on a marauding 'possum in the fall of 2007.

I shot a coke can full of cement literally out of sight through our homemade cannon. I got stung by bees and eaten alive by chiggers. I got covered with ticks. I cut myself. I fell into low things. I fell out of high things.

I fell in the lake in early March 1995 going fishing. Bud had to drag me out.

Quite a few young women heard about it, but only a handful ever saw it. It's just not a place for ladies. It's a place for men. It's a place for slightly unwholesome talk and fires and oyster shells and ammunition and Hoppes #9 and long arguments about the best way to do it - whatever "it" is.

I enjoyed some of my best dinners there in its kitchen. I met some of my favorite friends on its front porch.

But, all things must come to an end.

So, with a great deal of fondness in my heart and a lifetime of good memories in my head, I bid "Adieu" to The Deer Camp and the batallion of characters to have crossed it's threshold in the last 20 years. To Jack, Bryan, Ralph, Dad, Seth, Tripp, Thomas, Reid, Dick, Gene, Rayboy, "Hooty-Hoo-Hoo-O'Dillon", Beau, Buster, and John I say: Happy Hunting, it's been an honor and a privilege.

Keep your powder dry,

JGE
Atlanta, Ga
August 16, 2010

Strangers With Candy

2010-08-16T09:59:00.001-07:00

In response to my email indicating that my day consists of: showering, going to work, and going home; my Beyoncee had this to say:

Hhrhrhrr. At least you showered, but I'm surprised you parted with your hard-earned musty smell.

I wish you were sitting with me on the plane right now instead of the man with the world's smallest bladder who has asked to be let out way too many times. I feel like I'm pet-sitting. Somewhere over Texas I decided that if he asked again, I was fully prepared to say "no."

But then he gave me gum.

Clearly, my future wife is highly susceptible to even the simplest forms of bribery; a tool I should have brought to bear in what has come to be known as "The Great August Gift Card Dispute."

Fool me once? Shame on you.
Fool me twice? Shame on me.

Fool me over and over again forever? Marriage.

Mancorations - A Love Story

2010-08-16T06:47:00.001-07:00

Last week we met with our lovely professional decorator, Ann Warsham, (decorator to the Atlanta Stars, specializing in taxidermied animal removal). Friends: The DudeRanch, despite its sturdy brick construction and multitude of mancorations, will soon submit to the unrelenting power of the female aesthetic.

Ann, Tyler, and I met to go over the new plans for the "keeping room" (where many things are "kept" except, apparently, anything of mine), kitchen, and master bedroom, but somehow in the process someone suggested adding a previously non-existent bathroom to the house. I have been told that I mutely nodded my assent.

"Muteness" certainly not being among my greater gifts, I can only assume that Warsham, Evil Queen of Stucco, cast her spell on me. I speculate my suceptibility to flattery may be partly to blame, because when I suggested installing a stainless steel firewood man-drawer next to the fireplace complete with outside-access for loading firewood directly into the kitchen - she complimented my genius. That's all I was looking for.

"Complimented my genius" may be a tad strong. She may have rolled her eyes and said "Really? Well, ok we might can make that work if we have to". My memory here is fuzzy, but I was so relieved to have them both listen to me - I just nodded from then on.

I've finally come to terms with the idea that everything I own and love is soon to disappear into the musty confines of a dimly-lit basement based on silly, nebulous criteria such as "items that might 'scare' or 'harm' young children" and "being ugly." Gone are the days of the naked bowie knife on the mantle, the "My Goodness, My Guinness" beer poster in the kitchen, and the wall-mounted bottle opener. Gone too is the "extra shotgun shell" popcorn tin. Sure, I may find a new container in which to displace extra shotgun shells that have gone through the dryer; but it won't be the same.

After my recent unfortunate run-in with my new domestic despot over Home Depot gift certificates (still haven't seen them), I was terribly pleased to walk into my new in-laws' house yesterday to find my soon-to-be father-in-law griping about "his important stuff" all ending up crammed in the basement between duplicative pieces of furniture.

Times are tough all over, but at least I'm in good company.

The Dream, though dimmed, yet lives.

New Scan Results

2010-08-12T11:57:00.000-07:00

Listen, I know I've tried to lighten things up a bit here recently; and I don't want to upset anybody, but based on Beau's most recent "scans" I think he's got alot more problems than I first suspected:

Obviously; the tapeworms and the gearshifter are the only things preventing Beau from becoming Hideous LobsterBoy. Unfortunately, as you can clearly see from the slide, the tapeworms have gotten drunk off his liver residue and have begun to coil into their classic "S" hibernation shape. Generally, that is what we see in these cases right before the Hideous Lobster Claw takes over.

If the surgeons can't find a way to stop the Hideous Lobster Claw, poison the tapeworms with Natural Lite and get that gearshifter out of him right away - he is in big trouble. Living as half-man, half-lobster is no laughing matter.

Even if he makes it - I'm afraid he's going scream every time he sees boiling water for the rest of his life.

www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com

Humerus! ~ A Comedy In Two Pieces

2010-08-12T07:51:00.000-07:00

I had the pleasure of catching up with Jessica P. Slocumb (the "P" makes me laugh, I don't know why) and got a brief update on grubby cancerbutt himself. The "P" in Jessica "P" makes me laugh, but the "update" was even funnier.

Here's a brief excerpt:

Me: Well, how much of his arm bone did they remove?
Jessica: I think the top part.
Me: Ok, right. But I mean - how much of it?
Jessica: You know. The bone. Like, I mean - 16cm of it.
Me: Yes. But WHICH 16cm?
Jessica: The top part.
Me: Perhaps you can help me. How do I more clearly ask you exactly what part of the bone they removed?
Jessica: The top part. The humerus (giggle).
Me: Eh. I think I've got it. Let me try again. "Did they remove the BALL part?"
Jessica: I think so. I'm not sure. No. Maybe? The top part is what they removed.
Me: So, we're not really sure what sort of arm bones he has left, right?
Jessica: Thats right. They took out some of the humerus (giggle).
Me: Why do you giggle when you say "humerus"?
Jessica: I don't know (giggle). I guess its humerous.
Me: Wow. You are not at all well .
Jessica: I'm a little tired.

I asked Jessica how they're doing and she indicated that Beau is feeling much better. I asked "how can you tell?" and she said "Because earlier Beau looked at his mom in a stupor and hollered "GO GET ME A JAMBA JUICE. I WANT A DAMN JAMBA JUICE!" so I figure he'll be up and around in no time flat. I think he's doing great and feeling much better!"

She said something after that, but I couldn't hear her over Beau in the background hollering "HELP!! Get me out of here!! She's trying to kill me!"

Jessica: (giggle).

That immediately took me back to about 1997, sitting in the den at Grandma's house. Granddad was laid up recouperating from a bout with prostate cancer and Gma was on the phone taking calls from well-wishers. I heard her clearly say "Thank you so much for calling, Wayne. He's feeling much better and he's doing great!"

Granddad rared back in his chair, knocked over his coke and popcorn, and hollered at the top of his lungs "NO I'M NOT. WAYNE!!! DAMMIT!! MARGARET GIVE ME THAT PHONE! CRIMINY!! I'M DYING! I'VE GOT PROSTATE CANCER, HEART DISEASE, DIABETES and GOUT. I HURT ALL OVER AND I'M GOING TO DIE!!"

Granddad lived another 3 years at 100mph before heading to the big pork rind in the sky; and I'm pretty sure as long as he doesn't get in the car with Jessica behind the wheel - Beau just might live forever.

www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com

Little-Known Complications of the Home Birth

2010-08-10T21:00:00.000-07:00

I spoke with one of my granola-snorting friends the other day and was immediately subjected to a salvo of intense baby-birthing commentary. Apparently she's into "home-births." From what I gather - you roll around in one of these things:

kicking, hollering, grunting and snort-breathing until either:

A. The baby blows out of your body into the tepid water you've been wallowing in for 18 hours.
or
B. "Something" goes horribly wrong.

H O L Y C R A P.

I've done some weird things in my house, but that pretty much has me beat. I can honestly say I've never carried on, witnessed, or otherwise performed, an invasive medical procedure in The Duderanch At 6710. I'm not necessarily saying I wouldn't - I'm just saying I've never had occasion to.

Everything worked out alright for the first three kids, but I guess they got a bit lax on the 4th home-birth, because when it came time for cleanup; the placenta was nowhere to be found.

Thats right folks: there is a rogue placenta loose in the State of Georgia. I wouldn't even hazard a guess as to its final resting place, but I really hope they have a maid, she looks like Nell Carter, and she eventually finds it. I'd give my favorite toe to be there when she does.

Naturally, I explored the topic a bit. My friend had nothing to offer by way of explanation, so I blamed the dog (always a safe bet). She said "We don't have a dog, but if we did; I'm sure a dog dragging a placenta across the front yard would alert the neighbors."

Maybe I'm not a good neighbor, but you can bet every dime you've got if I see a dog run out of my neighbor's house dragging a human placenta: that's one neighbor I'm going to stay the hell away from.

No dog scapegoat available, my mind danced nimbly across various other possibilities and lighted on "crazy grandmother wants to make placenta tea." Plausible, I guess. The only problem is: I happen to know the grandmother personally and she's just not that crazy. She also doesn't carry a purse to hide things in; which I think is probably a requirement if you're going to spirit away used placentas on a regular basis.

I was left with only one possible conclusion: there was no placenta to start with. Obviously, that would mean the child numbers among The Undead and may or may not be the Antichrist.

My friend strenuously objected to that possibility and claims to have actually seen said placenta during the birthing process. I suspect what she thought was placenta was actually the red gateway to hell, but I guess it's still a mystery.

So, yeah. Thats all pretty great, but the VERY best part about the whole thing is: I know who it is and which house it happened in - and you don't.

Better keep your shoes on when you go a' visitin'.

Half of Something Is Nothing

2010-08-08T08:35:00.000-07:00

A few comments in the general direction of my Beyoncee.

First of all, the FLW ("Forrest L. Wood") Tournament “Classic” Bass Fishing Championship is NOT necessarily “redneck” – its “Blue Collar.” There is a difference, and if you’re going to attend an FLW Championship Tournament Bass Weigh-in complete with pyrotechnics, Ranger Boat giveaway, Skoal samples, Blackhawk Helicopter flyover (sound enhanced), a special mock-battle-demonstration by the National Guard and an appearance by Forrest L. Wood hisself; you really shouldn’t sigh and squinch down in your seat every time somebody thanks God for "Arkansas" and "Lowrance brand electronic fish finders." Who are we to judge? Maybe Bass Fishing is inextricably tied to the sanctity of the American Family.

Would this guy lie to you?

Personally, I tend to be wary of anyone floating in mid-air under his own power, but whatever. I guess if you own FLW Outdoors you can float around all you like.

Secondly, she should not be allowed to confiscate my Home Depot gift certificates (some people call them “gift cards”, but I call them “certificates”; it sounds like more of an award that way). Well, maybe half could be confiscated in the interest of harmonious pre-nuptual bliss, sure. I'm flexible.

Half.

Boy was I confused. Apparently I didn’t get a few Home Depot gift certificates for engagement presents at all – we got them and 50% of we has decided that “making decisions together” means I probably don’t get any damn Home Depot gift certificates or a 12” dual-bevel sliding radial arm saw with a laser sight and a lifetime warranty covering all electrical components, housing and laser device.

