In Case of Emergency

It was all my fault, really, because apparently when your driver’s license expires like mine did (Saturday) – you’re automatically a criminal in the eyes of Hartsfield Int’l. I tried to explain to the airport checkpoint lady this morning that I was turkey hunting on my birthday, hence – unable to make it to the DMV. I’m not sure I was able to convey to her exactly what that meant, but I think I left her with the fuzzy idea that wild turkeys somehow prevented me from getting a drivers license. I’m glad I was able to connect with another human being on that level, but ultimately it did me little good.

I made what I would consider my first "serious mistake" in the situation when, upon being asked for "alternate identification" I cheerfully produced my nicely-laminated firearms license. I said, "well, no I don't really have anything else - how about my concealed carry license? Will that work?"

Without further ado she immediately scribbled all over my boarding pass in orange highlighter and handed me off to somebody else for “extra screening” which, I now know, means “gloved man-on-man rubdown.”

Don’t get me wrong – everybody should experience the healing power of a little physical touch now and again, right?

Well, I certainly think so……and since I have no internal monologue - I said so - out loud......to the big airport security guard just as he wrapped up the first "leg" (no pun intended) of the highly scientific groping process TSA calls “patting down."

Based on the thin-lipped expression that settled like a dark cloud across his face at 5:42AM this morning, I’d say he did not want to be my source of healing.

It was early, so I figured, “well – that didn’t work, but I’ve still got time to cheer him up!” Which I believe is consistent with my habit of repeating a joke louder, and longer, when it doesn’t float over well the first time. Somewhere deep in my head I assume that if you’re not laughing - you must not have heard me well.

It is probably no surprise to you, then, that my next attempts: “whoa, just a little to the left there, buddy!!” and “Don’t touch me there ‘less you mean it!!” were also not well-received.

Some people can’t take a joke. Fortunately I can – and I had plenty of time to think of my next one because Mr. Security Guard, Sir, left me an extra 10 minutes in that big glass frisking box where they keep all sorts of terrible people including criminals, bad people, terrorists, farmers, and nursing mothers.

Having never actually been inside a hamster cage myself, I never thought much about how it must feel to be a glass-enclosed rodent, and buddy, it ain’t a great feeling. There is something about being enclosed in 4-sides glass in the middle of a crowded room that just makes one a tiny bit self-conscious. I don’t really know why - the only real difference is that, instead of standing alone in the center of a room, you’re suddenly find yourself standing alone in the center of a room surrounded by a thin, clear barrier. But in case you’re wondering – its incredibly weird; and people definitely stare. I mean straight at you – from inches away. I guess they figure there aren’t that many opportunities in life to really, seriously, commit yourself to stare at somebody straight in the face from inches away in a crowded room AND not have to worry much about consequences. I guess I can see that; a stare-for-free opportunity is like money in the dryer.

One little chubby lady held up the security line a full 30 seconds while she committed my form to memory. She looked so satisfied, that when they let me out – I decided to hang around for a second and see what the next person looked like under glass myself.

I missed the window though because security asked me to “take my bags and move along.” I noticed the designated patter-downer was eyeballing me and snapping his gloves, so I took their advice (and my bags) and immediately tripped over one of those little rubber floor mats, got up, and headed for the train.

The underground train ride at Hartsfield is always exciting for me because, as soon as I set foot onboard, I immediately start to wonder about underground-train-related deaths. Whenever I say that; people look at me like I just bit the head off a live pidgeon or something. So hey – listen, I’m not crazy. YOU are crazy! Have YOU ever seen an actual DRIVER on one of those trains? ME NEITHER, but I’m the nutty one for thinking, "hey – we’re hopping on back of the headless horseman here at 50mph and I’m a little nervous about it???"

All I’m saying is – who’s driving? It ain’t me and I know for sure it ain’t you, but somebody’s in charge and for all you know - HE got off at Concourse T. That thing doesn’t just “wind up” like a watch and even if it did – I’m not riding a windup watch at 55mph UNDERGROUND for you or anybody. While we’re talking about it - if you think that leather handle thong thingy hanging off the ceiling is going to help you – you’re out of your element.

So, that’s what I’m thinking about. That’s also why, when that door opens at my destination, you’d do well to stand clear.

I made it through the headless train ride (this time) but it made me really hungry. Fortunately, there was a Krystal handy – and coffee, which; 2.5 hrs later (30,000ft over Texas) I realize may have been a key strategic error on my part because, friend, if any of that bizarre blue water in the lavatory gets anywhere on my person – there’s going to be a me-shaped hole in the side of this plane. They wouldn’t be nearly as worried about the smoke detectors if they knew the speed at which I can get that emergency door open.

Don’t bother to tell me about the flotation cushions; thats not what I'm worried about. I just need to know how to get away from that blue stuff.

Short on Talent

This year my compatriot, George M. Ewing, and I decided to make our initial foray into the wilds of competitive bass fishing. George bought the boat, I bought several thousand dollars worth of rods, reels, and stuff we don’t need (mostly plastic tool-like devices that DO NOT FLOAT); and off we went.

