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Just as I swung into the crowded pickup/dropoff south terminal area at Hartsfield International Airport to pick up Uncle Buster and Jeanne; my phone rang.
"Hello"
"YEAH. Where you at?"
"I'm almost there"
"We're all the way at the end."
"Click"
After 15 minutes of easing my truck through the crowded lines, I finally spotted them. Buster was sitting as far from any other humans as the hustle-and-bustle of Harsfield would allow, and Jeanne was by his side. I hadn't even come to a complete stop and he was in the truck:
"Get me out of here" he said.
And away we went.
When I pulled up to the front door at Pea Ridge Plantation I'm not sure Buster even went inside; he went straight to the tractor and started riding. I heard the low rumble of the big John Deere for the next 3 hours. Finally, just at dusk, it subsided into a roaring harmony with the spring buzz of cicadas, the chorus of frogs, and the gentle "plooop" of fish shrugging off the lazy mantle of a hot spring day; turning back to the business of hunt-and-catch for table fare.
Finally, as the last glowing purple of a pollen-hazed sunset faded across the lake; I spied a pair of lights bobbing down the bridge road and a gravelly voice floated across the lake:
Catching any?
The answer was, as always "not many", but I didn't care.
Well. Lets go to Lake Juliette tomorrow afternoon then.
I was game, of course.
Juliette requires the use of a motor no bigger than 25 horsepower; an attempt, I think, to keep the lake relatively pristine and free of the usual cross-section of southern humanity and its penchance for "overdoing it." Given the massive powerplant belching coal-fired smoke into the air at the North end, I'm not sure why they bothered with the restriction. However, Buster happened to have such a boat handy, though in some state of disrepair, so we spent an hour or so the next morning getting the little aluminum jonboat cranked and tackle stowed before heading to the lake.
The trip was miraculously uneventful (no tag, no trailer pin, questionable trailer lights, ungreased hubs), and we were underway on the water in no time at all. After 15 minutes at top speed, and quite a long way from the dock, the motor began making a very concerning VVVROOOOMMMM sound at intervals. A look of perplexed consternation crossed Buster's face; followed by a series of derogatory remarks concerning boats in general, jonboats specifically, the laborforce, general inability of anyone (nonspecific) to follow instructions, and Mercury outboard motors. I sat very still at the front of the boat while he gently swore under his breath and fiddled with some switches at the rear, then we were underway yet again at a slightly reduced pace.
Shortly afterwards we slowed to a stop and began fishing; the soft "whiizzzz" and "splash" of the baits keeping time, somehow, with the natural order of sound on the water. After a short few minutes of fishing my attempts to untangle myself from several yards of stray line was violently interrupted by a howl of fury from the rear of the boat and the sudden exclamation from the captain: "WE ARE TAKING ON WATER."
Now, in boat lingo I understood that to mean that we were, in short, "sinking." Sure enough, a quick glance to the rear confirmed that Buster, and my jar of pickled okra, were both beginning to resemble bath toys at the rear of the boat. Several inches of water had crept in through a faulty drain plug of some kind. The lack of profanity (suggesting dangerously intense concentration) and the rapid rocking of the boat, coupled with the frantic activity taking place at the rear, confirmed my worst fears. We were, in fact, headed for a long swim.
To my surprise, Buster cranked the motor up, reached down, and SNATCHED the entire plug out of the bottom. "We'll just outrun it" he grinned in response to my unintelligible expression of horror. His plan was simple: run the boat wide-open allowing the rushing water below, and the upward tilt of the boat, to drain the water inside.
It worked, and we continued performing his genius quick-save tactic periodically during the rest of the afternoon. The only real problem I noticed with his method was this: the captain would periodically disappear under the motor to struggle with the drain plug for long periods of time while running at a full-clip towards the middle of the lake; our tiny boat hurtling headlong, hither-and-yon, as the tiny craft willed. Since he didn't seem particularly concerned, I just put on a 1960's vintage life jacket and faced backwards. I figured if I was going to die in a jon-boat collision I really didn't want to see it coming.
