Say Uncle

George swung the boat around past the main lodge and we slid to a stop as the gravel drive gave way to our truck and boat trailer tires with a loud, sliding, "crunch." We hopped out, each with a small overnight bag and a toothbrush (we've learned to travel light) and walked into the old farmhouse.

"HOLY GAWD LOOK WHAT THE CAT DRAGGED IN" twanged a wiry gentleman, swarthy and brown, to my right. Then:

"Hello George" (looking at me)

and

"You must be Jimmy" (shaking George's hand).

"No I'm Jimmy; he's George" I laughed pointing to my brother as George responded in kind.

"WELL, I WONDER WHICH THE HELL ONE OF YOU IS JIMMY THEN, DAMMIT?" he mused aloud to himself, scratching his chest absentmindedly; but not to stress over it, he immediately followed with:

"GLAD TO SEE BOTH OF YOU; WHICHEVER ONES YOU ARE. YOU BOTH LOOK LIKE TROUBLE." while simultaneously pumping both our hands.

George (to me, under his breath): 'That's 'Uncle Carlos'."

Uncle Carlos: "YOU'RE DAMN RIGHT." "YOU'RE GEORGE. NOW I REMEMBER. I WAS A TAD UNDER THE WEATHER LAST WE MET"

I: "Glad to meet you then, Uncle Carlos".

A languid flutter of movement caught my eye from across the room and I noticed another gentleman waving gently towards us, grinning out from under a large straw hat. He tipped his hat back, waved again, and, mopping his face with a hankerchief, said "Well, I'm John" - and promptly went back to sleep.

Just then my (real) Uncle Wayne popped around the corner and, grinning, interjected:

"Well, you're here then. Good. The grease is getting hot and we should have dinner going by about 9, unless Carlos here gets too deep into that mason jar of his." "CARLOS! Let loose of that jar long enough to bring the fish out here."

We heard a mumbled curse and the muffled crash of crockery from Carlos back in the kitchen, which Wayne accepted as a positive response.

Then it was "Ok boys, Let me show you around" and we were off on a tour of the property.

We followed the snaking two-track dirt road through the center of the land and quickly noticed that someone had planted a substantial stand of corn every few hundred yards throughout the property. The truck slowed nearly to a halt at each rectangle of plowed ground and I noticed Uncle Wayne cut his eyes around and furrowed his brows at us, knowingly, as we passed each row. Guessing at the crop's origin I loudly exclaimed "MY, now THAT is a nice stand of corn somebody has planted there, Uncle Wayne."

He slammed on brakes and, grinning ear-to-ear, the boy who was my Uncle shouted "you know who's corn that is boys??? THATS UNCLE WAYNE'S CORN!!!" Been working on it all season! Figured it was high time I learn to plant something useful.

Here, let me show you where I broke the tractor."

We made our way slowly through the fields and timber and we talked, ever more softly, of streams and deer and the changing of seasons; and we made our plans for the coming year. We planned for autumn and winter and the ducks and the doves and the deer; the squirrel hunt that was more drinking than hunting; and the great v-shaped flights of geese that would pass over late at night, silhoutted, against the moon.

Then, as the sun folded its wings in the timber behind us, we pointed our faces towards the lodge. The wheels hummed on the packed clay keeping time with the cicadas and, for a moment, our talk faltered and the fields whispered for us.

The rich purple-brown of twilight had overtaken us as we rounded the final bend and were greeted by the smoky glow of the porch light; one naked bulb, dangling, wreathed in smoke from the gently hissing fryers arranged neatly on the porch. The door opened and Uncle Carlos came out, beckoning, and I heard him say: "Pass me that jar, John, the boys have come home."

Doomed

So, I met this woman on the plane and we really hit it off. She was awesome. Great conversation, really deep talks, impressive character and charm. It was neat. Man, we had ball! Its so rare in life to come across another human being you truly connect with on a deep, personal level.

I walked off the plane enlivened with a sense of renewed faith in humanity, womankind, and my prospects for the future. As I rounded the corner and headed into baggage claim we shook hands, wished each other well and parted ways. I felt vaguely sad to see her go, and something inside me rebelled at the thought of being forever seperated...............by her 7 grandchildren in Arizona...

Then, I turned and saw the lovely blonde from 12B who drank the beer I offered, smiled politely at my sweaty-palmed witticisms, then collected her bags and hopped in a brand-new Lexus driven by a rich boyfriend.....who had just enough panache to catch a wheel as they blew past the cabstand where I hid.

I stood and pondered these things in my heart as I waited expectantly for a richly-scented Moroccan cabdriver to drive me around in circles before dropping me off at the airport hotel; and I realized:

I am doomed.

Nursing School

Lets talk briefly about nursing mothers.

I know everybody has a joke about public infant-feeding, nearly everyone has been in that uncomfortable situation, and nobody likes it.