Alright, so I didn't do a few silly little things like "talk ahead of time about money allocation" or "ask nicely" or "please stop crying."

So what?

At this juncture I want to point out that HALF a BMW X-5 looks a whole lot like a used motorcycle from where I sit.

“Half” of something can be a mighty tricky measurement.

Take the guy Tyler sat next to at the FLW Weigh-In on Sunday – HALF of him could easily be a skinny person, OR HALF of him could be 387lbs of gut and no skeletal frame. I was on the other side of Tyler and from the correct angle she looked like a blonde stick figure superimposed on a fat-suit background. I’m telling you - if you don't look sharp this HALF concept can come out of nowhere, snatch your wallet and run right off.

But, as the saying goes "Jedge not Less'n Yew Be Jedged", so I say God bless a man who lets his wife dip snuff and sit a row behind him in a public arena - no matter what half of him looks like.

The American Family lives.

Beau Slocumb, Troublemaker

2010-08-04T08:25:00.000-07:00

My cousin, Beau Slocumb, is scheduled for another surgery to removed yet another spot of cancer – this time from his shoulder. Apparently they "did some scans” and found it.

"Scans." Thats alien technology, right? Like a tractor beam?

I’ve heard alot about these so-called "scans” and you can color me "skeptical." I think Beau is probably a-ok and these stiff white coats are just reading "scans" with their beer goggles on.

It was doctors, after all, who told Mom I was going to be a girl and look how THAT one turned out. Not only am I not female - I've got enough hair on my chest to weave an indian blanket and, because of modern medicine, I spent my highly-formative first 6 months clad entirely in pink. Thanks alot 500 years of documented medical practice! Tell Hippocrates I've got an oath for him.

Personally, I think Beau's shoulder issue is just scar tissue from being completely retarded for so long (http://jimmyewing.blogspot.com/2009/06/he-never-needed-helmet.html), but more importantly: what in the hell do doctors know anyway? All you need to be a doctor is cold hands and fancy science and needles and screens and things, right?

Well, none of that is going to help you with Beau. I maintain you can't tell much about Beau on your fancy ScanTron machine or whatnot - you need to smell of him up close. I diagnosed him as “goaty” years ago and I didn't need any three-million-dollar scanner.

Doctors and their fancy screens. Pffft!

I saw a caged bear riding a bicycle on the TV screen last night - and I don't believe for a damn minute that a bear sharp enough to actually ride a bicycle wouldn't take one look at that bicycle and immediately start snacking on trainers. And one more thing: if I were a bicycle-riding bear you better believe my chubby butt is sleeping on goose down - not cage straw.

The point is: you can't believe everything you see on a screen - I don't care how much it cost. You people probably think we actually flew to the moon too. Oh, sssssuure. Rocks and gray sand. Must be the moon. We just "flew" up there.

RIGHT. I know a movie set when I see one!

I figure since Beau is a young, non-smoking, non-tobacco-using, non-alcoholic, generally healthy person who is probably not sleeping on a pile of enriched uranium - the only remaining risk factor is: Beau. So, Beau, please quit giving yourself cancer. It is stressing me out. Plus, "cancer" is so last year. If you're going to the trouble of giving yourself something anyway - may as well make it interesting. How about "mumps?" Nobody gets that anymore. Mumps I can work with in print. Cancer - not so much.

My recommendation for Beau is: get back to Texas, demand a re-"scan," crawl into that machine and place an open pocketknife under his shirt just over the ribcage. Let 'em scan THAT!

Later, after all the commotion dies down - go home and take your pants off in the den. That's my recipe for recovery:
Step 1: cause trouble.
Step 2: remove pants.

Regardless of who’s to blame on this one (clearly Beau for giving himself cancer) I will point out that, in a very Beau-like fashion, he's maintained an upbeat, cheerful demeanor without anyone threatening to beat him (http://jimmyewing.blogspot.com/2010/08/being-thankful.html).

Maggie overheard the following exchange in the barn the other day and I figured I'd report on it to illustrate:

Beau: John – whats been going on? What have y’all been up to lately?
Uncle John: Not much. Just keeping up with the kids. Working. Just trying to keep my head above water. You?
Beau: Just trying to keep my head above DIRT ... BHWAH AHAHAHA!!!!
Uncle John: That's not funny.

Keep it North of the dirt, Beausie; we're pulling for you.

Being Thankful

2010-08-04T07:59:00.000-07:00

Years ago Mom taught me a very painful lesson about "finding things to be thankful for when you don’t so much feel like being thankful." If memory serves: she taught it to me with the flat side of a hairbrush, then said “Now, 5 minutes ago you should have been thankful you weren’t getting a beating. See what I mean? Get creative.”

I apparently was unable to think of anything – NOT ONE SINGLE THING I was thankful for when a response was demanded of me. Back came the hairbrush and I rapidly began to wax philosophic about the sunshine, white grape juice (still a favorite), shade trees and Jesus.

Now, years later, I still self-medicate with a little manufactured thankful when the need arises. I don’t know why, but it helps. Or maybe I’m just thankful nobody is beating me with a hairbrush -I don’t know, but today I am proud to say that I'm thankful for quite a few things.

Just this morning I was thumbing through some instructional literature on outdoor survival (BASS Magazine) and I noticed a very nice photo of a northern pike on an interior page. He looked mean and furious. Some of that may have been due to the fat, white, thumb life-size Elmer Fudd had stuck through his gills, but what drew my attention more than anything was his snaggle-toothed scowl. He had multiple rows of positively-mean-looking, sharp, conical teeth sticking out every-which-a-way and a whole bunch of them were missing.

So, today I’m thankful that I don’t lose three front teeth every time I try to eat something. Can you imagine? You get up, fix an egg sammich, bite down into it , and come away with one less incisor and a loose canine? EVERY SINGLE DAY!?!?!

The animal world has it tough. That may be why they periodically eat us.

Either way – I’ll just hang on to the teeth I’ve got, thanks.

Fishing For a Little Romance

2010-08-03T12:58:00.000-07:00

Today I asked my lovely, leggy consort if she'd like to accompany me on a little sneak-away date for a few hours this weekend. Wedding planning is a busy time and I believe its important to "make time" for a little one-on-one romance during all the hustle-and-bustle.

So, imagine my surprise when she said "Um, I'm pretty sure I'm busy Sunday night."

We discussed it via internet mail for a bit and then she broke off to attend a work meeting. Later, she said "The funny thing is - you referred to attending a professional bass fishing tournament weigh-in as a 'date'. You must be ill."

Sometimes you just can't win.

Enlightenment

2010-07-30T11:07:00.001-07:00

The topic of public restrooms seems to resurface here often. I think that's because the public restroom is a basic fact of working life, yet it's such a profoundly flawed experience that its gross inadequacies just fly all in my face. It BOTHERS me that the public restroom experience has pretty much stagnated since 1945. Everybody uses them, yet somehow nobody is paying attention to their design and function. How has technology managed to completely bypass something that everyone utilizes? I just don't get it.

I don't want this to be a journal of my public bathroom experiences. That's not what we here at One Brick Shy are about. That having been said, let me draw your attention to del banyo for une momento.

See this thing here? Look familiar?

What in the H E Double L is the deal with this thing?

Do you have any idea how many times I've had to crawl all the way up into the dark, forbidding recesses of this cavernous monster to fumble my way to the end of the roll? To operate this thing properly you need a socket wrench, a drill motor, and an endoscope. Please, allow me to illustrate:

Hey America - know what I've noticed? You're so damn greedy you've made the damn paper so damn thin that Helen Keller her-damn-self couldn't work her highly-trained, nimble fingers around that roll to find the .001 nanometer-thick change in depth that indicates the end! It's impossible. By the time I get out of there - the floor under the dispenser looks like a family of wombats moved in and spent the last week shredding paper. I've literally used a pocket knife on this contraption and ripped the face off the thing and I still can't make it work right. It's torture.

To recap: we, as a society, can put a man on the moon where he has absolutely no business being, but we can't figure out a way to dispense toilet paper without making me want to KILL MYSELF?

Is this the path to enlightenment?

Die Smiling

2010-07-29T14:56:00.000-07:00

"Are raw oysters really dangerous?"

Having never been attacked by one, I couldn't tell you, but I do know one thing: they're delicious. Every now and again you snag one that smells like your sisters jelly shoes in 4th grade. That one might kill you.

My solution?

Don't eat it! Instead - pick another one!

Even in spite of my advanced sniff test abilities, some still say your average oyster may be a lurking killer. I don't know that for sure, but I do know one kind of oyster that's beating the system: http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/271781/viagra_oysters_a_dangerous_twist_to.html?cat=51

It might still kill you, but you'll die smiling.

Just a Quick Game of Squash

2010-07-29T12:00:00.000-07:00

Despite my recent truculence and my not-so-subtle desperate plea for help regarding a certain rehearsal dinner; there IS light at the end of the tunnel. Two nights ago my lovely Aunt Greer called to inquire as to my progress and recommend the Capital City Club as a suitable venue (lamb chop lollipops, thank you) and more importantly: offer her assistance.

Dad, always a peach, piped up in the background with "Hey is that my sister? Tell her she sure is nosy! Why is she asking? Is she offering to pay for it?"; an unhelpful salvo which, fortunately, she completely ignored. He than wandered off clutching a framing hammer mumbling something about "financial straits." Greer asked a few more pertinent questions concerning menu and drink offerings and suggested I call her later in the week.

This morning I got an email from Capital City with a menu and prices all laid out followed by an email from Uncle Milton (Greer dictates, but refrains from addressing the computer directly) with a few additional ideas.

Shortly afterwards I received another email; this time from my friend Strib Stribling with an attached menu from the Piedmont Driving Club. Strib suggested we stop in there together tomorrow because he would be on-campus "playing a game of squash."

My experience indicates that, among unacquainted men, awkward conversations are the norm, but I can imagine few conversations more awkward than the one required to arrange a pick-up game of squash, live, at the Piedmont Driving Club.

"Hey man. Can I. Err. I mean can you. Well, first off: I'm Strib. Ahem. Do you want to play with me? No! I mean not play with me. Squash me. I mean eh, can you come out and play? What I mean is - will you squash with me? Lets us two squash. Sound good?"

It sounds suspiciously like a Man-Date to me, but if that's what you're into Strib - squash away.

As I'm sure you know, I generally don't befriend squash players, but I'm making an exception for Strib due to his other sterling qualities and generally good nature. After all - I need all the support I can muster. All I've got going for me these days is an Aunt with Cold-War-quality negotiation skills and a guy with a name that sounds like a bodypart; but I think we're going to be a-ok.

Help, they say, is where you find it.

License to Steal

2010-07-26T15:00:00.001-07:00

I'm going to be funny again after I get married - I'm certain of it, but right now the stress of planning a rehearsal dinner is making all my chest hair fall out.

Choosing a rehearsal dinner location is alot of responsiblity for someone who still has linoleum in his kitchen, but after great travail; I finally found a place I like. I even managed to meet with the convicted felon they had masquerading as a party planner. Do you know what this extortionist quoted me, total, for the event? Bear in mind - we're talking about a seated dinner. Dinner. Where you get together and eat with other people. Just dinner - not a talking dog and pony show followed by lion-taming. No magic tricks or murder mystery theater. We're talking food, drink and possibly a slide show of all my conquered animal heads, but basically - just dinner.