Disaster averted - we resumed fishing, then took off again for the northern reaches of the lake. A few minutes had gone by and I had only just begun to un-pucker from the first sinking incident, when the boat began to slow once again. I sat very still, looking forward, waiting on the next series of clankings and swearings from the rear of the boat, but none came. I turned around, slowly, to find Buster looking at me with a huge grin on his face: "BabyJimmy, we're on an ADVENTURE!" he crowed.
And really, that's all that you need.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
The Golden Egg in Four-Part Harmony
"You mean you're going to Macon to watch the little grandchildren hunt for Easter Eggs, right?" she said, quizzically.
"No. I mean - right. I mean - I'm going to Macon for The Great Golden Egg Hunt of 2009." I responded.
Not to be put off by a cleverly-turned phrase, she continued: "But you're not actually HUNTING for Easter Eggs, right? Because thats for small children."
"Mmpph, eh...Ahem." I responded, wittily, with an inscrutable look and a quick jerk of the steering wheel intended to distract any occupants with the possibility of sudden impact - a mild form of the "Impending Collision Scare" (see previous post so-titled).
"AHH, ARGH!" she responded, gripping the doorhandle. "What was that?" she gurgled through a half-swallowed piece of chewing gum.
"Sorry. I thought I saw The Golden Egg." I said.
"Thats not funny." She said.
"I've heard THAT before." Said I.
"No, seriously. I almost choked." She responded, undaunted by my witticisms.
"Sorry about that. The truck just sort of jerked a bit. Alignment. You know."
"Well, explain this Great Golden Egg Hunt of 2009, then. I don't understand. You're almost 30 years old. Isn't it time to turn that over to the young grandchildren? Like, TWENTY YEARS AGO?? I'm worried about you. You're regressing"
In true female fashion she had encapsulated a whole host of accusations and cast various aspersions on my character in one long, run-on sentence; an onslaught in the face of which I was powerless to resist.
So, her point was: I'm immature. Stop the presses. I know. Does that mean I can't hunt for Easter Eggs like all the other immature people in the world? NO. Does it matter that their maturity is based on age and experience? NOT TO ME. I WANT THAT GOLDEN EGG AND NO PINK-CHEEKED ANKLE BITER IS GOING TO BEAT ME TO IT WHILST I STILL DRAW BREATH.
Fortunately, I did indeed claim the prize this year: a small golden egg hidden cleverly in the base of an old, forgotten, electric snowman; remnants of Christmas past meeting Easter present in a beautiful, Protestant, melody. A bright light shone down on me, illuminating the Golden Prize, I heard the flutter of doves' wings, and a faint refrain floated down from the heavens. I couldn't say exactly, but it sounded as if the angel choir was softly singing "We Are The Champions" in 4 part harmony....All for ME.
Like most perfect moments in life, it was not to last. Cousin Daniel tripped gaily by, interrupting my holy reverie and holding aloft a much lesser prize. Not seeing me there in the shadow of the house; I extended a foot.....and sent him flying headlong into the bushes.
How's THAT for immature, eh lady!!?!?
Naturally, there was a victory interview:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5dXs5_u4XXo
"No. I mean - right. I mean - I'm going to Macon for The Great Golden Egg Hunt of 2009." I responded.
Not to be put off by a cleverly-turned phrase, she continued: "But you're not actually HUNTING for Easter Eggs, right? Because thats for small children."
"Mmpph, eh...Ahem." I responded, wittily, with an inscrutable look and a quick jerk of the steering wheel intended to distract any occupants with the possibility of sudden impact - a mild form of the "Impending Collision Scare" (see previous post so-titled).
"AHH, ARGH!" she responded, gripping the doorhandle. "What was that?" she gurgled through a half-swallowed piece of chewing gum.
"Sorry. I thought I saw The Golden Egg." I said.
"Thats not funny." She said.
"I've heard THAT before." Said I.
"No, seriously. I almost choked." She responded, undaunted by my witticisms.
"Sorry about that. The truck just sort of jerked a bit. Alignment. You know."