Sure, yes, I know.

But here's the thing I think about - from the kid's perspective, what makes the miserable little midget think he has a right to 4-courses any time he feels a mite peckish? Thats pretty selfish, if you ask me. I think its just plain weird. If my mealtimes involved nudity of any sort I think I'd be a bit more discreet about it. Babies ought to get to eat when everybody else does - at mealtimes.

2:23PM in the afternoon is not an ok time, neither is 6:11PM during a wedding (for instance).

It just ain't right.

I'm going to start carrying around a ziplock bag containing a nice cut of filet in port wine sauce, some grilled asparagus, and one of those little flowers of mashed potatoes you squeeze out of a pastry tube. Whenever I see nursing going on in public I'm going to unfold some chinet, pull out my swiss army knife (with knife and fork included), plunk down right next to the offending parties and have a nice, loud, smacking, meal. That should get my point across - its called passive aggression and it works like a charm.



I'll let you know how it goes.

Everything'll Be Alright

So, I’m laying flat on my back in the crawl space under the Deer Camp floor; I’m covered in mastic compound and sheet-metal cuts from installing new HVAC ductwork, its 98 degrees outside, I’ve got that golfer-buttsweat thing going, and I’m red from basement dirt and fiberglass insulation particles (of which I have inhaled a good pound or so).

Now, typically, this is exactly the sort of situation wherein I do my best thinking (that and between the hours of 12AM and 4AM, or anywhere icecream is served) but in this instance all I could consider was – “why is the dirt so damp in this one spot where I’m lying?”

Then I heard a dripping sound; so I followed it up the floorjoist above me to a PVC connection and realized – everything is wet down here because a toilet is leaking and I’m lying in it.

…And then I heard a "flush"….So, generally, that’s “bad”, but what’s worse is – there really wasn’t anywhere else to go. That was the spot to be in order to install the new airhandler, so I had to keep laying there….for 7 more hours….

Sure, that would be “traumatic” to most people and I understand your revulsion, gentle reader, but a friend said he’d bring us KRYSTAL HAMBURGERS when we got done – and that made it worthwhile.

That is what I learned this weekend: everything is o.k. when you’ve got a Krystal on the way*.

Incidentally, a friend pointed out to me the other day that she couldn’t very well eat Krystal hamburgers as they violated her “anti-red-meat” diet; but that is a huge fallacy. Krystal hamburger “meat” is actually GRAY, not red at all – so you’re in the clear on that count.

Enjoy.

*I’m a poet and don’t know it.

Greetings From the War House

I awoke this morning to the sound of my bedroom door opening ever-so-softly. I immediately had the distinct feeling that someone had invaded the inner sanctum of The Duderanch, so I stealthily cut my eyes over towards the door and was surprised to see a very large black gentleman gently tiptoeing around my room. I must have rustled the covers a bit because he turned towards me, startled, with eyes as wide as saucers and announced in a shaky stage whisper “MR EWING! ITS ME, CLIFFORD! PLEASE DON’T SHOOT ME MR. EWING!”

Then it all came rushing back to me. It was CLIFFORD - the pest control guy! I had told him the night before not to mind us – just to go on into every bedroom at 7AM and do all the spraying his heart desired. He initially balked at the idea based on his observation from his last quarterly visit that we “sure did have a lot of guns laying around” (I have a gigantic safe, but that particular morning we were gearing up for a hunting trip and armament was everywhere). I finally convinced him that my roommates actually trying to shoot him would probably guarantee his safety – I’ve seen them shoot (and it’s not pretty).

Clifford apologized again for waking me up, so I said “no worries Clifford!” And immediately drifted off to sleep to the gentle whooshing sound of Clifford spraying various carcinogens underneath my bed.

A short while later I heard a shout and some muffled commotion followed by Clifford’s loud, infectious, laughter, and a bear-like mumble from Austin Lee down the hall. Apparently a similar situation occurred when Clifford tiptoed into Austin’s room; but it seems Austin somehow startled Clifford a bit more than I did, because I heard him explaining to Austin the rationale for his intense nervousness. Then he said it – in loud Clifford-style I heard him announce “Man, I just gotta be careful you know? This place is The WAR HOUSE!”

Ahhh!!! I lay in bed gently ruffling my chest hair and beaming; confident and secure in the knowledge that yes: I am officially, 100%, MAN.

It was my proudest moment.

VIVA LA DUDERANCH!!!!

Growing Pains

“YEEEEOOOOWWWWW!!! HEY DOC, WHAT IN THE HELL???!!!!! DAMNNNNATION!!!”

I hollered at the pair of white Nikes tapping gently underneath my perch. The Nikes briefly paused their tapping and the disembodied voice floating up from somewhere behind me cheerfully announced “Well, I think that was about the worst of it!”