$10,000.

That's TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. TEN THOUSAND. When the chirpy idiot who quoted me the price dropped that piano on me - I immediately felt simultaneously hot and cold all over. Then, I got furious.

If you so much as gently breathe the words "wedding" or "rehearsal dinner" towards these greedy, twisted, evil, party planning thieves; it's like a license to steal.

It boggles my mind.

I immediately thought of so many terrible things to say to her that it created a mental logjam right at the front of my brain and all that came out was "eeeeeek!!". I wanted to say "You, madame, are smelly and shaped like a walrus", but I literally couldn't get a word out.

Tyler, who happened to see my eyes bug out and my nostrils flare, managed to pipe up with "well, thanks! we'll be in touch" just in time, then steered my catatonic, lumbering frame gently towards the car.

If you pay $100-a-plate for hotplate food prepared in advance and cheap beer - you better be eating sauteed Passenger Pigeon served with a light Tazmanian Devil compote and it better be beer brewed by Benjamin Frankline himself and dredged up from the wreck of the Titanic or you're just plain getting screwed.

You know what they wanted $100-a-plate for? Grilled chicken or an 8oz filet. Not BOTH, mind you - either /or.

Seriously, I am in the wrong industry. I need to figure out a way to capitalize on someone else's joyous occasion and if I can potentially ruin it by piling on financial worries - I'll just consider it a bonus.

So, to the ASS who tried to stick me for a $10,000 dinner with a grin on her face like I'm a full-grown newborn with a wallet - even though YOUwere going to charge ME for EVERYTHING (linens, candlesticks, chairs, trash, servers, lighting, parking) I left you something for FREE

...it's smeared all over your door handle.

For the Sake of Production

2010-07-19T14:02:00.000-07:00

Whenever I feel a bit stymied in life I tend to throw myself into an activity. This is especially true when I feel stymied because I know I should be pursuing a certain task, but I don’t really want to. Strictly speaking: I prefer for the substitute activity to appear productive without actually providing value to anyone. I can keep myself happy doing nonproductive, but energy-absorbing tasks for an obscenely long time.

When I have something to do that I must do, but I don’t WANT to do – I throw myself instead into something I really WANT to do, that I haven’t had time to attack yet.

At the moment I need very badly to paint my house.

Instead, I spent all day yesterday reorganizing my workshop. Today, I’m going to go home and re-upholster something, or possibly find a bunch of things to throw away that don’t really need to be thrown away urgently – like shoes.

I love throwing away old shoes.

Tomorrow afternoon I’ll probably re-stack some wood, pressure-wash my boat, clean a few fishing reels, and mount a scope on my favorite deer rifle. Later, I’ll probably get the ladder out and survey my roof, then spray some bug killer around my gutters and sweep the workshop again.

Wednesday I’m going to clean the tires on my boat trailer, burn some cardboard boxes, and organize my reloading bench. I’m saving the best for last though.

On Friday I’m going to collect a load of Home Depot and Lowes purchases I’ve made in the last 12 months (still in shopping bags), but not used; and return them. I wouldn’t want to live in a world where I can’t extract money out of Home Depot and Lowes.

The returns department is amazing. You get the intense gratification of making the purchase, THEN get to feel like they’re giving you money when you take it back.

Halcyon!

Sometimes, if I’ve had a really bad week I’ll pretend like I don’t have a receipt. Then, when the customer service person smells blood in the water and tries to offer me a gift card instead of cash back (dirty trick); I’ll whip out a stack of receipts and grin at them. “Must’ve been right here in my pocket all along!”

They hate that.

This trend of frantic, unnecessary activity will continue until I can find nothing else to do around the house and then, because I must remain in constant motion, I’ll be forced to finally paint the house.

The result is - I end up doing a million things I don't need to do just to avoid completing one very necessary task, THEN I end up going the necessary task anyway.

I don’t know why I do this to myself.

Inequity

2010-07-15T12:08:00.000-07:00

I’ve noticed a few inequities in life that I feel are desperately underrepresented. The latest serious injustice I’ve been forced to consider is this: If Taco Bell is required to display their 100-point health rating and reasons for any failures in each of their restaurants; why aren’t proctologists and ladydoctors required to have a plaque prominently displayed in their offices that lists their primary reasons for going into those medical fields?

Thank you, YES - I DO want to know why my local Taco Bell only scored an 80 / 100 on its health inspection, but more importantly – why do you want to look at my naughty parts?

I don’t want to be unreasonable. I firmly believe we all deserve to know what’s going on behind the counter at Taco Bell. Similarly, when my naked butt is the focal point of a complete stranger in a professional setting – I want to know a little bit about motivation.

Don’t get me wrong - I’m fine with someone (or groups of someones) wanting to see me in the altogether. In fact – thanks! I appreciate you! But how about some disclosure so I can make the decision to don the paper prom dress in peace?

Is that asking too much?

I just don’t understand why in the world I have to strip to my Batman Fruit-of-the-Looms just to get my teeth cleaned.

AAA Meetings

2010-07-14T10:23:00.000-07:00

I've felt generally non-funny lately.

I think I'm in a slump.

I need some good material, but all I can think to tell you is that I managed to incorrectly install a wheel on the hub of my boat trailer a few weeks ago.

You would think it would take alot of effort to get "match these two round objects" wrong. It didn't though. Putting it on wrong was super easy. All you have to do is grab a socket wrench, focus on being a complete idiot and, voila! you're all set.

The problem was brought to my attention mid-way through a hairpin turn above Lake Blue Ridge by a snaggle-toothed gentleman who slowed me to a crawl and drawled "Hey there buddy. You got you a wheel thats done nearbout come off'n the trailer" before tossing his flowing mullet behind him and passing me on the curve.

I stopped in the middle of the road, walked around the truck, and, sure enough - the wheel done nearbout come off'n the trailer. More specifically - it was hanging on for dear life by the barest of lugnut connections and no amount of effort on Tyler's part could get them off. I finally told her to knock off with the tire iron and we just called AAA for a tow.

Tyler and I spent the next hour-and-a-half throwing rocks at a road sign and making various wild, unfounded claims to each other concerning our pitching arms before AAA was kind enough to come by and tell us the trailer was too big to tow.

Clearly someone at AAA has studied psychology; because I do prefer to get very bad news in person and from a complete stranger.

Fortunately, "Billy" was kind enough to follow me down the mountain with wobbling trailer in tow and we managed to find our way to a repair shop.

When I finally got my boat back I asked the mechanic how the repair went and he said "Buddy, it was the worst looking thing I ever had to fix and it nearly killed me getting those lug nuts off." I felt terrible because obviously the stress of the repair had made all his side, top, and rear teeth fall out. To me, that's hardly a worthwhile exchange for a wheel repair, but he cheerfully gummed his four front lower teeth a bit and said "sure was glad to get 'er done."

Sudeenly, I felt a renewed sense of purpose in life. If there weren't people like me around - there'd be nobody to help make sure things stay broken!

Then where would we be?

Adopt a 17-yr Old

2010-07-08T19:00:00.000-07:00

Having had very little experience with "lactation" in the past (other than a few, brief, unpleasant encounters with those weird little alien newborn things all you moms seem to dote on); you'll all be pleased to know that my life-long dedication to remaining lactation-ignorant came to a screeching halt recently through the presence of a family member's newborn at a recent long weekend vacation.

It's pretty weird.

So weird, in fact; that I'm surprised women (at least those of you who have ever toured a dairy) will actually go through with it. Your average newly-born basically turns new mom into something of a cross between a human battery and a very sensitive Holstein. Its dehumanizing. It is. I watched it happen.

I know NOW it sounds exaggerated, but just you wait a few years. Every two hours when your new little Bartholemew or Bertha cries - you too will be scurrying about for a clandestine corner in which to partially disrobe...or perhaps not. Perhaps you'll join the bold contingent of Militant Nursers who insist on bareing lumenous expanses of never-before-daylit skin to the horrified gaze of mankind. Sure, it could be you! Nobody matures into adulthood thinking "I want to grow up and have my coworkers see me partially nude"; but some among you will one day fill that role.

I digress. My point is - you're not a nutritious fire hydrant. You're a person. Don't let the little leeches drain you of hard-won calories, sleep, and peace of mind. Instead, I vote that we tack a rider on the next health care bill that mandates all children be left in the care of the hospital until they're ready for first grade.

How much nicer would it be if little Wanda came home from the hospital to see her new room for the first time; and instead of spending the next 3 years learning to talk (only to become an ungrateful 3yr-old); could instead turn to you and say "Thanks for the new digs. I promise I'll take care of you when you're old."?

It's just an idea.

I Have Failed

2010-07-07T00:00:00.000-07:00

Gentle Readers:
I regret to inform you that my fall from manhood is complete. I assented to the creation of a "wedding website" in which I have documented the details of our engagement.

http://weddings.theknot.com/pwp/pwp2/view/MemberPage.aspx?coupleid=5064394449537812&pid=10318393

I apologize, but you'll be happy to know that when Tyler asked me to marry her - I didn't mean to say "yes" and throw away my bachelor freedom. I MEANT to say "I'll think on it" but I choked on a boiled peanut and it came out all garbled as "Yeah".

I just didn't have the heart to take it back.

Sincerely,

Ex-Bachelor Ewing

Epic On The Cape

2010-07-02T13:05:00.000-07:00

After a (far too brief) 4-day trip to the gulf this weekend the topic on everyone's mind seems to be oil and oil booms. "Were we able to get out into the gulf through Port St. Joe?" The answer is: Yes. We were.

I understand Barack Obama has some kind of half-ass orange contraption all buoyed-up around the mouth of the bay, but I think it is more for panache than anything else - just so Port St. Joe can get in on the oily action. A blind manatee (or "aquatic speed bump" as we like to call them) could get through, over, or around said oil boom with ease.

From what I was able to tell they've set buoys strategically and have the yellow booms on stand-by - ready to stretch across; but they're definitely not set so as to block traffic or actually do anything constructive.

When we headed out into the wild blue I tried to convince Fred B. Hand, IV (Captain, Friend, Patriot) we should troll alongside the floating booms at the mouth of the bay for billfish, oil globs and kayaks, but he disregarded my advice.

There you have my basic oil report.

As to the Annual Crash-The-Hand-Family-Vacation vacation I'm pleased to announce that it was a rousing success. Attendees: Me, Twylerpants, Fred B. Hand, IV; Fred B. Hand, III; Kelly Logan (IV's girlfriend), Frances Hand, and finally - Fred B. Hand, Jr. Thats right - this year Fred's granddad came down.

We had a ball. We had a bit of boat trouble, but perhaps you should read about it as reported earlier this week. Please, do read on....

Last year when Fred broke the throttle cable (on the 20' Mako offshore boat) they took the boat to Indian Pass Marine. Indian Pass Marine had (written) instructions to take the Mako BACK to dry storage when it was fixed. Instead, Indian Pass Marine set the boat in their backyard and left it outside in the weather all year. ALL year - August to July. When we got there on Saturday, the poor Mako was an absolute wreck. Mildew all over everything. It was rough.