We joined the a prominent local Bass Club (40 two-man teams fishing one tournament per month) and I attended the first Bass Club meeting; held in a small employee meeting room in the back of Bass Pro Shops. I initially didn’t go in because the sign on the door clearly said “employees only.” I stopped with my hand on the knob and thought to myself:

“Wait. Am I an employee? No. I am not an employee. Then this sign is for me. If this sign is for me, then how did those other people get in? Are they employees? They must be. I do not see a Bass Club sign anywhere. I suddenly find that I do not know what to do or where to go. I also am not sure I can go through this door with all this un-purchased merchandise in my hands.”

Doubtless my evening would have ended differently had a voice belonging to the man behind me not said, “son, are you going to go in or not?” as he gently nudged me into the room.

The first thing I noticed as I entered the rear of the room is that the meeting room smelled strongly of smoke and dude, but nobody was actually smoking. This lead me to believe that various members of our esteemed club have not read the recent literature on tobacco use. I also noted a proliferation of blue jeans, boots, spit cups, carhartt logos, and beards. As I took note of these things it came to my attention that the registration table was at the front of the room, whereas I was standing at the back…..in my business suit, tie, and little tassel loafers.

There was nothing for it but to go so, resigned to my fate, I trudged (tassels flopping) down the center isle to the front of the room. Clippity, clop.

After the twitter in the audience diminished to indoor levels, the man at the tournament registration table said “Can I help you?”

Yes. I want to register for a bass tournament. My team name is ‘Swamp Bass’.

Had I pranced through there naked in a coon skin cap I doubt anyone would have been more surprised.

“Well alright” he said, “but we don’t really do team names here. Just your first names go right here on the board.”

Then we’re Team Jimmy and George, but can’t we just be ‘Swamp Bass’? We came up with it today.

“No.”

Well, I guess ‘Team Jimmy and George" is fine.

“It’s just going to read ‘Jimmy and George Ewing.’”

Not “Team Jimmy and George?”

“No.”

Ok then.

Our first tournament was this past weekend. We took stock of our gear and found that we had dual sonar, swimbaits, trolling motors, crankbaits, worms, jigs, jigheads, line, bags, culling bags, culling markers, motor oil, and various motor fluids, fuses, lights, vests, raingear, and crawfish scent spray. Anything a reasonable person might need to catch a fish, we have, and its brand new.

What we’re short on is: talent.

After 9 straight hours of fishing we weighed in exactly: zero fish. We’d have been every bit as successful fishing in the bathtub.

But have no fear! The Swamp Bass will ride again.

SQUIRRRRREEEELLLLLLL!!!!!!

I’m taking this opportunity to thank all the attendees of the Tripp Maddux and James G. Ewing, Jr Memorial Deer Camp Squirrel Hunting Championship of the World Invitational Tournament* for their patronage and to congratulate the Winner (Dad), First Loser (Seth), and Losingest Loser (Thomas Benton) on their new titles for 2008.

Subcommittee Estimator, Reid Maddux, through his exhaustive review of tournament results has estimated for us the following:

1. Rounds fired: 2,000
2. Squirrels killed: 42
3. Collateral damage (chipmunks and birds): 6
4. Alcohol consumption per person: lots, mostly by Tripp
5. Tenderloin consumed: 25lbs
6. Rounds required to sight in Mark Stephen’s 1942-vintage rifle: 300
7. Profanity: average
8. Food: excellent

In all, I deem it a “huge success”.

I’d also like to congratulate the winners of the Telling of the Lie Ceremony (which we forgot to hold). Had we not been so consumed with tallying the scores we’d have recognized Buster Slocumb and Bryan Nix for their fine, upstanding, RSVP card responses. Here they are:

Name: BUSTER SLOCUMB
Please Address me as: BBBUUUSSSSSTAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH
My rifle’s name is: JEANNE (incidentally also his wife's name)
The worst thing I have ever done is: FELL ON a 2’ LONG PIECE OF BAMBOO, ANAL TRACT FIRST.
The money buried on my property is located: IN THE BARN.

Name: BRYAN NIX
Please address me as: WORLD CHAMPION, SIR.
My Rifle’s Name is: SUZANNE
The worst thing I have ever done is: BRUNETTE…TEQUILA….NAVEL……OH NO WAIT, THAT WAS THE BEST THING I’VE EVER DONE.
The money buried on my property is located: 3’ SOUTHWEST FROM THE NORTHEAST CORNER OF MY SEPTIC TANK.

Among my favorite non-winning responses were Seth’s response to both questions which was “BEND OVER AND I'LL SHOW YOU” and Uncle Robert’s rifle’s name: “SPARKY” as well as the worst thing Uncle Robert ever did which he succinctly stated as: "A FELONY" (which he was completely unable to explain in mixed company).

I named my rifle Betty (a.k.a. Thor the Destroyer) – in honor of my friend at work who does not appreciate hunting…at all. She also does not appreciate that I now tell people “Betty killed lots of squirrels this weekend”, so I sort of win twice like that; and you know I like to win.