“UGHH. DAMN. DAMN. DAMN. DAAAYYYAAMMM. AWWW HELL. WHY AM I ALL SWEATY? WHERE ARE WE? MOROCCO? ITS 900 DEGREES IN HERE, DOC!!”

A gentle chuckle and a reassuring pat on the rump were my only response and the Nikes resumed their off-beat tapping. As this was not the sort of event you backed out on mid-way-through, I resigned myself to my fate and stared dully ahead at the square, vinyl floor tiles (there were 28), the only other thing in my field of view; and I tried not to hate Nike tennis shoes quite so much.

Actually, let me back up a bit: it all started at the beach (the pain, that is). It was dull at first – more of an aching “throb” than a true stabbing-pain. Naturally, I hoped it would go away. I have a high pain tolerance, so I decided to wait it out – outsmart the pain, if you will. I played my Ipod, ate some Twizzlers (my favorite), enjoyed a refreshing beverage on the beach, ate out, slept in, crunched Froot Loops out of a solo cup all afternoon, used too much sunscreen, and got sand all over me (all the normal things I would typically do at the beach), but the pain remained.

You might even say the pain continued to “grow”, until finally, I cornered my Uncle William and said: “William, listen - my butt really hurts.” His enigmatic response “I bet it does” was no help – neither was Uncle Robert’s suggestion that I “give Orajel a try” followed by the admonishment that I avoid using any kind of opened container of salves or creams at HIS house that “came with a nozzle on the end” because “there is no telling where its been.”

I briefly considered finding a local proctologist to take care of business, but I thought better of it. I have developed a strict, on-principal, avoidance policy concerning rural beach-town proctologists. I can’t imagine what going to one would be like, but I absolutely CANNOT imagine that it would be good. So, in short: I manfully stuck it out.

I made the trip home in just under 6hrs (slightly sweaty) and in intense, throbbing, pain. My decision to fish in a bass tournament the following morning at 5AM is a simple testament to sheer determination, gin & tonic, Goody’s Headache Powders, and the gigantic outdoorsman’s heart beating in my chest.

We weighed in 5 fish for 12.2lbs - garnering third place (a new record for my fishing efforts), but I had sweat on my upper lip the whole time and once or twice I thought I might cry.

So, by Monday morning we really had a problem and for the first time in my life I found myself enormously relieved to be walking IN to a proctologist’s office; normally I don’t feel that immense sense of joy and accomplishment until I’m limping slowly AWAY.

So, there I was – sprawled out on a cold steel table, facedown, when the door opens, and voice says “Hello Mr. Ewing lets take a look” and without so much as a “hi, how are you?” the table I’m on breaks in half like a drawbridge (highest in the middle) and there I am – facedown, dangling like a big, hairy, rag doll with my naked butt the highest point in the room.

And THEN the nurse walks in (At least, I think it was a nurse - she sounded female and she had small shoes – that’s all I could see). She was followed by a medical student…...and a secretary with a pressing question concerning the duration of her lunch break. (Don't mind me - you know? I'm just the throbbing, naked, butt in the center of the room, but let me continue).

“Hellooooo Mr. (pause as the student tries to read my chart)…Errrwings.”

I didn’t reply.

I just cut my eyes over at the nurse-shoes and loudly announced “listen here – if either of you give THAT guy THAT syringe I saw on the way in - you’re going to wake up and wonder where in the hell you are and why you’re bald” and that, my friends, THAT is just exactly when the blazing bolt of proctological lightning dead-centered my sensitive nether regions and I found myself furiously dog-paddling thin air and cold steel.

I didn’t get far though - they had me by the feet.

Preaching for Supper

"WELL BOY, COME PREACH ME A TEN MINUTE SERMON. I NEED TO BE WITNESSED TO" rang out across the den in Uncle Robert's trademark gravelly, smoke-cured voice; and I immediately regretted telling him that my cousin Jimmy is a licensed Presbyterian minister.

Jimmy, vaguely uncomfortable and new to the annual beach trip, stood in the den shifting his weight foot-to-foot; unsure how to respond.

He didn't have long to wait for the next salvo:

"HE AIN'T A PREACHER. I KNOW THAT MUCH. LOOK AT HIM. HE LOOKS TOO MUCH LIKE YOU. THAT AIN'T HOW PREACHERS LOOK."


"WELL, IF YOU AIN'T GONNA PREACH THEN MAKE YOURSELF USEFUL AND GO GET ME SOME CIGARETTES."

The beach is great, but we don't need the beach to have fun - we just need Uncle Robert and one unsuspecting guest and we're in business.

We ended up having a ball that night and no, cousin Jimmy didn't have to preach for his meals (much to Robert's chagrin), but we did hear a series of in-depth lectures on love and marriage compliments of Robert between the hours of 3 and 4AM that I'll treasure always. I think Cuz will too, so when he woke me up with "Pssstt..Jimmy. Are you asleep? Do you really think Robert did all that stuff? I can't quit thinking about it." I wasn't surprised. All I could say was "I don't know, but it sure did sound pretty great, didn't it?"