So, Fred took my fiancee and drove off and left me with his Dad in the parking lot of Indian Pass Marine with a wrecked and mildewed Mako somehow hooked to MY truck.

Mr. Hand was absolutely beside himself. It was like watching a well-educated Yosemite Sam lift off into orbit. I mean he was foaming at the mouth over paying for dry storage for 12 months while the boat sat outside. I'm serious - the man was almost unable to speak.

Almost.

We got in my truck and took it to the washdown place where I proceeded to wreck my good clothes with "pressurized foam spray" and Clorox whilst washing down the Mako under the very detailed tutelage of Mr. Hand. Thank God he finally ran out of quarters. It took 60 before we were through. I'd hear the alarm beeping and think "maybe we're done now," then I'd hear him furiously cramming quarters into it again and swearing violently to himself.

Once we finished attacking the baked-on mildew as best we could; we went to the gas station...then to Autozone....and the place to get yamalube.....then back to autozone....then to Bluewater Outfitters for bait....then back to the yamalube place again....and finally back to Autozone...again.

So, I finally made it home to the beach house around 4pm with a truckload of petroleum products, dry goods, hardware, a semi-wrecked-looking boat in tow, and a distinguished looking gentleman in his mid-50's furiously gesticulating at every car that got in front of us.

We pulled up and Mr. Hand said completely serious (to sodden, soapy me shivering in the arctic air of my truck AC) "Oh good. Thank God the girls have already unpacked everything so we dont have to. Now arent you glad we missed all that mess!??"

I looked at him through soap-blurred vision and shivered my assent.

The next morning we took the Mako out and I said "Hey did y'all put fuel stabilizer in this thing last year?" and I got blank looks. So inside my brain I went "Oh boy. I wonder how today is going to turn out?"

We crank it up and it immediately starts surging and sputtering. I would have turned back. Fred dropped the hammer and let it surge, sputter, and cough us 7 miles offshore towards a storm front.

We surged and sputtered around for a few hours, caught a few spanish mackerel and sharks, then headed back surging and sputtering (hammer down). It sounded like a completely screwed fuel system to me. I was just waiting to hear a rod go through the top of the motor. "KAAAWWWAAACCCKKAAA!!! Call the Coast Guard!"

By dint of sheer Hand-Family-Luck we barely limped back in, put $72 worth of assorted fuel additives in it at Mr. Hand's direction (octane boost, stabil, seafoam, Lucas Miracle Oil, Lever 2000 - whatever would fit in the tank) and took it back to Indian Pass Marine. Mr. Hand handled it from there, gleefully, I might add.

Basically, the fuel was ruined as you can guess; which filled up the water separator filter with water and lawd knows what else....Which plugged all the filters and ruined the spark plugs and shot h20 all into the cylinder heads doing who knows what kind of damage. I'm sure it shot the 02 sensor too. When that ethanol stuff separates (which it does in about 3 months - or sooner in that kind of heat) it grows all kinds of algae and crap in the water at the bottom of the fuel tank which immediately gets into everyplace you don't want it.

Fred remained extremely upbeat, even "sunny and cheerful", through the whole thing; he was even heard to whistle a few bars of "I've Got Sunshine" on the way back and I couldn't figure it out. Then I realized - A. We're on a "major adventure" so, naturally he and I felt pretty good right off; but B. He knows if he can figure out a way to blow this motor - he's going to figure out a way to get Mr. Hand to rebuild it and put on his other boat, then put a fresh Yamaha on the Mako or something. So - it was a win/win for him. In fact, he may be leaning a bit harder towards "stranded" just to get the new motor.

Anyway, Fred was happy as a clam so I didnt worry about it.

Indian Pass Marine finally fixed all that and who knows what else. Mr. Hand said alot of words to me with boat terms mixed in when I asked him what was wrong with it - but I dont think he really knew what they did. I suspect when Indian Pass Marine told him; he was thinking too hard about the next thing he was going to say to blast them to really pay attention to the diagnosis. Anyway, Mr. Hand bore down on them so hard they had the whole boat fixed and looking brand new in two days - in the middle of high season.

To top it off Indian Pass Marine then said they needed to replace both throttle cables - which they did. That REALLY pissed The Freds off (Fred Jr got in on the action at Indian Pass Marine too - they took his big Cadillac over there and parked it out front for intimidation).

All I know is we had a ball. Fred's Dad was positively overjoyed to have somebody to bear down on, Fred Jr was tickled to get to critique Fred III in action ("I'd have been a whole lot harder on those idiots Fred, why did you go so easy on them are you getting soft?"), Fred IV got a little less heat on him because the heat was all on Indian Pass Marine, Mrs. Hand managed to slip away and fish with us whilst all the heat was getting poured on Indian Pass Marine, I got to watch it all happen, and the Mako ended up a-ok.

Hilarity ensued. It was a giant win/win/win/win/win.

In between all the hooplah we managed to cook a bunch of stuff that was entirely too complex for the venue, stay fairly sodden, hide beer cans all over the house and deck for Fred III to find, get in big trouble with the rental agency for having a dog over to visit, and do a bunch of scalloping around.

My favorite was when I overheard Fred III on the phone invite 5 extra people to dinner on Tuesday night and tell them I was cooking.
I panicked and looked at Tyler, my sous-chef, who mouthed back "WHAT DID HE SAY??!?!!"

The trip was, to quote Fred B. Hand III "Epic".

My apologies to the Hand Family - you'll never get rid of us now.

Simpatico

2010-06-21T13:20:00.000-07:00

I picked up a spy novel recently and was reminded of my adolescent love of that genre. I have always harbored a secret desire to be a real, live spy. Actually – a spy OR a sniper. Either one is fine.

On the odd occasion when I’ve mentioned that fact to others; I’ve always gotten a weird look and, generally, some sissy comment back from the speaker indicating he or she wouldn’t be able to shoot at a deer – much less people.

Oh, I could.

My only worry is that the military wouldn’t give me enough bullets. That’s one thing terrorists seem to never run out of: bullets. Ratty clothes, cave dwellings, unkempt beards…...but plenty of bullets.

Either way, I’m not saying I want to shoot at anybody. I really don’t. I’m just saying I could definitely shoot at a terrorist from way far away if I had to and, due to reading that latest spy book, I’ve been thinking about it a good bit lately. So much, in fact, that I wasn’t really surprised this weekend at Margaret’s wedding when a very well-dressed, distinguished gentleman with a lovely brunette on his arm leaned over to me and said slowly and clearly “S I M P A T I C O U P S T A I R S. T A K E T H E L A M B.”

I didn’t immediately recognize him, but at the same time he looked very familiar.

Exactly like a spy should look.

He looked me square in the eye and winked then paused, awaiting a response.

My mind fairly bulged with the shock, intrigue and pride I felt at the faith my government had obviously placed in me to engage in espionage on behalf of my beloved country. What better place to recruit me into their service than a family wedding?

My eyes narrowed and, as my mind furiously searched for an appropriate response, he leaned in a bit closer and said even more slowly “S I M P A T I C O. Understand? S I M P A T I C O” then his eyes narrowed slightly and he winked his right eye briefly, just once.

Still in shock I mustered a knowing wink through fear-widened eyes and responded as clearly and slowly as I could: “Y O U S A I D ‘THE LAMB’, I S T H A T C O R R E C T?”

Awaiting further instructions I continued to hold his gaze for a moment while maintaining an awareness of all my blind spots and he responded:

“T H E L A M B” equally slowly, and with a curt nod.

I know our government can be a tid-bit enigmatic, but I was really starting to get confused. If you give somebody a damn code word you’re supposed to tell them ahead of time what the range of code words could be, right? I mean good grief. If I could read minds Tyler wouldn’t be furious at me right now.

We continued to stare at one another, live music blaring in the background until his gaze hardened and he said

“D O Y O U U N D E R S T A N D”? S I M P A T I C O. G O U P S T A I R S “

“NOW?” I responded quizzically, glancing up the stairwell towards the deserted groomsmen’s quarters.

“NO. NOT NOW.” He hissed, glancing around nervously.

“B U T H O W W I L L I K N O W W H E N I S S I M P A T I C O?” I whispered, checking the corners of the room for eavesdroppers.

“T H A T I S U P T O Y O U” he responded, slowly and clearly.

“I T I S Y O U R R E H E A R S A L D I N N E R.”

So, to Mr. Frey of the Marietta Frey's (who cleans up very well I might add) thank you for recommending a rehearsal dinner location for my upcoming wedding weekend.

I am sorry I thought you were a spy.

The Voyage of the HMS TallyWacker

2010-05-28T07:58:00.000-07:00

I rolled over in my bunk around 2AM and heard a low melody coming from somewhere topside. I fumbled with the hatch above my bed and stuck my head out through the floor of the main deck. Unable to get a perfect fix on the sound, I clambered through the hole in the roof, my cabin mate, Austin Britt, barely rolling over as I eased myself out onto the salt-rimed fiberglass of the 50-foot Voyage sailboat.

I stepped over Emily Jones’ sleeping, towel-swaddled form laying above the galley and made my way onto the foremost portion of the deck. I paused for a moment, hearing nothing, then from a suspiciously-lumpy portion of the mainsail cover emanated:

“Heyyyy, heyyyy, PP P P PAAUUULLAAAAA!!! I wanntt to o oo (snort, hiccup)…. maaaaaaarryyy youuuuuuu…Hey HEYYYY PAULAAAAA!!! (snooorree)”

I peeked inside the makeshift hammock and found a sodden Charlton M. Bouchemeyer clutching an empty Jack Daniels bottle and gently singing in his sleep. Upon further inspection it turns out that CMB had rigged a tiny portable hammock between the mast and the main foresail supports – effectively using the motion of the boat to gently rock himself to sleep.

Noting that all appeared to be in order, I returned to my cabin and slept.

I awakened to the sound of my hatch being opened from the outside. A pair of twinkling green eyes appeared over the lip of the square hatch, and a I heard a cheerful voice say:

"Um. Hallo. Ah. Do you want to get up and come play with me?!"

Tyler.

“Aaaugh. What TIME is it?!?!?” I said, burying my head in my pillow.

“Um. Hallo!! Hallo!! It’s a looovely day!!! It’s TIME FOR YOU TO GET UP AND COME PLAY WITH ME!! LETS GOO SNAAAAAARRRKLINGGGG” she warbled, avoiding the question.

“Ok ok ok ok ok. I’m up, but WHAT TIME IS IT!?!?”

“Um. It’s ALREADY 5:45”

“IN THE MORNING?!?!? You are a crazy person.”

“EVERYBODY IS UP UP UP BUT YOU!!”

Augh. Alright I’m up. I’m UP. I'm UP. HANG IT ALL.

I arose and donned my bathing suit, then stumbled into the galley towards the scent of frying bacon. Tyler stood before the stove and I could see Captain Ken’s feet standing at the wheel on deck.

“Well, I see you, me, and the Captain. That’s not EVERYBODY.”

“Everybody IS up….Well, except for Ashleigh, CMB, Austin, Emily, Anslee, and Eric.”

“So, its just you, me and the captain.”

“That about sums it up.”

“I’m powerless to refute that argument.”

“Oh good. Well, want a bacon and egg sammich?” she responded brightly, distracting me with food - one of her more effective tricks.