"Well, explain this Great Golden Egg Hunt of 2009, then. I don't understand. You're almost 30 years old. Isn't it time to turn that over to the young grandchildren? Like, TWENTY YEARS AGO?? I'm worried about you. You're regressing"
In true female fashion she had encapsulated a whole host of accusations and cast various aspersions on my character in one long, run-on sentence; an onslaught in the face of which I was powerless to resist.
So, her point was: I'm immature. Stop the presses. I know. Does that mean I can't hunt for Easter Eggs like all the other immature people in the world? NO. Does it matter that their maturity is based on age and experience? NOT TO ME. I WANT THAT GOLDEN EGG AND NO PINK-CHEEKED ANKLE BITER IS GOING TO BEAT ME TO IT WHILST I STILL DRAW BREATH.
Fortunately, I did indeed claim the prize this year: a small golden egg hidden cleverly in the base of an old, forgotten, electric snowman; remnants of Christmas past meeting Easter present in a beautiful, Protestant, melody. A bright light shone down on me, illuminating the Golden Prize, I heard the flutter of doves' wings, and a faint refrain floated down from the heavens. I couldn't say exactly, but it sounded as if the angel choir was softly singing "We Are The Champions" in 4 part harmony....All for ME.
Like most perfect moments in life, it was not to last. Cousin Daniel tripped gaily by, interrupting my holy reverie and holding aloft a much lesser prize. Not seeing me there in the shadow of the house; I extended a foot.....and sent him flying headlong into the bushes.
How's THAT for immature, eh lady!!?!?
Naturally, there was a victory interview:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5dXs5_u4XXo
North to Lanier
As you may have guessed by my protracted absence; turkey season and bass fishing are both in full swing at the moment. In short: I've been busy. Not "successful" so much, but definitely "busy."
Several weeks ago my good friend, Hank, called to suggest we take "Spring Break" and spend it turkey hunting each morning in the mountains, and fishing for spotted bass on Lanier in the afternoons. Naturally, I was game.
After the requisite 50 or so phone calls, and at least that many emails discussing timing, baits, weaponry, and food and beverage requirements; we loaded up and headed north to Lanier. Two men that are boys, one black dog (answering to both "Buddy" and "Allie" for some reason), two shotguns, 40 shells for same, two turkey vests, 10 fishing rods, minimal clothing, 6 decoys, and untold quantities of baits, calls, cheap beer, electronics, and lunchmeats found their way into the house and, friends, we were home for the week.
By the time I got into the cabin Hank had dug up some classic James Taylor vinyl from his Dad's extensive record collection. James was crackling loudly across the north end of the lake (did you know Stevie Nicks used to be a perfect "10"?), I heard a poptop pop, and we were officially Spring Breakin'.
The weather caught us off our game to start with, and the turkeys didn't cooperate as well as we might have hoped, but we had a ball. It turns out - the mountains aren't nearly as easy to hunt as you might think. At one point, standing on a beautiful ridgetop with the sun just peeking up over the trees I suggested the fatal plan, "lets just drop down off this ridge into the creek bottom and work our way back to the truck."
Oversimplifications are my recent specialty.
It turns out - the creek bottoms are essentially impassable, and there is no "just dropping down." Everything turns into a ridge somehow, then you generally end up sliding at least 100 yards to a stop, hopelessly entangled in the thick bank of mountain laurels that guard each stream. 3hrs, and untold slides later, a sweaty Hank Farmer looked over at me from our precarious positions sprawled facedown in the dirt during an attempted crawl up an 80 degree grade, and said "We started out hunting, but now I think we're just crawling around in the woods."
Well put Hank Farmer.
Several weeks ago my good friend, Hank, called to suggest we take "Spring Break" and spend it turkey hunting each morning in the mountains, and fishing for spotted bass on Lanier in the afternoons. Naturally, I was game.
After the requisite 50 or so phone calls, and at least that many emails discussing timing, baits, weaponry, and food and beverage requirements; we loaded up and headed north to Lanier. Two men that are boys, one black dog (answering to both "Buddy" and "Allie" for some reason), two shotguns, 40 shells for same, two turkey vests, 10 fishing rods, minimal clothing, 6 decoys, and untold quantities of baits, calls, cheap beer, electronics, and lunchmeats found their way into the house and, friends, we were home for the week.