Its been fun having insane geniuses like Robert in the family. Even now I can hear Uncle John (thats John T. Slocumb, MD to you) in the kitchen behind me cooking low-country-boil and teaching the grandchildren gynecological terms. "Taint" was immediately accepted as purely clinical by virtue of John's hard-earned MD, but "Episiotomy" is their new favorite. Its medical explanation garnered a chorus of howls from grandkid middle-management (and one neighbor boy who slipped in under the radar) that startled Uncle William out of a deep slumber and widened John's trademark slow-spreading grin nearly to his ears.

Unfortunately, their howls startled William a bit too badly and he, in his fright, rolled over on the large box of Big Cheezit crackers and Nilla Wafer Cakester soft cakes he had fallen asleep cradling - crushing his Big Cheezits and mussing his Cakesters. A fountain of profanity and couch cushions soared for the heavens. After he collected himself and sent Daniel back out for more snack cakes he noticed me sitting nearby, glared from behind now-crooked polarized Vaurnet's and hollered "WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT, NASTY?"

Hey, I'm just sitting here minding my own business.

Artistic Expression

I think it was about ¾ through the process of painting the windows of Jeremy Gray’s white Chevrolet Equinox in preparation for his honeymoon getaway that it dawned on me: “this may not have been my best idea ever.”

It was late at night – nobody was even able to witness the magnificent result of our handiwork, and certainly no one saw Jeremy and Kelley cruising down the rural highway just outside Santa Rosa Beach that evening in his well-painted post-wedding car. It was too dark for that, and probably not many travelers on the road - so I’m sure he wasn’t even the tiniest bit embarrassed.

I doubt if anybody even saw it but me.

Unfortunately, somewhere in the midst of all the wedding festivities I lost both my sense of propriety AND all recollection of my promise to return Jeremy’s car to the Atlanta airport. And THAT, my friends, is how I came to find myself at noon on Sunday driving the length of I-85, quite alone, in a car decorated entirely in a collage of gigantic stylized penises.

Decimules

I just realized that I overpaid my waterbill last month by $491.00. I wanted you to know in case any of you had any sort of reservations about going on a date with someone WHO IS STUPID.

I (apparently) need to be shepherded around like a small child or my entire financial empire comes tumbling down. Don’t mind me - I’ll just be over here buying fishing lures and playing the fiddle while my financial Rome burns to a smoldering crust.

It’s not my fault, really. It’s the decimal point. Sure, I work in finance, but I can’t be expected to get the DECIMAL point right EVERY TIME. Correct? They're pretty stubborn.

It’s so tiny. Look at it : “.”. Easy mistake to make in online banking, if you ask me.

Unfortunately, YOU asked me; but the water authority DIDN’T. All they wanted to know was my account information so they could send me the money back…..in 3-6 months.

No kidding.

Based on the volume of my correspondence with “Martina” at the Water Authority over the last few years I’m guessing I’ll be getting a Christmas card from them again in 2008. I also suspect I may have been assigned my very own case-worker. That fact is comforting on some level I guess, because now if I have a problem I have someone specific to call about it. Unfortunately, now that someone has absolutely no faith in my cognitive abilities and no longer sees the humor in my constant water predicaments.

I don’t even understand them myself to be honest with you. I STILL don’t know where $681.59 worth of water went last summer, and why the entire DudeRanch hasn’t floated off its foundation on the 70ft column of water that dollar value represents. I swear to you - I don’t have it hidden in an underground lair or anything. Even if I DID have an underground lair, would I store 40,000 gallons of water in it? NO. I’d store guns and ancient artifacts in it and perhaps the ark of the covenant (which is currently in my attic); but certainly not 40,000 gallons of water.

Had I know earlier that stockpiling illegally-pirated water could bring the City of Atlanta to its very knees; I MIGHT have built myself an underground lair, hijacked all your water, and attempted to gain control of the city; but I did I see it coming in time?

NO - I can’t even get a decimal point right, much less focus on world domination.

We Have a Bleeder!

Generally I don’t like nosebleeds.

As a kid they were fairly entertaining; due at least in part to a general sense of amazement over the sheer volume of blood that could suddenly spout out of your snoot without a moment’s notice. But nowadays – they’re really not that great. I especially don’t like them in any sort of date-ish situation. Were I to pick a great first impression; it would not be “HI!!!!! GUESS WHAT?? I JUST GUTTED A DEER IN THE BATHROOM!!”

I think I’ll draw the curtain of good taste around the remainder of that story and say only this: practice good nasal health - your future progeny may depend on it.