“Ok.” I grumbled. “Is it at least REAL bacon?”

“Yuppers. Sure is!”

“Well, at least there is that!” I responded, relieved.

Then, in a devious, purely evil move designed to undermine my personhood, she watched me eat half an egg sammich slathered in turkey bacon before I realized it. THEN in an even more provocative move she responded to the onslaught of my pork-imposter wrath with “I just said the bacon was REAL – not that it was made of pork!! Tee hee!”

And that’s pretty much how each morning began aboard the HMS TallyWacker. We scalloped about the British Virgin Islands for a week or so, making all sorts of new friends (a boat crewed by 4 couples in their mid-40s looking to “swing” followed us, or rather Ashleigh, for two days), we saw all kinds of ocean life, and we even managed to get a tan.

There were few casualties unless you count the time Anslee pushed CMB off the rear deck and into the lower hull – splitting his chin open to the bone; an injury which required approximately 8 stitches, but got a butterfly bandage of duct-tape instead…..Or the time CB managed to get himself snarled in a fast-moving mainsail rope; burning the meat off his right hand and left foot – effectively becoming the first sailing non-sailor in history to get footropeburn.

As a result of his burn injuries CMB felt compelled to promptly drink 8 ounces of bourbon to “numb the pain.” It seemed to help because he then wrote a political treatise on the economic fallout of evil “big business” out loud for our edification....But I guess it worked, because he seemed to have completely forgotten his hands altogether.

We experienced all the islands had to offer (except dirty swingers) and made it home alive. In short: I declare the Voyage of the HMS TallyWacker a rousing success.

Tally Ho!

An Ordinary, Intelligent Day

2010-05-11T10:16:00.000-07:00

I’m convinced that ordinary, intelligent, people do extraordinarily stupid things very regularly and they’re just fortunate enough that, 85% of the time, nobody sees it. Somehow I managed to get myself born under an unlucky star and about 95% of the stupid things I do - someone manages to see. And not just “see” but witness, verify, then relate to others.

Last week I was scalloping about on craigslist.com when I came across a young man selling a set of five (5) automatically-inflatable PFDs (that’s automatic life jackets to you non-fishermen-folks) for $125 plus $16 shipping. I priced the units out at $119-apiece at the fount of all things good and wonderful (BassPro Shops)and was astounded to calculate a cool $454 in savings.

I almost lost my mind.

Naturally, I bought them and they showed up in the mail just a short few days later – as promised and just as described. I was thrilled. So thrilled, in fact, that I immediately put one on and walked around in the kitchen wearing it while cooking dinner. I’m a grown man, and if I want to walk around in my own house wearing an inflatable life jacket – I’ll damn well do it.

I imagine Joshua K. Wallace, Roommate, was very surprised to turn the corner and see me rolling on the kitchen floor in a plate of hot fish, rice, and beans; gasping and clutching at the fully-inflated life vest wrapped around my throat, but he had the wits about him a few moments later to help me deflate it a bit, and take this:

To HELL with camera phones.

Communicating With a Quasi

2010-05-07T07:26:00.000-07:00

I called my (newest) quasi-cousin (or “interloper” or just “quasi” for short); Mrs. Jessica Pitts-Slocumb Sunday night to relate the happy news of my upcoming nuptials. She answered the phone and I said simply said “well, we’re engaged!”

Jessica: “Ok yes. You have my attention.”
Me: “No. We’re engaged”
Jessica: “Right I got you. I’m tracking with you. We’re engaged in conversation. I'm fully engaged. Tell me what’s going on.”
Me: “No, I mean seriously - We’re ENGAGED.”
Jessica: "Yes I know. We are. You and me – I’m 100% engaged with you and I AM LISTENING. PLEASE TELL ME WHAT IS GOING ON. Hurry UP!!! YOU KNOW HOW SWEATY AND NERVOUS I GET. OH MAN (I hear what sounds like arms flapping up and down) THERE WE GO. NOW YOU'VE DONE IT - I JUST GOT ALL SWEATY.”
ME: I’m not sure how else to say this. Let me think.
ME: ....thinking….....
Jessica: “You are making me really nervous. Seriously. Who died? Just tell me (deep breath). I’m ready. Just tell me.”
ME: Eh. “I NEED HELP FIGURING OUT HOW TO CHANGE MY STATUS ON FACEBOOK TO “ENGAGED”!”
JESSICA: (piercing shriek ” “YOU AND TYLER GOT ENGAGED OH WOW OH WOW OH WOW YOU’RE ENGAGED!!!! HOOO LEEEE CRAAAP. YOU'RE ENGAGED I DON’T BELIEVE IT!!!”
Jessica: “Why didn’t you JUST SAY SO. TEARS JUST SHOT OUT OF MY EYES AND MY ARMPITS ARE A SWAMP.”
ME: Well, that’s gross.
Me: Totally my fault.

Facebook has warped the earth.

Cooking Evaluation #1: The Mysteries of The Pork Chop

2010-05-04T15:02:00.001-07:00

In general, I intend for my FutureWifePerson Evaluation Techniques to be succinct, accurate, and accompanied by solid graphical data. However, I was prevented in appropriately documenting our first test entitled "The Mysteries of The Pork Chop" by threat of physical violence on the part of The FutureWifePerson.

I will not harp on an ugly scene but, in short, she blocked my shot of the test results and then slapped the camera clean out of my hand. I tried to recover, but she pulled rank and threatened to "throw away my dinner" which, if you're familiar with the infamous 1987 "Mom took his biscuit away and he cried" incident, you know its a threat I take seriously.

I was generally hopeful that this test would kick The Period of Evaluation off on an upbeat note because we all know pork is delicious. Even well into the preparation process I was confident in Tyler's abilities.

It wasn't until she said "do we have any flour?" then when I replied in the negative responded with "oh ok well - maybe corn starch will work" that I got nervous.

She clamored about the kitchen rattling pots and pans, talked on the phone, whistled tunelessly through her front teeth for a bit, then I heard her say to herself "well, I'll just defrost the meat now."

Approximately 9 minutes later, after 4 or 5 brief phone conversations and a nervous giggle or two, I heard her open the microwave and mumble "whoops" under her breath. She then approached me and said "hey, what do you think I should do with these?" as she guiltily held aloft 6, 1/16" thick, microwave-blasted atomic pork slivers.

Naturally, as an independent examiner I am barred from comment, so I simply located some flour for her and left her to her own devices. Approximately 12 minutes later I heard the unmistakable sizzle of re-frying pork and the smell of hot grease and knew what her solution was: "just fry it."

We're in the south, so that move is actually worth positive points.

Before I get to the overall results - I once read a children's story where a tree was cut down and all the other beautiful trees grew strong and tall and then spent a lifetime making fun of the stump. Not to ruin it, but at the end of the story it turns out that the tree was used to build the cross Christ died on to absolve the world from sin. Ha, Ha - guess that goes to show all the other mean, abusive trees - right? So, the cut-down tree was a key player in a major world event and all the other trees just stood around, then probably went straight to the eternal sawmill.

Well, lets just say I hope the pig who walked into the sausage plant on four feet and came out in pork chops bound for Tyler's kitchen hadn't read that story because all the other pigs are probably still laughing.

In her defence - we have a disturbingly-powerful microwave. When you turn this thing on you have to clench your teeth so they don't buzz from the radiation, you pick up AM radio in your skull, all the birds in the yard fly off - I mean this thing is potent.

She could not possibly have known that and avoided triple-blast-frying the meat without warning, so we'll give her a "pass" this time.

Forunately, Uncle Ben's Cheesy Instant Rice and some dehydrated-potato-au-gratin-cheese-food product served as a delicious garnish and saved the day. It was a flavor explosion of pasteurized-process cheese product with notes of oak, a sharp cheddar nose and a light, fluffy, napalm-pork finish.

I'm refraining from assigning a numbered score to this first test due to extenuating mechanical food preparation circumstances, but I'm on the alert.

Who's Got the Skillz?

2010-05-03T13:50:00.000-07:00

I've decided that my blog is going to take a brief hiatus from the mundane ramblings of my ordinary pre-engaged life. Instead I'm going to start my first ever multi-part series in the next week or so.

The topic: Evaluating Tyler's various spousal skillz and general preparedness for marriage.

Now that we're officially betrothed, I feel like this is my last shot to kick my evaluatory techniques into high gear with some overt analysis.

I anticipate a multi-part format evaluating basic life skillz with tests such as the following:

1. Cooking Eval. 1 - The Mysteries of The Pork Chop
2. Basic SpeedBoat Handling Exam
3. The Art of The Neck Rub
4. What Do I Do With This Meat?
5. A Thrifty Person Goes To Publix For A Non-Thrifty Person.
6. Backing a Trailer (3-part test focused on "Panache", "Grace", and "Accuracy")
7. Basic Boat Maintenance
8. Cleaning Eval. 1
9. Riflery, Through .30 Caliber
10. Where Do I Start Cutting This Dead Animal? (Graphical Analysis)
11. Recognizing Hormonal Interference (this is a two-part test)
12. Aiding In Basic Handloading

I will keep you, faithful readers, abreast of the results as they are completed.

One Brick Over The Limit

2010-05-03T08:51:00.000-07:00

I'm pleased to report that I've successfully tricked a real live woman into agreeing to marry me. Thats right - Tyler M. Davenport and I have offically engaged each other.

I maintain that she asked me, and she swears that I begged her - so we've decided to stick with "engaged each other" so as not to offend either of our delicate sensibilities.

Despite her Mother's ambivalent words concerning my engagement plans: "Well, that all sounds nice.....I sure hope she says yes!"; Tyler did indeed agree.

I thought I was in the clear, but after that comment I spent some time practicing on my kitchen floor just to be safe. I found that when I got down on BOTH knees I could pick up the overhead light just enought to stun her with the glare off the diamond; temporarily blinding her and rendering her sufficiently incapable of wise judgment. So, to be clear, I was not "groveling" I was merely on both knees to pick up better light. Like so many other things in life - I think that was the key to the whole thing - good lighting; but I also plied her with champagne and talked very, very quickly - two of my only remaining good bachelor tricks.

Since Le Engagement I've been the unwitting receptacle for all sorts of advice, witticism, quips and pithy maxim. Here's some of the most recent:

"Welcome to the club, where nothing you say is right and nothing you say can fix the first thing you said that was wrong."

"Hey man, how long did y'all date?"
"a little over a year."
"Err. Ok. Well, can you tell my girlfriend that you dated for six years? That would really help me out alot."

"Raise your hand if you like Tyler alot more than Jimmy."

"You've outpunted your coverage."

"What did you say to trick her into it?"

"Thats the finest Cubic Zirconium I've ever seen."

"Hey - I'm calling to say we just got engaged!"
"Great - more importantly - did you fish in that bass tournament this weekend?"

Thanks for the support guys - its been a good ride.