Despite suffering from an intense amount of depression due to the full month of zero hunting activity between now and turkey season - I’m happy to report that I’ve begun mentally planning the next BIG EVENT for this summer, as well as mulling over details of the next annual Squirrel World Championship in 2009.

So, please raise your glasses and join me in a toast: TO THE WICKED SQUIRREL!

SALUT!

JGE

*Celebrating the Dance of the Wicked Squirrel since 2008.

Financial Obligations

In response to my well-intended invitation to the Tripp Maddux & James G. Ewing, Jr. Memorial Deer Camp Squirrel Hunting Championship of the World Invitational Tournament I received the following email from the spunky wife of one of my favorite invitees:

"Let me warn you VERY STERNLY that I have a child growing in my belly. My husband is NOT to get shot on this little trip. I need his money."

Ahhh. Honesty. Its so refreshing.

A Normal Year

So, despite 2008 cranking up to an inauspicious start on many levels (and my generalized angst over kicking off a round-number year to a rough start): I have a great amount of faith - faith that in 2008 at least one or more of the following will happen:

1. I will make money.
2. I will eat something when I am hungry.
3. I will make sure the thing eaten in #2 will under no circumstances be "dog".
4. I will go to the beach
5. I will not inentionally burn down my own house
6. I will not increase my love of cubicles
7. I will either gain or lose weight, but likely will not stay the same.
8. I will go to another country
9. I will watch tv and read books
10. I will build something in the workshop that takes me 12 times as long to do as it would a professional.
11. I will unsuccessfully pursue some sort of wild game animal
12. I will successfully pursue some sort of wild game animal
13. I will continue to invest in happy, successful, exciting relationships with all sorts of people.
14. I will be overappreciated and underappreciated. Both will lead to drama.
15. I will wish I could be a fly on the wall.
16. I will realize someone else was a fly on MY wall
17. I will avoid prescription drugs (including tylenol) on principle
18. I will love at least one new movie. It will most likely involve guns.
19. I will laugh until I hurt myself.
20. I will go to a superbowl party and I will not watch the superbowl.
21. I will complain significantly out-of-proportion to my illness in the event I get sick.
21. I will constantly wish someone else washed my clothes.
22. I will constantly remind myself that nobody else is going to wash my clothes.
23. I will avoid malls.
24. I will shop online.
25. I will forget to take my vitamins.
26. I will lose the pill organizer I bought to make sure I didn't forget to take my vitamins.
27. I will shoot at squirrels on my neighbor's birdfeeder when he is not home.
28. I will spend entirely too much money and wonder where it went. When I wonder where it went it will remind me of Granddad who squandered his
money on me.
29. I will pay taxes.
30. I will not gripe about paying taxes. I will make sure I get a refund every year so it feels like THEY are actually paying ME to live here.
31. I will squander the tax refund in #29 on trips, stuff that I ultimately lose, and people who don't realize I'm squandering my money on them.
32. I will, as always, appreciate it if you squander YOUR money on ME.

See, it could still be a normal year after all.

Sophiserated

I made a quick run down to the Woodruff the other night to see "Sophisticated Ladies" at the Alliance. Naturally, I didn't bother to look at the program, read up on the performance, or otherwise educate myself ahead of time. I had a general, fuzzy, sort of idea that I was going to see "a play," and I knew exactly how to get there, and where my seats were - so I decided not to stress too much over it. I've learned to give myself some leeway on the tiny details. It’s the little surprises in life, you know.

So, first of all its miserably cold out. We're talking nose-hair-crackling, eyeball-watering, meat-storage kind of cold. I don't mind the cold really, except when it makes ME cold. This time: I was cold, but I get there and manage to guide my lovely, charming, unspecified-non-date-accompaniement-person into the theater without taking any significant down-stair tumbles (quite a feat in the monstrous black buffalo robe she was wearing). Breathless, we plunk down, Nanuk of the North arranges her many robes about her, and we begin to take stock of our situation.

I quickly realize: we're in a nursing home. My generic-unspecified-non-date-individual and I have become literally, the single youngest people in the room. I'd estimate Becca at roughly 32 or 36 and I'm a light, flavorful, 27. Our seat neighbors (Norton and Donna) were in their late 70s and the rest of the crowd would have seated them at the children's table.

The "show" starts and, in a moment of shining clarity I realize: "oh, THAT Duke Ellington." We're quickly listening to jazz music and we're surrounded by geriatrics. Norton, to his credit, is sitting ramrod-straight and, literally, dead asleep before the first dancer skips out. I'm busy checking out the crowd when I hear non-specific-un-date beginning to cackle under hear breath. Upon directing my attention at the stage I realize the dancers are jumping around on stage clawing at each other lasciviously in skirts of fake bananas.

I am, to put it mildly: surprised.

The third banana-shaking pelvic thrust sent poor Norton's eyebrows nearly through the roof and he started furiously unwrapping candies and popping them into his mouth.