You Have Meredith To Thank For This One

So, on the heels of my last blog post Meredith Quarrelitia Jollay, my fabulous ex-girlfriend, brought this fun little story to my attention. Check it out:

OLDSMAR, Florida — A Florida woman found an 8-foot long alligator prowling in her kitchen late Monday night, authorities said. Sandra Frosti, 69, said the alligator must have pushed through the screen door on the back porch and then walked through an open sliding glass door at her home in Oldsmar, just north of Tampa. The alligator apparently then strolled through the living room, down a hall and into the kitchen.

A trapper removed the alligator, which was cut by a plate that was knocked to the ground during the chaos. But no one inside the house was injured. (FOX News Online).

I can only assume Meredith was at work googling "alligators" and "pop tarts" and accidentally combined the two. Regardless, something strange is DEFINITELY afoot. I've got deer and zebras trying to kill me in Atlanta, THERE MIGHT BE LIONS IN MY BATHTUB, and this lady has an 8ft reptile perusing her pantry? Are you kidding me?

First of all: lets face it - the plate didn't just get "knocked to the ground." Sandra definitely broke it over that alligator's head; of that I am confident. She's scrappy....and old - a winning combination. That having been said: this story also indicates an alligator trapper somehow became involved too which, to me, indicates great presence of mind on the part of wily ol' Sandra.

I doubt I'd have the presence of mind to thumb the yellow pages for "alligator trapper" while an 8ft specimen makes free with my Fruit Loops. For roaches - sure, I'd immediately think "ok well - lets call Chemical Technologies. They'll send Clifford out to spray and he'll stay for a beer and watch some football on the couch like usual. No big deal."

Key difference: that roach isn't likely to eat my refridgerator.

The only way I'd get Clifford in there with an alligator is if he thought the beer in the fridge was in real danger. Otherwise - I promise you'd find us both standing in the front yard in our boxers. I dont know what it is with me and life-threatening situations, but somehow I nearly always end up standing around afterwards with no pants on.

Even speaking as an Outdoorsman I'm not really sure what I'd do in this situation. It definitely wouldn't involve the telephone up until the point where I made the "Uncle Buster, can you help me?" call; and normally that call doesn't get made until there is real potential for a Department of Fish & Wildlife violation.

THAT call is normally followed by the gradual accumulation of burly steel workers and crane-trucks at my location. For some reason Uncle Buster accesses crane-trucks like you or I use duct tape. He has an overly-elaborate way to fix nearly anything using three (3) steel workers, two (2) cherry pickers, and a megaphone. It works, but someone nearly always gets hurt.

Uncle Buster aside; the best way for you to know if there has ever been an 8ft alligator in my kitchen is to walk inside and look up. If there is a me-shaped hole in the kitchen ceiling, then yes, there was an alligator in the kitchen.

While you're in there: see if you can find my pants.

Ungulate Death Squad

I was headed down GA400 on my way to work this morning when I noticed a dead deer on the shoulder just south of the Lennox road exit. Now, before the chorus of “AWWWWWWW”s drowns out my thoughts here, let’s think a moment: what was that deer doing on Lennox road after midnight? Hmmmm? Are we really supposed to believe that was an innocent little deer out for a midnight stroll who just happened to sneak a bit too far out of its lane? NO. C’mon. Not me. I see what is really going on here.

Deer don’t shop at Phipps folks.

The truth is: that deer was on a mission of some sort, I’m certain of it. The only conclusion I can draw is simply this: the deer have finally found out where I live; and they are coming to kill me. I've feared this day since the early '80s.

Oh right, you laugh. Sure, but all this just on the heels of a gigantic news story in which a LIVE ZEBRA was found wandering around in the Atlanta interstate TWO DAYS AFTER I BOOK MY TRIP TO HUNT IN NAMIBIA FOR…ZEBRA (among other things)??!??!

What’s next? Lions in my bathroom? If I come home and there is a lion in my tub I can absolutely guarantee you I’ll never be right again. YOU spend the rest of your life wondering a full-grown male lion is going to come out of your shower drain and tell me how normal you feel.

Something ain’t right here, I don’t need a diagram to point that out for you. So, listen if you find me splayed out on the bathroom floor with little cloven hoofprint bruises all over my body – you know who to blame.

They’re not deer. They’re four-footed ungulate killers…and you could be next.

Sometimes You're the Shar-Pei

I was standing in the line at Kroger some time ago when I noticed the lady in front of me was giving me the eyeball. You know – sneaking a quick peek now and again when she thought I wasn’t looking.

I love that.

As a guy - catching a woman looking is always a lot of fun because we automatically assume that, clearly, this person is eyeballing me because she would love to make out.

With me.

Right this second.

She’s not staring because I’ve just cut her off in the parking lot, accidentally knocked over the display of gefilte fish, I’m riding on the back of the buggy like it’s a skateboard, or because I’m pushing a cart full of nothing but dried meat snacks, Pringles, and toilet paper. None of those reasons are legitimate – it MUST be something else, and it MUST somehow directly relate to my innate virility.