Summer Came Early at 6710

2010-04-30T09:57:00.000-07:00

Tyler: Nancy’s pizza for dinner or sushi?
Me: I’ll do sushi if you're buying. I'm not buying you sushi anymore. You can eat more $5-a-bite raw fish at a sitting than Free Willy.
me: har har har just keeding
Tyler: har har....
me: is this a double date or just u n me?
Tyler: just us!
me: oh oh oh ho!
me: Are you workin hard today or hardly workin?
Tyler: It's a mix. Are you smelly just today or all of the time?
Tyler: Har har har!
Tyler: Oh just happened to think, there's a new restaurant called Cantina at Terminus where lola used to be.
me: Perfect. That’s a 35 minute walk. I’ll have to eat on the way over and on the way back to make it.
Tyler: Umm, its probably a 20 min walk, max.
me: Well, we can probably cut thru somewhere anyway.
Tyler: Ooh adventure!

When I got home that day I found this in my yard:

Its just another day in paradise.

I Had It Coming

2010-04-27T06:49:00.000-07:00

It seems that about once a year I have an absolutely terrible day - a day frought with pain, destruction and travail wherein the fates conspire against me.

I can accept it because: I guess I've got it coming.

Take Sunday for instance:

After church I grabbed my two brand-new-upholstered boat seats, sat them up on the deck of my boat and went downstairs to grab a screwdriver. I walked back outside just in time to see a gust of wind catch the driver's side seat and blow it off the rear of the boat; landing upside-down on the top right corner, ripping the upholstery, piping, and seam.

I stood there for a minute in apopleptic fury at the wind not doing what I wanted it to, grappled with my emotions, subdued them, stuck the screwdriver handle-first into my pocket, and jumped in the boat to install the now-damaged seats.

Forgetting I had left the seat-installation-screws in a cup on my dresser, I went back inside, dumped the screws out of the cup into my hand, then dropped them in my pocket.

Back in the boat I lay down on the floor to screw the seats in, jammed my hand into my pocket for a screw, and immediately buried four shirtpins 1/4" into each of the first three fingers on my left hand.

Whoops! I forgot I put the screws in the cup with the shirt pins, but it really hurt - which reminded me.

I shifted my weight onto my right side to extricate my hand from where it was, literally, "pinned" inside my pocket...and managed to roll over on the screwdriver - crushing my $275 cell phone into useless oblivion.

Bleeding profusely, I attempted to arise and, as I straightened at the waist, four more shirtpins buried themselves in the top of my left thigh. The shooting pain from the thigh-pins threw me back down into the floor of the boat where I landed again on the screwdriver...raising a lovely blue-black bruise on the top of my right hip.

I managed to flop out over the gunnels and into the driveway, panting and bloody, only to land directly in front of the running hose - which soaked me.

At this point Tyler came outside and offered me an Arnold Palmer in a nice cool glass and a BLT sammich; both of which I accepted from my position on the driveway. She did not seem curious as to why I was laying in the driveway, instead she looked down at me with one raised eyebrow and said "you about ready to go?"

After finishing my sammich I managed to successfully install the (brand-new, ripped, torn, seats) and get underway without further incident or damage, other than to the Arnold Palmer glass; which I accidentally broke.

We put the boat in the water on Lanier and motored across the bay to John's house where I immediately ran the boat up on his dock, gouging it (see previous post).

I motored back across the lake below max RPMs, then made Tyler back the trailer down into the water to avoid further interaction with calamity.

We made it home in one piece, but I consider it a miracle.

Have a Good Cry

2010-04-26T07:35:00.000-07:00

I have a very dear friend who will periodically cry in public; and I don't mean slam her thumb in the car door, leaving it dangling by a shred of tissue, then cry. I don't mean she'll stub her toe, or experience great emotional trauma of some sort; and as a result: cry.

I mean, she'll literally just cry - for no apparent reason and for an extended period of time - much longer than you might expect for say, a funeral attendee, a newborn birthing, a "cotton: fabric of our lives" commercial, or even a wedding. She'll start crying, then continue to cry for so long that she'll be forced to go about her daily tasks whilst weeping profusely.

No kidding. I have no idea how she keeps a job. In my opinion you don't want to walk into your attorney's office and find the staff weeping profusely on a regular basis -it erodes the confidence.

One day we went to dinner and mid-way through the meal tears began absolutely streaming down her cheeks. Everyone sat for a moment in stunned silence, mouthing "WHAT DID YOU SAY TO HER, YOU ASS?" to each other and looking down suspiciously at the fish. Noticing that a pall had fallen over the table, she looked up from the small puddle that was forming in her plate, smiled bravely and sobbed "P P P P leease p p p p p paaassss the p p p ppeppper."

She then continued to weep and sniffle throughout the remainder of the meal while periodically looking over at me to say "WHAT?! You've never seen a woman cry before?" like I am the unstable one.

I didn't follow-up further on the nature of her, ahem, "disorder"; mostly because I lack faith in my ability to completely divine what might cause such a confluence of conflicing emotions to arise in a person. I just haven't quite grasp what it is that could reduce an otherwise healthy person to such a state.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday, I managed to run my new boat up against the corner of John Willis' boat dock and scratch the living devil out of the nice, totally un-scratched, sparkly paint. Its not just "scratched," its gouged. The boat has been gouged and I did it.

As it happened, I felt a giant heaving sob well up inside of me.

Fortunately, I managed not to cry on the outside, but I finally understood what Sobbing Samantha goes through on a daily (yes, daily) basis.

As the gouging incident occurred I suddenly felt very ashamed of myself for comments like "damn it; she's ruined another shirt", "lookout! she's sprung a leak", "heads up on the mascara migration" and even "Oh man, you can't make a sammich in this place without somebody sobbing all over you."

So, my apologies. Grace and peace to you, Sam. May your nose never redden, may the wind blow-dry your eyes, may plentiful supplies of Kleenex and Visine follow you wherever you may go, and may your emotional boat go forth un-gouged.

Find Me a Two-By-Four

2010-04-22T08:55:00.000-07:00

Today I would like to exhibit for your edification a series of in-depth graphic drawings depicting proper utilization of a Home Depot Aisle.

.....Unfortunately, that graphic depiction does not exist.

Know why? Because nobody in the world is dumb enough to seriously be unable to properly handle a Home Depot aisle. I mean, right? It’s an aisle. You walk down it, staying out of everyone’s way, moving with the flow of traffic, until you pause - just long enough to swoop into the bins and collect your kill.

Right?

No. Scratch that – it’s true.

I spent the better part of Saturday afternoon inside Home Depot tearing the store apart inside my head while waiting on a collection of mental-ward-escapees to incompetently scrape about directly in my path. It was absolutely painful and Home Depot, God bless them, does their dead-level best to make sure there is no way to segregate the idiots.

What you really need is an idiot-area where the incompetent can congregate, but that’s not going to happen. Instead, Home Depot is happy to provide each and every one of you with a big damn orange cart gigantic enough to see from the air - complete with casters that don’t turn, broken wheel bearings, and no rub-rail; then send you careening down any one of 30 narrow, concrete, steel-walled aisles directly at me.

I had to wait 2 minutes (2 FULL MINUTES) for a big fat idiot to get off his 1990’s- vintage-Powertel with some other idiot who was absolutely no help in picking between two $3 boxes of nails; all the while Home Depot employees fairly streaming past him un-questioned. Buddy, whoever you are - I’ll give you the $3 for the extra box of nails plus an extra $48 just to get the hell out of my way.

And for you folks out there who don’t know who you are, but perhaps vaguely identify with the individuals in this narrative - let me help you identify yourselves; if you pulled up in a 1999 model Camry expecting to get a 4’x8’ sheet of plywood in it and you don’t own a quality hammer – go immediately to customer service. Please do not call in a lifeline from mid-aisle in the fasteners section; you are not the kind of person who has friends that can help. Instead, go to Wal-Mart and call whoever you want from the “gaming” aisle and forget about building a doghouse – it’s not in the cards.

If you’re the woman in the gigantic wide-open plywood aisle wearing flip flops and a Bluetooth device; and your phone rings: DON’T ANSWER IT – NOBODY IMPORTANT IS CALLING YOU, I PROMISE.

No matter who you are – please; by all means - do continue to consult everyone except the Home Depot employees – that makes the most sense given your options.

I can find nearly anything in Home Depot in the dark and completely by feel. Do you know why?

Because I can read....And BECAUSE I can read – I know where the flashlight aisle is.

There is no excuse for you to stand under the Home Depot aisle marker sign clearly stating “LUMBER” in BLAZE ORANGE and ask yourself, me, your wife, or anybody else where the 2x4s are. It’s just not reasonable. The sign is 15 feet wide and ORANGE for crying out loud. Look up occasionally, and watch out for falling pianos.

In spite of my rant against all things shopper-related I am occasionally impressed by a fellow shopper or store employee. This time it’s White Porsche Guy.

White Porsche Guy: God Bless You for going to the furthest spot in the parking lot to park in order to save the finish on your sparkly white, very gay, Porsche. And God Bless You for parking so close to me – literally the only other car in that row - that I couldn’t open my passenger door. White Porsche Guy: May the road rise to meet you.

….And may that road be a road fraught with potholes that ultimately terminates in an ocean.

Breaking The Ice At Wal-Mart

2010-04-19T07:38:00.000-07:00

This weekend Eric Hagen, Anslee Murdock, Tyler and I kicked off our first (and only) Voyage De Credit Limitaire Sailing Trip planning party at a Wal-Mart in sky Valley, Ga. As an ice-breaker we set out to brave the wilds of Wal-Mart. The challenge was to come out with exactly one item as close to $3.99 (with tax) as possible.

An hour later we found Eric asleep outside the bathrooms and were able to determine that Anslee had never actually gotten out of the car.

Unfortunately, they had a great fishing stuff section, so I accidentally spent $62.57 on lures and a can of Silicon Spray Lubricant that had fancy packaging, while Tyler a.k.a. “Scrooge McDuck” spent $3.98; saving a whole penny for the win.

Not a great start, but it turns out the trip was entirely worth it because at some point during Tyler’s focused search down the “Hardware” aisle, she absentmindedly leaned in and patted me on the rump, then gently ruffled the back of my hair as she walked by.

And by “me” I mean: a total stranger dressed in shorts like mine.

Classic.

DragonTamer

2010-04-15T11:34:00.000-07:00

Tyler: HEYYY JIMMAAYYYY - wanna take me to a mooooveee? Huh? Do ya?! Huh?
Me: Ok. Whats out?
Tyler: "How to Train Your Dragon" in 3D!!!
Me: What ELSE is out?
Tyler: Nothing. Thats it. Slow month for Hollywood.
Me: Seriously, what else is out?
Tyler: Seriously - nothing.
Me: How about we go see "How to Train Your Dragon?"
Tyler: That is a great idea! See you at 7!
Me: Ok.
.....

Box Office Lady: Two tickets? That will be $39.
Me: HOLY CRAP. What is the promise of a first-born child worth these days?
Box Office Lady: A Little White Boy? Not much.
Tyler: Pony up, biggins - we're missing the previews.
Me: How's 2 twenties sound?
Box Office Lady: now we're talking.
Tyler: heeeheeeeeee!!!(playing on the escalator)...

......

We enter the theater and sit down then I turn around to comment briefly on the average age of attendees...and this is the sight that greets me:

Grouchina Marx.