I leaned in and said "hey, can I get one of those?" He arched a bushy eyebrow in my direction and said "you want a nitroglycerine tablet?"

Yeah, why not.

Full Circle

I ran out to lunch yesterday. On my way back in I rolled my window down, entered the parking deck, parked, and hit the "up" button on my window.....Nothing. After several minutes of banging furiously on the "up" button I looked up and realized a woman in the car next to me was staring; looking at me quizzically with a look bordering on concern. I shuddered involuntarily because I knew that I had initiated an inescapable sequence of events known only as The Eternal Wheel of Destruction. Once you're on the Eternal Wheel of Destruction you have no choice but to come full-circle.

The wheel has three phases:

PHASE ONE - "Get Some Pliers"
So, my first thought was "I better get some pliers" because, generally, I can fix nearly anything with some good pliers. If I CAN'T fix it - it at least feels good to have a pair of pliers handy. Then I'm standing there with some pliers instead of....just standing there. Standing there with some pliers announces to passers-by that "you are actively engaged in remedying your own misfortune." It doesn't matter what the misfortune is. You can spill a gallon of popcorn at the movie theater, whip out some pliers and begin frantically squeezing the lip of the empty container and people will think things are under control. If something happens and you're just standing there empty-handed - you look stranded and helpless; like a baby seal in a parking deck. Plus, if you're just standing there chances are good you're also "gaping"; and that's no good. If you gape - somebody will offer to help you - then its over: you're officially never going to be self-sufficient again. No matter what - you'll always know there was that one time when a stranger had to help you.

I am no stranger to The Wheel; so I quickly rustled up a pair of pliers and commenced to standing there with some pliers. That was okay. I felt relieved and I know several people saw me and approved, but I got tired of it pretty quickly and figured I could at least try to "get it unstuck." This is PHASE TWO

PHASE TWO - "Thrashing The Water"
Now, if you've ever attempted to get something unstuck you know that there's a 50/50 chance "unsticking" will also involve "crushing", "shattering", "mutilating", or at least "chipping."

In this instance I quickly went from trying to get it unstuck back to just standing there with some pliers; except, this time I was just standing there with some pliers holding a piece of my window which is, as you may have guessed, Phase Three.

PHASE THREE - "Complete Destruction and Defeat"
So, there I am pliers in one hand, chunk of window in the other, door panel in pieces in the parking deck. There was only one thing to do: bang furiously on the "up" button.

The wheel was complete.

1-800-STOOPID

I had a missed call on my way out the door to work the other day. I operate tangentially to the rest of the world in that if I DON'T recognize the number I'm much more likely to answer the call immediately. That seems to be opposite the normal tide of human behavior.

The truth is: I harbor secret hopes that answering an unknown number will culminate in a really good surprise, and you know how much I love surprises.

I've found that when you know the number - you generally have a solid idea on whats about to happen. Sometimes its good, sometimes it ain't so good; but its typically not much of a surprise either way.

Of course then 800.555.2391 shows up on my Blackberry screen. My friends don't have 1-800 numbers, right? But you know who does? Publisher's Clearinghouse, the Georgia Lottery, Cabela's, Beretta USA, Remington, Harvard, Puff Daddy, Gregg Allmann, Dave Mathews, Chifuti Safaris, the White House, and Winchester (to name a few).

So, yes: I'm going to answer that 1-800 number and I'm going to do it fast. A tiny glimmer of hope drives me.

In this instance I answered the phone and the guy said something garbled that sounded like "work on your tap." I had been waiting on a call from the county to come work on their part of my sewer line (the county "tap") so I immediately launched into a long description of my plumbing issues culminating in my frustration over having to pull up and dispose of $4,000 in fine laminate flooring RUINED from a sewer line backup. Before I wrapped up the inning I went into my final stretch and came across the plate with a high, hard, fastball describing in detail what its like to come home and find your brand-new, recently-finished basement covered in an inch of standing water.

I paused briefly to admire the black plume of complaint swirling smokily over my head; when nervously over the phone line I heard: "I'm sorry sir this is Tim from Tech support. I was just calling to see if you got your Blackberry fixed."

Thanks Tim. Its fine.

Stupid Snuck In

I was at dinner with Matt "Caveman" Dunn last night talking finance (thats "f'nance" to you, my highbrow friends). I was just slinging some advice around; you know - testing out the 'ol CPA license. I am, after all, in f'nance. I'm not sure if you knew this or not but: I know about stuff.

I apparently know just enough about stuff that all I need is a well-intended friend and some cheap mexican food and I will have made a complete ass of myself by the time the cheese dip gets cold.

The rosy glow from my brilliant advice on credit cards hadn't worn off yet when I got to thinking - maybe I should look into the 'ol credit balance and see just exactly who's getting fat in MY pigsty these days. They know I'm a CPA over there, so I'm nearly certain Chase Manhattan wouldn't dare to tinker with my interest rates, right? It makes sense. You'd think that having one's very own CPA would be sort of like having anti-finance-charge balm on at all times - like mosquito repellent. Flap that CPA card around hard enough and creditors buzz on down to the next picnic. Intimidating, I know.