Don’t get me wrong - I’m not apologizing. I’m single and it’s a fun thought – like winning the lottery or somebody giving me a Porsche.

I’m also not saying I’d engage in anything smooch-related right there in Kroger – or near the Kroger for that matter. In fact, I’d say the likelihood that I’d so much as brush cheeks with a checkout-line-companion is slim because (even beyond the obvious moral implications) what about cold sores? That’s enough incentive for me - I don’t want ‘em and maybe she’s got ‘em, but you don’t know until it’s too late because cold sores are the silent killer. Say what you will, but that’s an STD stuck right to your face – and everybody knows it. They’re like the creatures in that ALIEN movie with Sigourney Weaver; everything feels fine - then you wake up one morning and WHOA! WHAT IS THAT THING ON YOUR FACE!!??? Then you die.

So, I’m standing in line thinking about all this when the full import of the situation hits me: I’m staring blankly ahead into this woman’s checkout basket (as if carefully studying its contents), my lips are moving and I’m gently smiling to myself. When I come to my senses I realize: the only two items in her basket are the largest package of Maximum-Strength Midol Cramp Relief I have ever seen and a bottle of red wine.

She is looking at me quite firmly and it slowly dawns on me: I am one buggy-length away from the beating of my life. This woman does not want to make out with me...Ever...and I know of 96 blister-packed reasons why.

That changed my entire perspective on things.

I think a key part of the male maturation process is realizing early in life that, despite what your mother thinks: not everyone is going to want to go out with you. It’s just that simple and there are myriad reasons why that’s the case. Moreover - it's ok! If everybody DID want to go out with you – you’d never get anything done.

There are so many legitimate reasons why NOT to date someone, but everybody always gets so up-in-arms when they get cut for their looks. I just don’t get that at all. What bothers ME is when I get sent down the shaft for my PERSONALITY – think about THAT next time the door opens and there’s no elevator.

Looks you're born with, but personality was all YOUR fault.

Looks bias I can understand – I don’t like shar-peis, but maybe you do – you know? If you don’t like the way I look – fair enough. You drive an ugly car. So, you're stupid and I win.

This thought will probably ruin your life, but listen here - what gets me is: if its not how you look – it must be something much more sinister that you can’t comb-over.

Like cold sores, for instance.

The Wrong Stuff

I realized tonight that my mind spins in so many directions at once; its a miracle I can successfully get the cap off a ball point pen without losing interest midway through.

I didn’t come to that realization until I was laid out underneath the remains of a solid oak table I initially intended to modify into a workbench, covered in woodchips and sweat (and sweaty woodchips), and realized: I bought THE WRONG BOLTS.

That wouldn’t be a huge deal, except that I just went to Lowe’s to get bolts – because I bought the wrong bolts the day before.

The same wrong bolts.

The Lowes metal fastener section may as well have a gigantic bin in it with a huge “GET THE WRONG BOLTS HERE” sign over it. That would help me a lot. I could just go straight to that bin, GET THE WRONG BOLTS, pay, and leave – and not have to go to the trouble of looking through every tiny drawer of bolts in the place to find THE WRONG BOLTS, buy them, go home, and realize they’re useless (and I don’t have the receipt).

From now on I’m just going to drive over there, walk in, walk right back out, drive home, get out, go inside, drive back to Lowe’s, go in and GET THE RIGHT BOLTS. I figure that’s the only way to outsmart myself – I average about 2-3 visits per successful, useful, item; and at least this way I don’t have to go through the checkout and return lane twice.

I think maybe I’m easily distracted.

I saw a very bright-colored new circular saw on the way in that I couldn’t quite get to because of how the entryway works – so I went straight to the bolts.

I came for bolts, but in all honesty the only question pressing on my mind at that moment was whether the green stripes on that circular saw contained a vibration-dampening gel substance. I don’t know why they would (and they don’t) – but they looked like maybe they COULD contain a gel-substance, and I figure anything with an unidentifiable gel squeezed into it has to be high-tech and necessary. So, I sort of skimmed my way through the bolt-selection process.

I rummaged around with my big ham-hands and dug up some bolts, then plodded on over to the saw section; drawn like a moth to a bug zapper. I’ve never seen a circular saw with gel baked into it – so, that’s worth a quick gander, right?

I was disappointed to find a lack of vibration-reducing gel. Fortunately, there was a dead-blow hammer with loose BBs built into it nearby and I thought I might need that sort of a hammer (for something). It also was very brightly-colored, so I worked my way on down past the drill bits (got one in 5/16” but I set it down someplace and can’t find it), and located a suitable dead-blow hammer.