Just a Quick Dip

2010-04-15T11:18:00.000-07:00

Just a short few weeks ago I was surprised (and quite pleased) to receive the following photograph on my handheld from Charlton M. Bouchemeyer:

He included the following pop quiz:

The following picture depicts (select one):

A. Seth sneaking up Loch Ness-style on Buster.
B. Seth hooked the big one, Buster is not impressed.
C. "Boat noodling"
D. Busters rescue operation after Seth sinks the boat. Who knew you
had put that plug in?
E. Rectum? Damn near killed him!

I think you have a general sense for what is actually going on here; but in case you don't: Buster has forgotten to put that pesky little drain plug back into his boat. Consequently - it immediately began to sink.

My favorite part of the whole fiasco though, is this - Buster's one and only legible comment: "Seth, you're going to have to get in the water."

Seth wasn't even on the boat - he was on another boat.....one thats not sinking.

My thanks to CB for the quick thinking and the snapshot; and many thanks to Seth for being the only person willing to get wet and naked in front of two other men at noon on a blue-sky Saturday.

Crappy Fishermen

2010-04-14T09:56:00.000-07:00

The Magnificent members of the Huntfish Adventure Club (and Charlton M. Bouchemeyer, Pledge) took a field trip to Lanier one lovely spring night recently in search of Crappie. That's "Crappie" as in: the fish, not "things that are Crappy".

Before you get too excited and start pronouncing the fish "Croppie" - let me help you: it IS pronounced "CRAPPY" as in the word "Crap" with an "EE" on the end. Sorry, crappie fishermen the world over; you can try to distance yourself from the word "CRAP" all you want, but the letters just don't lie. You are, in a nutshell "Crappie Fishermen" and thats all there is to it.

The big idea on this trip was to pull up to a bridge piling about 10PM, tie off, set the lanterns out, grill out on the pontoon boat, fish 'till we got worn out and generally tell loud, riotous, soul-scorching lies until the wee hours of the morning.

Even with 12 rods out, I managed to not catch a single fish; but everyone else did (even CB who immediately fell asleep on a cushion with the dog, but woke up periodically to holler "I GOT ONE!").

We had a great time until we realized Fred, who had been nominated to clean all the fish, had been stealthily slipping them all back into the water to avoid the chore.

Consequently, we have very little to show for our troubles other than some dark circles under our eyes, an empty bag of Cheetos, and, in Judson's case, two fresh new scars from an absolutely beautiful double-finger-hook-set incident (he actually put a treble hook into each thumb, effectively handcuffing himself - something I've heard about, but never actually seen done before). Fortunately Hank is handy with a set of needle-nose, so we stayed out of the hospital.

I reckon maybe we're just Crappy fishermen after all.

IWA

2010-04-09T08:35:00.000-07:00

I managed to scoot away from work at a reasonable hour the other night and slip over to Lanier to spend a few hours on the water before dark.

George met me at the ramp, boat in tow, and we were underway in no time at all. I got the boat up on plane for just a few seconds, then we dropped down to a fast idle and shut her off to fish an outgoing point in the mouth of the creek. The sun was setting, the water was smooth. It was perfect.

And, at that point of complete calm and serenity; things began to unravel at an alarming rate.

1. First cast on my new reel - massive (MASSIVE) backlash. Un-pick-out-able. Rod retires to rod locker, 5 minutes re-rigging.

2. Second cast - bait hung up in tree. Broken off, $5 lure lost.

3. Ski boat nearby hails us in distress. We motor over good-natured-ly and the two men in the ski boat (already suspect) say "can you please tow us over - the motor died".

Too kindhearted to say no - we hook up his cheap tow line and say "where to?" Both slackjawed ski-boaters indicate "just over there" pointing at a huge marina..barely visible...and clear across the lake.

"You mean right here?" I responded, wistfully, gesturing vaguely at the bank 300 yards to my right.

"No - over THERE" the idiot pointed excitedly. "WAYYYY over there!!! Thanks so much for the tow!"

I should have been suspicious when the driver immediately shook out an entire newspaper, put his feet up on the dash, and started reading; but when, a full HOUR later, we arrive across the lake with the stupid ski boat in tow the man said "here's $20; I told the last guy that towed us we'd pay the next guy;" I nearly fell out.

George looked over at me and said, incredulously "THE LAST GUY THAT TOWED ME??? I guess this is par for the course then, huh?"

IWA - the idiots win again.

The HuntFish Widows' Whine Club

2010-04-09T08:22:00.000-07:00

It seems the The Magnificent Denizens of The Huntfish Adventure Club have come under attack, once again, by several insanely jealous members of the (somewhat) fairer sex.

Thats right; Tyler, Christie, Kelly, and Janet have created a competing organization entitled "The HuntFish Widows' Whine Club" wherein the 4 women conflabulate together; daintily sipping various cheap whines poolside while generally downgrading their absent significant others, ahem, i.e. - us.

Although I'm generally in favor of HuntFish Widows maintaining healthy friendships amongst themselves, I've noticed a general sense of injury and malaise seems to pervade the attitudes of Whine Club Attendees subsequent to attendance at a Huntfish Widows Whine Club (hereinafter "HWWC") event.

I have, therefore, decided to attend the next HWWC gathering of the deserted, injured and emotionally maimed quasi-sportswomen this Sunday (unless Fred and I have gone fishing) and report back on their no-doubt distasteful and unseemly activities.

If I find anything particularly disturbing or otherwise damaging to my delicate sensibilities taking place therein; I will report back immediately.

Humbly Yours,

James G. Ewing, Jr.
HFAC Co-Chair

An Easter Defeat

2010-04-05T10:51:00.000-07:00

I’ve spent a fair amount of time lately wandering around Lake Lanier trying to figure out how to catch fish. You’d think with a body of water as large as Lanier – your options would be fairly limitless.

That’s not the case.

I can say that definitively and I should know – because I’ve mostly found some great places where fish aren’t.

So, despite owning a bass-fishing-techniques book signed by Kevin VanDam; I think my strategy has been overall flawed. I prefer to drive around very fast until I see an area that looks “fishy”, then shut off the power and coast directly at it. Apparently that’s not the way to go, but you’d think even with a somewhat-flawed strategy you’d still meet with some success – or run over a fish and kill it or something. I ran through a portion of the lake that actually SMELLED very fishy last week and I got very excited about that, but I only caught one fish.

So far I’ve caught exactly 5 fish this month, and we’re not talking whales here either. It’s a good thing I wasn’t catering the Sermon on the Mount because I doubt these 5 fish would turn into much - even with 5 loaves and some divine intervention.

I have, however, managed to amass an immense quantity of tackle that I don’t quite know how to use and drive around very, very fast – I’m pretty happy about that.

Which brings me to my point: Easter has come and gone and, in addition to a stunning lack of success on the water, I’ve also managed to magnificently underwhelm everyone with my complete and utter failure during the Easter Egg Hunt. Not only did I not conquer the Golden Egg, but I also managed to shame up my family by not knowing either

A. Gma’s middle name (Clara – not Lillith, Lillian, Claire, or Clarke)
and
B. the name of the street in Macon on which my mother first lived.

I also have not been successful in continuing to love the Blue Team of Cousins who beat me so ignominiously during the competition. I loathe them - all of them, and I will be forced to carefully consider many elaborate pranks of retribution in the coming weeks to soothe my wounded spirit.

I also intend to loudly elaborate on the many grievous ways in which Team Blue Cousins cheated and otherwise behaved in an unsportsmanlike manner. I will begin with this:

1. Thomas cheated during the Blindfolded-Pinwheel-Pickup event by peeking out from under his blindfold while my completely discombobulated partner (Tyler) blindly wandered around the front yard uprooting handfuls of grass at sporadic intervals and laughing uproariously.
2. I saw – CLEARLY SAW – Sherry mouthing the word “CLARA” to Ashley during the infamous Not-Knowing-Of-The-Grandma’s-Name trivia situation.

Clearly, I cannot be expected to perform at the upper limits of my capabilities under such extreme duress.

I'll Be Your Tribesman

2010-03-17T12:49:00.000-07:00

Today Tyler mentioned that some of her friends went on a National Geographic cruise trip to Antarctica.

Well, whoooop-tee-dooo.

I'm sure, like several of my ex-girlfriends, Antarctica was lovely, frigid, forbidding, and yet somehow extremely fascinating.

As you may have guessed - it does NOT sound great to me, but I would never discourage you from going on such a trip. In fact - go! I encourage it!

Me? I don’t see much point in taking a National Geographic trip anywhere there aren’t sweaty naked people. After 10 formative years furiously thumbing through National Geographics for photos of naked tribespeople (’87 was a good year); I’m not sure I can go through life fulfilled without gawking at an indigenous people group clad in the altogether at least once.

I find it fascinating that in 2010 there are still entire societies on earth that wander around in various stages of undress. It’s fantastic. By the time I shuffle off this mortal coil I will have spent something like .055% of my lifespan on the mind-numbing chore of taking things to get cleaned that these people groups did away with altogether! And WE claim to be the more “evolved” tribe?

The general anthropological study is interesting I guess, but I just can’t quite wrap my mind around it. Can you imagine what our society would be reduced to if shirts were optional?? I, for one, wouldn’t get a single useful thing done, and I certainly wouldn’t have sufficient focus to hunt or gather. The power grid would flicker and go completely out by day 5 and by day 200 the US population would have either happily starved to death with peaceful smiles on their faces or doubled – I’m not sure which.

Without the dry cleaner we’d be just another group of sweaty tribesmen with barely enough focus left to sharpen a pointy stick.

Hug your dry cleaner today. He'll understand.

Spray Tan Your Way to Success

2010-03-15T14:00:00.000-07:00

"My bathing suit bottom has officially disappeared," Aunt Sherry sighed; gently waggling her rear in the corner of the sitting room.

"I mean, it's 18 inches deep and going out of sight" she continued, stifling a giggle.

"This one is going to take a surgical team to extract" she chortled, walling her eyes and gesturing vaguely behind her.

"MOM! I can't take you anywhere!" Ashley wailed.

Then to me: "At Beau's wedding we he had to take her wine glass away before she ended up on stage with a tambourine!"

"You know I just asked the band if I could play the tambourine one time and for all the noise y'all make of it you'd think I walked up on stage naked playing a trombone! I've always wanted to play the tambourine, ok?!" Sherry said. Then, before Ashley could retort, she gave the hem of her black cocktail dress a series of violent tugs and sashayed off in the direction of the dessert table.

“Did she say “bathing suit” Aunt Greer buzzed into my ear from behind me. “Why did she say bathing suit?”

"I’M WEARING MY BATHING SUIT BOTTOM BECAUSE THE ELASTIC HOLDS MY GUT IN!!!" Sherry announced gaily from the dessert area; chocolate covered strawberry held triumphantly aloft.

I heard a noise behind me and turned just in time to see Aunt Greer’s glasses slide off her nose and onto the floor. I bent to pick them up and noticed that they were missing an earpiece. “Greer I think you just broke your glasses" I said.

"Oh no honey. I know. They’ve been like that for awhile." She replied, carefully balancing the broken spectacles on the bridge of her nose. “If I hold my head just-so they stay on fine.”

Between bites of strawberry Sherry continued: “Last night Robert and I went to Nichole’s salon to get a spray tan; and I realized how skinny these bathing suit bottoms make me feel; so I thought to myself ‘well, maybe I’ll just wear them to the engagement party!’”

“What?! Robert gets a spray tan? He always does look very dark!” Greer peered at her, owlishly; eyeglasses slightly askew.