Normally.

In this case it'd been so long since I looked at a Chase statement I hadn't noticed the 14.5% rate increase. Initially I wrote "couple" of months ago, but lets be honest - it was definitely a "few" which, to me, typically means "more than two, but I'm not man enough to admit how many." At least, that’s what the credit woman at Chase said; "a few."

She was completely resistant to all of my charms; even the "wheedle" which I consider particularly effective against callcenter women. So, my early Christmas present to myself was: paying off a credit card for major home improvements.

Sure, building the basement was a good idea. And yeah, a little outstanding debt is Smart if it pays for itself, right?

Well, Smart left the door open and Stupid snuck in.

Bandito

I couldn't help but notice the other day that my friend Ernie's parents have something horrible and terrifying standing in their yard: tiny midget horses. Several of them actually. I find them extremely disconcerting and, to be perfectly honest, I'm more than just a little bit scared of them. But for some reason every time I see one all I can think about is: "I'd really like to ride that little horse."

Despite years of requests, his parents still won't let me.

All this "you weight 215lbs and that horse only weighs 30" business is ridiculous. Everybody knows horses can lift much heavier things than themselves.

Look at the Budweiser horses and that big wagon they're always dragging around. I find it hard to believe that thing is hollow and weighs less than a horse. Its got kegs of frosty, delicious beer in it. And we all know that's not light stuff. Even lite beer is heavier than say, feathers, for instance - you know? And a whole wagon full of feathers would be heavy as lead if you packed them down right.

I saw an impossibly small children's saddle on a hobby horse the other day, and I thought: that would be just the ticket for riding one of those tiny midget horses. You could strap on your capguns and plastic spurs, spur that little midget horse into a gallop and you'd be 300% faster than the kid on that hobby horse any day of the week.

If I was a kid again, and I managed to get myself a midget horse I'd be THE MAN. All the other kids in the neighborhood would be tooling around on there stupid Huffy bicycles, and I'd come galloping in on the wings of a dove - clippity clop!! There'd be 7-year-old girls camped out on the lawn day and night.

I guess its a good thing I didn't have a crazy little midget horse in 1987, because I'm not sure I could have used all that power for good.

Sure, the potential would have been there for me to become a little Lone Ranger - serving the cause of all that is good, noble, and right: I might have been a one-child neighborhood watch on ponyback.

BUT I probably would have ended up a tiny little bandito instead; terrorizing the neighborhood on my ignoble steed - pasturing in your geraniums, watering in your sprinklers - it would have been chaos.

No Further Questions

I've always wondered if every person in the world eventually comes to a crossroads where he or she is confronted, unavoidably, with the questions: "Am I completely okay? Is the way I perceive the world right, wholesome, and good? Is my character lacking in some fashion that I'm unaware of? When people see me, do they think I'm normal; or do they sort of 'wonder' about me a little bit?"

I began tackling those tough issues this morning during my commute - headed south on I-75 right about Mt. Paran Road. I'm not sure what it is about the Mt. Paran Rd. exit, but if I'm going to have a deep thought before noon; chances are good it'll start right there. Maybe its my lack of cell service from there to Moore's Mill Rd. - I really couldn't say.

Regardless, as I passed by the Northside Drive exit I glanced in the rearview and realized I'd been lip-synching the words to "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" by Cyndi Lauper since Moore's Mill Rd, you know - really getting into it, and a guy in a dump truck one lane over was staring at me.

Girls, after all, just want to have fun.

No further questions.

Double-Entendre

I went to an ASA "Late Model" stock car race the other day, which despite the concrete bleachers; was incredibly gratifying. I always forget how loud the cars are and I love that racing-fuel-smell.

Take some of that fuel smell mixed with burning rubber smell and maybe a little sweat and you've got yourself a seriously marketable cologne. I'm surprised more perfumeries don't think of the simple things like that. Sort of cuts down on the need to collect 1,000,000lbs of jasmine blossoms off the north side of Aghanistan, wouldn't it?

If you wear designer colognes your options are limited to stuff like "Suede", "Eternity", and "Obsession" and I can't help but think - those guys don't know what "eternity" or an "obsession" really smell like, you know?

I bet a real full-on obsession smells more like sweaty palms, stale popcorn, binoculars, and dirt - not that fruity-alcohol smell that comes in the bottle.

I don't even want to know what eternity smells like. It would most likely make my brain explode.

That should be the rule: you should have to name cologne what it smells like, and vice-versa - and NO foreign names. For all you know "Aquadigio" means: "hydrated redneck" in Italian. And French colognes? Please - if its not spelled out clearly in English I sure wouldn't say it out loud. Those guys haven't liked us much lately and I wouldn't put a little good-natured double-entendre past them. Seriously - we're talking about the country that INVENTED the double-entendre. Stamping something snide all over a product Americans PAY for like that would be a nationally-celebrated French triumph. You have to watch for that.