In short: now I’ve got a big plastic hammer with BBs in it, 8 of THE WRONG BOLTS, 7 of THE RIGHT NUTS, and two different sizes of washers that fit neither THE RIGHT BOLTS nor THE WRONG BOLTS….and I can’t find my drill bits.

And now I’ve been thinking about how I think for so long, it’s time to go to bed.

I need some rest so I can get up and go to Lowes.....

For bolts..I think.

T.W.A.

I was in the Deer Camp (TDC) bathroom studiously engaged in currycombing my (rapidly-spreading) pelt of chest hair with Dad’s favorite brush and, generally, I don’t appreciate being interrupted during this important evening man ritual. However, mid-way through the process I heard raucous laughter pealing out across the adjoining bedroom and, as there are few things I dislike more than missing the joke, I opened the door and stuck my head into the bunk room.

The door swung open to reveal Tommy Statham, clad only in his aging Fruit of the Looms, flopping, stranded, across the highest bar of a top bunk; just a smidge shy of making it into bed; George and Thomas Benton, literally, rolling on the floor in merriment.

Tommy, looking for all the world like a giant naked turtle, with big hound dog eyes soulfully locked in mine, bravely announced, “Jimmy you know I got cerebral palsy! I cain’t get up into this top bunk,” and immediately slid off onto the floor in a blinding flash of white, hairy, Statham.

What could I do? I said, “TOMMY! YOU BETTER GET YOUR BUTT UP THERE!!” and collapsed in an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

I haven’t laughed that hard in two years. Tommy howled so hard he cried, Thomas fell out of bed, and George convulsed for so long he had to brush his teeth again.

We gave Tommy the double bed.

Tommy.

Mom always said there are few things in this world worth more than a great friend. I say there are even fewer things in this world worth more than a great friend with a handicap sticker, which I’ve often told Tommy is the main reason we’re great friends: good parking.

He laughs.

Which, to me, is another reason we’re great friends: he thinks I’m funny; a sentiment often not shared by various members of the female set, a whole host of state troopers, and on, on occasion, Emily Jones after I’ve tripped her in public (which is funny, I don’t care what she says).

Tommy , my friend, weighed 2.2lbs at birth – that’s less than a “keeper” bass. Trust me – I know, because I’ve never caught a “keeper” bass in a tournament. He spent the first three months of a life hard-clung-to in an incubator at Grady Hospital. Typically he reminds me of that birth weight figure when there’s some question of sleeping arrangement (one bed, one couch), who drives (he doesn’t want to), or what time we meet for church (he likes the 11AM, I prefer the 6PM). It’s one of the few times in life when my high birth weight ( 8.11lbs) doesn’t stand me in good stead, but I’ve taken to suggesting that maybe when his Mom said “incubator” at “Grady Hospital” she really meant a “shoebox” in an “oven” set on “warm” for a few days.

It worked for Simon Birch.

Tommy does not appreciate that line of argument so, generally, I end up driving him to the 6PM and he sleeps in my bed while I take the couch.

As I write this Tommy is seated next to me on the couch in my Uncle John’s “little cabin” (mansion) overlooking Sky Valley, Georgia, as the fog rolls in on a cool April night. He’s sleeping in the master bedroom; I’m staying in the maid’s quarters downstairs.

Tommy is staring with rapt attention at some nameless basketball game on television. I don’t even know the score, but you could run a freight train through the living room and he’d just lean in a little closer to the neon glow. He likes that basketball stuff; so does Stewart Grace who is asleep in the adjoining brown leather chair and has been, off and on, since Friday afternoon.

Good times.

I see people on a daily basis that I would bet don’t have great friends like Tommy Statham. I feel very sorry for them. Well, sort of sorry. Mostly I just wish they’d get on through the drive-up window so Tommy and I can get our Krystal hamburgers (onions, pickle, mustard).

My favorite Tommy story goes something like this:

One day Tommy was in New York City. He hailed a cab and was approaching the vehicle when a spry young lady with two children sprung out of nowhere, slung her children into the backseat, turned to Tommy and triumphantly crowed “HA!!! I BEAT YOU!!!”

Tommy leaned back, smiled, and said, “That’s no big deal. I’m crippled.”

Tommy Wins Again!

Sudden Realization

Have you ever realized you were naked?


And by "realized you were naked" I mean - it came as a bit of a shock?


Knowing you're naked is one thing, realizing it is something else altogether. Normally, when you realize you're naked - its because someone else pointed it out; generally because they weren't expecting it either, so they're like - whoa! There's a naked guy!


As I understand it - generally, if TWO or more people are naked (and near enough one another to converse) there's sort of a general understanding that "hey - we're all naked here and nobody's surprised." The understanding being: there is a reason for this nakedness - an implied covenant of nudity, if you will.


I'm talking about situations like locker rooms, Matt Dunn's house (any day), or Weekly Naked TV Day at the DudeRanch. Naked? Ok. Sure. No big deal and while you're up - get everybody a beer.