By the time I got into the cabin Hank had dug up some classic James Taylor vinyl from his Dad's extensive record collection. James was crackling loudly across the north end of the lake (did you know Stevie Nicks used to be a perfect "10"?), I heard a poptop pop, and we were officially Spring Breakin'.
The weather caught us off our game to start with, and the turkeys didn't cooperate as well as we might have hoped, but we had a ball. It turns out - the mountains aren't nearly as easy to hunt as you might think. At one point, standing on a beautiful ridgetop with the sun just peeking up over the trees I suggested the fatal plan, "lets just drop down off this ridge into the creek bottom and work our way back to the truck."
Oversimplifications are my recent specialty.
It turns out - the creek bottoms are essentially impassable, and there is no "just dropping down." Everything turns into a ridge somehow, then you generally end up sliding at least 100 yards to a stop, hopelessly entangled in the thick bank of mountain laurels that guard each stream. 3hrs, and untold slides later, a sweaty Hank Farmer looked over at me from our precarious positions sprawled facedown in the dirt during an attempted crawl up an 80 degree grade, and said "We started out hunting, but now I think we're just crawling around in the woods."
Well put Hank Farmer.
Fishing at 70mph
I came home from Christmas this year and found a printed form on my bed that said “Skeeter Eliminator Series” and a note from my best friend, cousin, and roommate, Seth “BassMonster” Slocumb, indicating that instead of our ordinary exchange of Christmas hunting paraphernalia; he had entered me in the Skeeter Eliminator Series tournament on Sinclair. As we’re both poor in the boat department, we were to go “no-boat.”
In due course our registration materials came in the mail, followed immediately by several expensive trips to Bass Pro Shops, and a general sprinkling of fishing equipment in inappropriate places throughout the house. I didn’t notice quite how overboard we’d gone until my girlfriend (at the time) hopped in my truck, hollered “HEY! OUCH!” loud enough to override the Robert Earl Keen sounds coming through the stereo, and gingerly removed a chartreuse crankbait from her nether regions. At that point I realized “I think we’re good in the lure department.”
She’s long gone, but I’ve still got that crankbait.
I received a friendly call from Mike Millsaps, my boat-owning partner a few days before the tournament and we arranged to pre-fish beforehand. We fished for an afternoon and I realized – “I like this Millsaps guy.” He knew what he was doing and used his equipment like a surgeon, hitting his spots fast and with precision. We ran around the lake, talked fishing a bit and decided on a productive pattern; then arranged to meet at Little River Park before blastoff
The morning of the tournament dawned at the usual time but, due to the pea-soup fog engulfing the lake; we never saw it. Blastoff was delayed an hour or so – a good thing for me since it was 30 degrees on the water and I had forgotten my gloves, but by the time we were all waiting to start it was still freezing cold and the fog had only just begun to lift. Once on the water, Mike looked at me and said “Wwwaayyuull, holler at me when they call out number 15” then, to my surprise, he reached behind him, lifted a motorcycle helmet out of his rod locker, and slid it down over his head – kicking the faceguard shut with a snap of his neck.
Not being terribly familiar with fast-boat tournament fishing, I was a bit taken aback, but it was so cold that I just sat down on the padded seat of his Ranger Z19 and stuffed my hands under my knees to stay warm. Mike grinned through his rapidly-fogging lenses and said “hey there fella’ – you better haaawwlld awwn!” then, they called our number.
Friends, the boat ahead of us disappeared into the fog about 200 yards off our bow and when Mike laid the hammer down on that Evinrude Etec 225 all I could think was “I am going to die without ever owning my own boat.” I looked over at Mike, tears streaming out of my eyes, hands numb, and realized: “the fog is so thick, he’s just following the other boat’s bubble trail.” The speedometer said 70mph, my brain said 200mph, and my mouth WOULD have said something too, but the excessive drool whipping out behind the boat in a slobbertrail befitting a Great Dane prevented any timely remarks.