Actually, that’s not a bad name for a cologne now that I think about it: Double Entendre. I bet it would smell like mustard mixed with cocktail olives, linen, freshly-mown grass, hairspray, and gin.

I can smell a double-entendre coming a mile away.

Shark Bait

You know the funny thing about lakewater is that when you hit it hard enough - it really hurts. And I mean "real bad." I spent a full hour on Lanier last weekend getting dragged through the water like hairy shark bait and let me tell you: go from 20mph to 0 once or twice using only your face and you'll see what I mean.

There's really only one way to get up on the accursed thing to start with but I'm amazed at the number of new and graceless ways I can think of to fall OFF a wakeboard. Mostly you have to get UP to fall OFF though, and instead I just dragged around chugging lakewater like its my job: Jimmy Ewing, Lakewater Flavor Tester. Lanier '07 is piquant with notes of oak and fish and a light salmonella finish (if you're curious buy a wakeboard).

Do you ever have that experience where you hammer through the water so long that you actually pause a little at the very peak of your descent and have time to think "Hmm. I wonder when I'm going to come back up?" It happened to me - everything sort of slowed down, I hung there for a second, thunk a quick thought or two, then was completely shocked at the direction my life jacket suggested might be "up." If I hadn't taken McGuyver's advice and followed the air bubbles I'd still be down there. Its funny the TV shows you remember when you're about to die, isn't it? I'm just glad I didn't spend much time on "Start Trek" because I don't think Mr. Spock was into watersports.

Fortunately, I DID watch McGuyver and I DO remember everything he taught me about underwater rescue, makeshift weapons (that injure, but never maim), and the explosive properties of cotton socks; so I bobbed back up like a big, freckled, cadaver in a life jacket and they fished me out of the water with a boat hook.

That’s when it started to hurt.

Properly Accessorized

I was sitting around last week looking at guns on the internet (something I've been known to do) when it occurred to me: I don't NEED anymore guns (except an elephant gun, which I don't have yet). What I NEED is gun accessories.

So last Monday I changed tactics.

Did you know that a tactical stock cheekpiece (with bullet holder loops and nifty, zippered accessory pouch) is only $39.95 at StubbyGear.com? I didn't know that either, but I have so enjoyed learning.

I pretty much can't get away from anything marked "tactical". If they sold "tactical' soap on a rope I'd have 16 cases of it under my bed and more on the way. I figure that "tactical" means "special" and if its "special" chances are excellent that none of my hunting friends have it and, really, that’s the key to buying a good accessory: nobody else has one.

Over the years I've grown to understand that most people don't "get it." That’s ok with me. They think accessories should be "useful", or at least add some form of value to whatever you're accessorizing. I understand the confusion, but thats actually not true. In extreme cases not only does an accessory NOT add value, it may completely destroy the utility of the whole thing, but you'll be so excited about it you'll hardly notice. Of course, you can't do anything about that anyway - its too late! You're properly accessorized and now the finishes match but it'll only fit that one gun, they don't make weatherstripping like that anymore, tires don't come in 31.29 x 75 after 1993, BFGoodrich won't send you a price list for a replacement, Redfield went out of business, your Dad likes it, you lost the thread protector nut, nobody knows where the wrench to tighten it went, the drill bits are too small, or the instructions are in Russian.

That’s not really the point though - sometimes the added value comes from the simple act of making the purchase itself. I don't know what it was about that $39.95 in my wallet, but that particular $39.95 was making me absolutely miserable: I had to get rid of it and instead of just throwing it away; I turned it into a mil-spec nylon cheekpiece (complete with special little bullet holders and a sniper notebook) that I'll probably never use, don't need, and will likely end up putting in the attic.

17 years from now a future wife or child will find it, poke it with a stick to scare off nesting spiders, then throw it away when I'm not home. Later that afternoon I'll think to myself "I wonder whatever happened to that tactical stock cheekpiece" and I'll spend the next 17 years looking for it. I'll find the instruction booklet and warranty card. I'll know where the replacement zipper pulls are, and the optional waxed cotton lining. I'll have a copy of the receipt and date of purchase. Maybe even a UPC symbol. But the cheekpiece itself'll be long gone.

My last words in this life are likely to be a confused murmer from the floor of my special huntingstuff closet: "Tactical Cheekpiece?" I'll whisper, then I'll slip away.

Seersucker Salute

To the gentleman next to me at the gas pump this morning sporting seersucker pants, black shoes, blue socks, brown belt, and a white longsleeve shirt let me say simply this:

For exhibiting bravery in the line of fashion duty and a portraying a deep and abiding disdain for the color wheel - I salute you.

Welcome to the Family

I am extremely happy to welcome a very important addition to my family: a Beretta Mato rifle in .338 Winchester Magnum.

I bought it for grizzly bears and big hairy stuff that bites back because hey; how embarassing would it be for there to be a sudden grizzly bear infestation in Sandy Springs and I'm the only one without the appropriate grizzly bear medicine, you know? That’s not cool.