Nobody in the locker room points out "hey buddy, you aint got a stitch on." Why? Because they saw it coming.


BUT, when you REALIZE you're naked - you've got problems....and buddy, it happend to me.


In the not-so-distant past I was wakeboarding on the lake (first mistake). My second was not cinching up the 'ol board shorts tight enough.

The first wipe-out took my breath away and my shorts right along with it; and I quickly realized: Hey, wait. I'm naked....


At noon.



On the 4th of July.


In the middle of a crowded lake.

Accounting for Ricochets

So, I pulled up to the Deer Camp ("TDC") late on Friday night, (prior engagements kept me out later in Atlanta than anticipated), I walked in the front door, and plunked my bag down in its normal resting spot near the head of my bunk.

At this point, nothing particularly interesting had happend. I spotted a luna moth AND a tiger moth side-by-side on the lamppost, both of which allowed me to pick them up and look at them very closely without flying off - that was extremely cool; but other than that it was business as usual.

I made a couple of trips in and out, got myself situated, locked the truck, headed back inside AND GOT THAT FEELING.

You know that "something is eyeballing me" feeling? I'm extremely sensitive to that feeling on most occasions, but when I'm alone at TDC, or walking out of a swamp in the dark (for instance) - it gets out of control. The something-is-eyeballing-me-and-not-in-a-good-way feeling you might consider my 6th through 19th senses when I've got my antennas up. Its very similar to being quite afraid of the dark, EXCEPT that I am not at all afraid of the dark and I'll fight any man who says differently.

Fortunately, I didn't have to sit there and stew, paralyzed, for very long because I quickly noted that the furry figurine that I originally assumed was a new addition to our stuffed squirrel collection - was actually very much alive and looking me dead in the eye with malevolent fury.

Thats right dear friends. There was a flying squirrel loose in the house. Our eyes locked and he came at me with a blood-curdling shriek that momentarily turned my feet to stone. Before you laugh - listen - we're talking about a RODENT THAT FLIES. What could be more terrifying than that??? Unable to run, I immediately struck a defensive pose, threw myself on the floor and rolled up in a throw rug like a big, hairy, oriental-rug-wrapped hotdog.

In the ensuing melee I lost my hat, one flip flop, and somehow ended up with my Bass Pro Shops shirt around my face like a Berber desert camel herder, BUT I still had my pants on - which I consider a minor victory.

When the shrieking stopped, I peeked out of my rug-hide and surveyed the landscape for my sharp-toenailed, furry, assailant. I just managed to spot his devilish tail disappearing into the swampmoss adorning our largest bobcat mount (possibly the crowning insult to the soul of that great cat).

By this time I am not at all emotionally stable. So, I did what any other emotionally unstable person would do if attacked at home, late at night...and I went for a gun.

Now, its at this point that I suddenly realize - I'm at TDC (one of my favorite places on earth) and I'm hunting something - IN THE HOUSE. It was like the collision of my two greatest dreams - hunting something that wants to kill me, AND doing it INDOORS without having to go to Africa and get all sweaty. That was the turning point.

I bravely put my shirt back on, cocked the Red Ryder BB gun I always keep handy, hid under a barstool, and lobbed a shotgun shell up into the rafters towards the stuffed feline.

The hail of BBs that followed was nothing short of spectacular. I'm proud to say that I went down in a blazing, furious, rain of copper-coated steel.

What I DID NOT account for was: ricochets. That squirrel paid dearly for his misdeeds, but it ended up costing me quite a bit more.

I have since reached an agreement with our groundskeeper concerning such terms as "responsible behavior", "me", "gun safety", "capacity for rational thought", and "exaggeration", but I'm pleased to tell you: I'd do it all over again just to hear those BBs whizzing off the sides of that TV set on more time.

DMV

I’m about to head down to the DMV. So, basically there is no telling when (or IF) you’ll ever see me again. However, should I return; I’m almost certain there’s going to be a story.

I also have a few other stories as-yet untold. Such as: the Fishing with Tommy Statham story, and the Lake Hartwell Swampbass Bass Championships Team Jimmy & George Story – that’s a good one because it winds up with a half-eaten Little Debbie oatmeal cream pie (opened) somehow getting into my dryer.

As long as I’ve gone ahead and told you the end – let me just say that you WOULD NOT BELIEVE what a 2.5hr dryer cycle does to half an oatmeal cream pie and a load of clothes. I’m not lying - it took me two days to figure out what the brown patties of smeared gunk stuck to all my favorite shirts were – and then the only way I figured it out was to chip a bit off my favorite fishing shirt (“the shirt of broken dreams”) and taste it….So, let no man question my bravery.

And now that you know it exists: please STAY OUT of my oatmeal cream pie stash – the reason they’re hidden is because I don’t want YOU to eat them.

JGE

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.