“Oh noooo, Robert has his own tanning bed at the house! He just came over to have a glass of wine and watch me get spray tanned" Sherry finished.

Oh man I think I’ve heard enough about your weird married games” I said. “Is this one of those things Cosmopolitan says to do to spice up your marriage?”

“Well I don’t know. I just called and said ‘Robert take the ham out of the freezer to thaw, I’m going to get a spray tan,’ and Robert said, ‘I’m on my way.’ When I got there he had a bottle of wine open and his reading glasses on and he said ‘Nichole spray her down good.’”

Greer twittered guiltily, further jostling her glasses and said “Well. Ahem. Harrumph. Let’s take a family picture.”

We did, and cousin Sarah insisted on closing her eyes at the flash, so we had to keep re-taking it until she was satisfied with lighting, skin tone, and degree of eye-open-ness.

None of the resulting photos managed to capture the ephemeral photographic “good side” I’ve been searching for in photos of myself for years, but Sarah seemed pleased with her results.

We ate deep-fried pork bites, mashed potatoes and roast beef, asparagus, and roast corn dip until we lacked the strength to navigate the buffet; then we carried the party back to the Gaither’s for a post-engagement-party wind-down. During the wind-down phase we discovered that the lunchtime coleslaw had disagreed with some of us; and those unlucky few spent the remainder of the evening with feverish, perspiring faces nestled gently against the cool, soothing side of a porcelain fixture.

Cole slaw, the silent killer, brought yet another family of strong, sociable, southerners to the throne of repentance.

I say if coleslaw, the most unassuming of foods, can take you down: I’m certainly not going to worry about raw oysters; but regardless of food-borne illness and in spite of the casualties - I’d say that the weekend was an overall success. We all learned a bit about the new in-laws and Eufaula, Alabama; but the single most important thing I learned was this:

Life Rule #698: A good spray tan is the key to any successful marriage.

Attention

2010-03-12T10:49:00.000-08:00

Some people require very regular attention or they get very disgruntled.

me: So - you eggsighted for our big weekend of fun?
Tyler: Yeppers. Speaking of eggs, I made another delicious breaky for myself.
me: You're not afraid to eat some food are you! Good lawd. Fatty!
Tyler: Who you calling “fat,” haircut? Breakfast is good for you, chump. Egg whites, whole wheat bread, swiss cheese, tobasco, perfection
me: Good grief. I cooked myself cheerios for breakfast once. That’s about all I had in me.
Tyler: Yah. You have that nerdy dairy allergy too. I'm surprised you made it through middle school.
Me: Eh, so whats up?
Tyler: knock knock
....KNOCK! KNOCK!
....KNOCKYYY KNOCK!!!!!
..........HALLO?
.....(Um, I think thumbody is at your door...)
me: Sorry, I’m back. Um hallo? I mean: “who's there?”
Tyler: Esther
Me: Esther a doctor in the house?!?!?
me: Did I get it??!? IS that it??! Hhahahhaha I made that one up!!
Tyler: NO. Also, you are not funny.
me: ok ok ok ok, fine. "Esther who?"
Tyler: Esther bunny!
....knock knock
..........KNOCK KNOCK
......(ugh, we're going to have to work on your knock knock skills, loser.). Ok, nevermind.
me: Sorry, back again. Ok ok fine. "Esther bunny who?"
Tyler: NO! AGH!!!
me: "ESTHER BUNNY WHO?"
Tyler: You is retarded.
me: ESTHHER BUNNY WHO
Tyler: NO! I said "knock knock" again, nerd.
me: Geez. ok ok ok. "WHO IS THERE?!?!"
Tyler: Anna
me: anna who?
Tyler: Annanother Esther bunny!....Knock knock!!
me: Oh man I’m not sure I have the strength for this; but ok: “who is there?”
Tyler: Stella
me: "Stella who?"
Tyler: Stella nother Esther Bunny!!!! (they're everywhere!!!)
me: Oh man. I’m done. I've had enough. I cant take the mirth
Tyler: I tell you when you're done, and don't you forget it!! KNOCK KNOCK!!!! (one more please!!!)
me: I'M THERE AND I'M ARMED.
Tyler: It's orange! Yoo hoo, Orange is at the door!!! ORANGE IS AT THE DOORRR!!!
me: Ack. Argh. Fine – ORANGE WHO?
Tyler: Orange you glad there are no more Esther bunnies?!?!??!?
me: ok. Is it over?
Tyler: HAPPY FRIDAY JimMay
me: I'm officially dumber now
Tyler: hahahahahahahahaa I was crying I was laughing so hard. So, I enjoyed it at least.
me: Oh man. You don’t get out enough.

Exotic Pets

2010-03-12T10:24:00.000-08:00

I generally don’t want a cat for a pet; but after seeing an aquarium full of ferrets at the pet store the other day – I specifically do not want a ferret. A ferret is 100% not to be trusted and, for some reason, this particular collection of ferrets look vaguely "sweaty" which really threw me off. I’d rather have an average-sized tiger wandering around than a ferret - that's how badly I dont' want a ferret.

At least with a tiger you can keep track of its whereabouts. If there is a live tiger in my house, I promise you I’m going to know exactly where it is at all times.

I’d consider that a “priority.”

But not a ferret! No telling where your pet ferret is. It could be anywhere.

Having a pet ferret would be something like having a pet snake crossed with a pet tiger crossed with a cat burglar – it’s an animal that’s extremely unpredictable, untrustworthy, potentially vicious, and it could be anywhere at any time and you wouldn’t necessarily know it.

I find that prospect horrifying.

I’m not sure what the animal theme is all about lately, but it’s obviously been on my mind. Seeing a whole aquarium full of pet ferrets in the pet store the other day is probably what set me off, but the squirrel thing in the news the other day (see previous post) really got me started thinking about rodents and such, in general.

Nothing beats Mom’s story about the python in Macon though. This is apparently a true story that took placae on the street behind my grandmother's house. Here's the gist of it:

Lady comes home from work.

Phone rings. It's Son on the phone.

Son says “Mom, my 13ft long pet python needs sun. Can you take him outside?”

At this point in the story, my Mom’s phone would have abruptly cut off. Someone would have had to immediately escort her to the nervous hospital to recover from “there is a python in my house” shock; but apparently this woman was a bit sturdier around reptiles.

Anyway, I digress.

Lady prods sluggish python outside for a little R&R.

Python charges up its sunlight batteries, then turns on its captor, completely encircling her in its coils but, unaccountably, refusing to eat her.

6hrs later Husband comes home to find woman laying prone, and perfectly still in backyard…wrapped head-to-toe in very-much-alive python.

Apparently playing dead saved her neck because, according to later reports, when she struggled the snake tightened down. Methinks she picked a good time to sit tight.

Man says, “Honey, are you ok?”

Wife says “get this thing off of me.”

Sherrif arrives; but refuses to enter backyard.

Hussband manages to extricate wife. (How? We don’t know. Perhaps by insulting the python verbally – we don’t really know the whole story here; except that, at this juncture, no one has yet had the presence of mind to produce a sharp implement or firearm).

Sheriff shoots python in head from roof of house with state-issued shotgun…..multiple times.

End of story.

Which really all just goes to show you: do not mess with ferrets.

A Second-Best Kind of Day

2010-03-08T09:18:00.000-08:00

Apparently the second best day of my life happened this past Tuesday. I thought it was pretty nearly one of the tip-top very best A-#1 days, but according to those of you bent on ruining my life and stealing my joy - it was only second best, to be followed by a long period of misery, and finally the very best day of my life which culminates only due to my impending financial ruination.

Wwaaahhh wahhh waaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh, thank you for coming to the party Mr. and Mrs. Downer and all your Downer family progeny.

Tuesday, I bought a boat. A big, fast, bad-to-the-bone redfish and bass fishing boat that I'm positively terrified of, and don't really know how to use.

Was that an intelligent financial decision based on my career as a CPA, and everything I know about the economy, myself, and my plans for the future?

Of course not.

Was that a decision based on my understanding that moth and rust destroy? That the things of this earth will perish and that one day, I too shall return to the dust?

No, but thanks for bringing it back to Biblical.

Was this an investment in my future? My future progeny, or things of an eternal nature?

Negative.

This was an investment in going real' fast because: I want to go real' fast.

This collection of nuts, bolts, oil, and various spinning-things under pressure will, presumably, help me achieve the goal of mind-blowing, gravity-defying, intense, terrifying, not-at-all-safe, fastness; and THAT is why I wrote the check.

Perhaps Fred B. Hand, IV; said it best as he looked at me this weekend and said "Jimmy, this boat needs to go real' fast. When we're done fishing, let me help it go real' fast."

45 minutes later; Fred hunched behind the wheel of my new boat, face set in a grim picture of hell-bent determination but, as we rocketed past his grandfather's house at 70mph with my terrified screams filling the air, I still found my speed-numbed brain pulsing out one lone thought: "THIS IS AWESOME."

So, to all you non-boat-owners who immediately chuckle and begin spouting your pithy anecdotal references to boat ownership, cost, and stupidity let me say this: I have kept careful track of your derisive comments and I will wave to you at the dock...

As soon as I get my boat out of the shop.

Insanity Reigns

2010-03-05T07:49:00.000-08:00

Sometimes things in the world get so bad that even the most sheltered of us are forced into a head-on collision with reality. One would think my steadfast refusal to watch the news or read the paper would protect me from the evil, polluting, influence of the outside world; but it doesn’t.

You can’t even get through the Bible without crossing paths with some pretty heady stuff. I flipped through Romans the other day, minding my own business and thinking nothing but good thoughts; and what did I see? “Orgies.”

Seriously. I’ve never even been invited to one of those and here the Bible is bringing it up!

I guess there’s no escaping the realities of a fallen world.

Somehow, the insidious evils of this mortal coil continue to pursue even I – not even the protective wall of tackle boxes, soft plastic worms, crankbaits, and other bass lures I’ve carefully built up around my tv-room chair has been able to buffer me from the stream of bad news pouring out of our television.

This morning Chalrton M. Bouchemeyer, evildoer, sent me the following link - http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/4489792.stm - and something pure inside me died.

How long before the annual Squirrel Hunting Championship of the World Invitational Tournament becomes a gritty struggle for existence? What is next? “Dolphin Eats Fisherman?” “Flock of Bluebirds Carry off School Bus – Children Maimed?”

“Anderson Cooper Accused In Betty White Disappearance??!?!”

How many more indignities must we suffer before the rapture finally comes?

I’d like to direct your attention to a small, seemingly-innocuous sentence in the article - overshadowed somewhat by the headline, but chilling, nonetheless:

“Komosmolskaya Pravda notes that in a previous incident this autumn chipmunks terrorized cats in a part of the territory."

"Terrorized."

To me that means some number of chipmunks intentionally and prolongedly terrified and insulted a cat, or many cats; with no higher purpose than the sheer, liberating, freedom that must follow from a pack of chipmunks asserting themselves.

Somebody help me.

I can tell you 100% for sure that if I ever turn a corner and spy a pack of teenage chipmunks terrorizing anything; there’s going to be a me-shaped hole in anything solid between there and my Grandma’s house; because Grandma’s is the only safe place I know of when insanity reigns.