It kicks so bad that every time I shoot it a fairy loses its wings.

Shoot Me Now

I want to briefly address a recent influx of comments directed at me concerning the possibility that Meredith's recent supposed "bass catch" was bigger than mine. Friends: that spurious rumor is completely false. Despite several obviously altered photographs which may indicate circumstances to the contrary: I maintain that not only did Meredith NOT catch a "bigger" fish, she also did not catch a fish at all, period, ever. Let me be perfectly clear: under no circumstances at all, whatsoever, did Meredith on July 17th, 2007 at 11:04AM catch a bass at The Deer Camp (on MY ROD, just off the edge of the island, on a submerged hump) that may or may not have exceeded size of my bass by a grotesque and embarassing margin. You can't believe everything you see on Facebook.

There has also been some discussion concerning whether or not my acquaintance Dr. Jennie Cheesborough, MD actually caught several salmon the size of my truck on a fly rod in Alaska. Despite the clearly doctored photographs circling Facebook suggesting that it might have happened; again I maintain - impossible! You can't believe every picture you see in print. I saw winged pigs on the cover of the newspaper* last week and I don’t believe for a second that they actually flew, nonstop, all the way to the moon. We all know they'd have stopped off in Iowa. All that corn? Please, no oinker would pass that up.

I heard that Dr. C. also had the audacity to suggest that bass fishing was somewhat "lowbrow," to which I can only reply: my brow has steadily increased in recent years, and by all accounts it appears to be gearing up for an acceleration.

Anyway, lets not make this personal. I'm not necessarily out to prove that I'm right; just that you're all wrong. Even if Meredith HAD caught this supposed "fish" - it couldn't possibly be larger than MY fish: Gigantor the Horrific. It doesn't even make sense - a simple, logical, look at the circumstances and facts should indicate exactly that. In short: Meredith is "mini," hence - all fish she may or may not catch must ALSO be "mini". How can a tiny, midgety person catch a huge, massive fish? Its just not possible. Eh? It violates all the laws of the sporting universe. Am I right?

Personally, I don’t want to live in a world where I get routinely trounced at all things "outdoors" by a certain brunette little person. Unfortunately, I also don't believe in suicide and no asteroids have hit me yet - so it looks like I'm destined to suffer constant insult and injury at the hands of the freakishly talented Meredith Q.

Shoot me now.

JGE

*The Enquirer

Welcome to The Cow Show

My good friend Tommy Statham launched into a long story last night about…something - I don't remember what. I think it was something about his cousin, but I don't really know exactly. I sort of phased slowly out when I heard him say "then we went to the livestock show."

Regardless, the point is this: his story involved a livestock "show"; more specifically - a cow show…..And that set me to thinking.

At some point it seems to me that every cow owner, before he or she became a cow owner, was confronted with a particular cow and immediately thought to himself, "if only I had that particular cow in my life, everything would be better. I gotta have that cow." Then, at some point our cow owner caught a glimpse of his special cow when the light hit her just right and he thought to himself, "my, that’s a beautiful cow."

Ultimately, our virtuous cow owner decides that beauty and perfection of the magnitude exemplified in his pet cow shouldn't be hidden away on a small farm in Yatesville, GA, but should be put on display for the entire world to see. So, that is why 11 months, 8,000lbs of feed, and 14 shampooings later; we catch up to our cow-owner friend at his first cow show, nervously fiddling with his suspenders and praying for total cattle-show domination.

As I understand it: in a cow show a full-grown man walks up to the center of a ring or stage with his pet cow and another man looks at the first man and says into a microphone, "this is quite a cow you got here. I bet you've spent a lot of quality time with this here cow."

The first man says, "I won't lie to you: this really is a great cow."

The second man says, "I know a great cow when I see one, and I really think this might be the very greatest cow in the entire barn. Here, let me give you this blue ribbon to put on your cow."

The first man says "Thank you, she'll love this ribbon. It'sanhonor. ThankyouGod...Icouldn'thavedoneitwithoutGod, my family, and this here cow."

And the two men part ways.

That’s it.

To recap: what we're talking about here is a grown man taking his pet cow down to an event for the sole purpose of allowing other people the pleasure of admiring his cow, and possibly admiring some cows himself.

And that’s fine with me.

I'm just concerned about the cows. Nobody asked them if they wanted to be paraded around stark naked in front of God and country like that.

Seems to me they could at least dress 'em up a bit.

Lie 'Til You Die

I get quite a lot of questions about my deer picture here. I don't blame you for being interested, that’s a fine specimen of an animal represented there. In fact, you might even say it’s a monster, Big Bucky, Buckeronimo, The King of the Deer Herd, or even "Buckus Maximus."

Let me put it this way: if there is a more monstrous 8 pointer out there, I'm not aware of him - and if he DOES exist, I certainly don't want to know about it; so keep your grubby emails to yourselves.

Most people also seem very interested in the story of his demise, which I have told numerous times in the past; but have never gotten around to setting down on paper. It’s a pretty simple story, really. I was on my way to King & Spalding to look at some deal-related financial information and I noticed him standing at the corner of 14th and Peachtree, waiting on the bus. He leaned forward out of the wind to light a cigarette and rub one antler on a Marta advertisement and all I had to do was sneak up behind him and scream "AHAH HAHAHAHHA HA." He jumped right out in front of a Cox Sanitation truck. Once the cops left and the intersection cleared I simply slung him up into my truck and took him to the taxidermist.

See what I did there? I used the deer's natural nervous tendencies to my advantage. That’s the mark of a true hunter and I'm fairly proud of it, on the whole.

In fact, I'm inordinately proud of Big Bucky. I feel a certain sense of ownership and accomplishment in his demise; at least partly because I created him myself. Yup, I formed him from clay and breathed life directly into his nostrils. Its true.

Actually, that’s not at all true - its a face-melting lie straight from the pit of hell, but compared to some of the other hunting whoppers I've told its really not that bad. I figured I should try that lie on for size before commiting to it wholeheartedly and I needed an audience. I couldn't just waltz out on a limb with that one - it deserved a test run and you were my guinea pigs. Did you like the escalation? I like to ease into a good lie, you know: start off small, but finish up with a hell-raising crescendo of immaculate lies fit to make the Devil himself blush and shuffle his feet.

You have to understand: the art of fabricating a good hunting or fishing story requires a certain lack of moral compunction coupled with an absolute, lifelong, dedication to the lie itself. Its not a conversation piece - it’s a way of life. You don't hop back and forth across the fence with the details of your story - you stick to it. Own it, brother! Speak that lie forth into existence and then follow it with complete, immoral, Bible-scorching, self-sacrificial dedication. If you're not going to stick to it, don't bother - you'll just ruin a perfectly good story for everybody else. Then you've got a double-handful of nothin': your lie is shot, everybody knows you weren't man enough to walk that story all the way to her door.

Well, I have to go. I would write more, but I'm late to pick up my Tyrannosaurus Rex mount from the taxidermist. Now, THAT was a hunt! Remind me to tell you about it some time - it involved a canister of weapons-grade plutonium and a nine-iron. After it was all said and done; I'm just lucky the doctors were able to sew my head back on.

In the meantime, learn from the pros and hold fast to the code because, its like my Uncle Robert taught me in 2nd grade: if you're gonna lie, you gotta lie 'til you die.

Ya Caught Me!

I was sitting at work a short while ago, feeling sort of low - a touch of general malaise I guess, when suddenly it hit me - I know what my problem is: I haven't gotten "caught" at anything in years!

I've been too good; I've lost sight of what is important in life. I no longer live on adrenaline and hot Cokes purloined from the pantry in clear violation of the "one-coke-a-day" rule. I can't remember the last Twinkie I snuck off the top of the fridge, but I know it was delicious. A Twinkie taken in honesty only tastes like creamy styrofoam, but a Twinkie greedily burgled out of Mom's stash: gustatory halcyon.

The truth is: getting "caught" was the best - it made EVERYTHING better. You remember those days, don’t you?

Sneaking out wouldn't have been fun if there hadn't been anybody around to catch you. There's no sense in blamming a ladder up against your bedroom window when you can just walk right out the front door on your own.

Why hit your sister if theres no fine? (It was $20 for angry-hitting, $10 for public embarassment, and $15 for a burp-and-blow within 3 feet - I paid for Margaret's education in dimes by the time she was 12).

Cigarettes are no fun if you don't have to steal 'em from your grandmother and who wants FRESH chewing tobacco when you can swipe a 4-year-old, moldy, pack out of Uncle Buster's bass boat?

Why shoot BBs at the garden statuary if nobody notices the chipped fingers and cracked noses?

If Granddad isn't there to freak out over a lost remote, why hide it?

Its no fun to stuff a plastic fishing worm up your nose if nobody spanks you for it in the doctor's office parking lot, you know?

Theres no sense pouting in front of the minister's wife anymore - now it just makes ME look bad, not my parents.

When was the last time you and 42 friends bought 850 raw eggs, all at once, all from the same Kroger; and thought nobody noticed? I don't want 850 raw eggs anymore because I know I can't expect to see a line of parents stacked up out front waiting to catch me red-handed. Its just no fun.

Temper tantrums in Target just get you arrested, they don't threaten to "call your father at work" (gasp). What use is a temper tantrum if you can't follow it with 8hrs of sheer terror - wondering if Dad will make good on his offer to "kill you" when he gets home?

Its just not the same anymore. Misdemeanors are felonies, nobody grounds you after going to traffic court, you can't even slam a door and get hollered at; now the glass panes just shatter and I gotta go fix it myself.

Its only a hint of consolation, but after spending some time thinking it over - I've found a way to get back a tiny bit of that just-been-caught satisfaction: Uncle Buster, remember when your hubcaps kept falling off your truck in the driveway? That was ME. I DID IT AND BLAMED IT ON THE BEAGLE!!! AAAHHHHHHHHAAAA!!!!!!

Ya caught me!