We hit the first wake and my entire body flew up out of the boat, hovered for a second, then came back down sprawled out on the bilge drain. Grinning, Mike slowed in order that I might collect myself, and said “Tawwldd you to hawwld awwn to that there handle little fella’!”
Held on I did, for dear life, and we scalded the topwater of the mud-brown reservoir for another ten minutes to reach our destination.
It was tough on the lake that day and the fish weren’t biting like we had hoped, but we had a ball. We talked about strategy, and baits (most of mine were wrong); Mike showed me some great tips for finesse fishing and rigging (I broke off frequently); we played with rods tried new tackle; we got hung up, and fell over, and stuck the trolling motor on hidden structure. We even caught a fish or two here and there – Mike more than I, but still - it was a huge success.
In due course our registration materials came in the mail, followed immediately by several expensive trips to Bass Pro Shops, and a general sprinkling of fishing equipment in inappropriate places throughout the house. I didn’t notice quite how overboard we’d gone until my girlfriend (at the time) hopped in my truck, hollered “HEY! OUCH!” loud enough to override the Robert Earl Keen sounds coming through the stereo, and gingerly removed a chartreuse crankbait from her nether regions. At that point I realized “I think we’re good in the lure department.”
She’s long gone, but I’ve still got that crankbait.
I received a friendly call from Mike Millsaps, my boat-owning partner a few days before the tournament and we arranged to pre-fish beforehand. We fished for an afternoon and I realized – “I like this Millsaps guy.” He knew what he was doing and used his equipment like a surgeon, hitting his spots fast and with precision. We ran around the lake, talked fishing a bit and decided on a productive pattern; then arranged to meet at Little River Park before blastoff
The morning of the tournament dawned at the usual time but, due to the pea-soup fog engulfing the lake; we never saw it. Blastoff was delayed an hour or so – a good thing for me since it was 30 degrees on the water and I had forgotten my gloves, but by the time we were all waiting to start it was still freezing cold and the fog had only just begun to lift. Once on the water, Mike looked at me and said “Wwwaayyuull, holler at me when they call out number 15” then, to my surprise, he reached behind him, lifted a motorcycle helmet out of his rod locker, and slid it down over his head – kicking the faceguard shut with a snap of his neck.
Not being terribly familiar with fast-boat tournament fishing, I was a bit taken aback, but it was so cold that I just sat down on the padded seat of his Ranger Z19 and stuffed my hands under my knees to stay warm. Mike grinned through his rapidly-fogging lenses and said “hey there fella’ – you better haaawwlld awwn!” then, they called our number.
Friends, the boat ahead of us disappeared into the fog about 200 yards off our bow and when Mike laid the hammer down on that Evinrude Etec 225 all I could think was “I am going to die without ever owning my own boat.” I looked over at Mike, tears streaming out of my eyes, hands numb, and realized: “the fog is so thick, he’s just following the other boat’s bubble trail.” The speedometer said 70mph, my brain said 200mph, and my mouth WOULD have said something too, but the excessive drool whipping out behind the boat in a slobbertrail befitting a Great Dane prevented any timely remarks.
We hit the first wake and my entire body flew up out of the boat, hovered for a second, then came back down sprawled out on the bilge drain. Grinning, Mike slowed in order that I might collect myself, and said “Tawwldd you to hawwld awwn to that there handle little fella’!”
Held on I did, for dear life, and we scalded the topwater of the mud-brown reservoir for another ten minutes to reach our destination.
It was tough on the lake that day and the fish weren’t biting like we had hoped, but we had a ball. We talked about strategy, and baits (most of mine were wrong); Mike showed me some great tips for finesse fishing and rigging (I broke off frequently); we played with rods tried new tackle; we got hung up, and fell over, and stuck the trolling motor on hidden structure. We even caught a fish or two here and there – Mike more than I, but still - it was a huge success.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Merry Christmas, Bruce
I was luxuriating in bed this morning when my phone rang. I looked down at the phone and, not recognizing the number, I stuffed it under a pillow.
Ordinarily, I tend to screen phone calls from people I KNOW for various reasons (nothing sinister) but I always (and I do mean ALWAYS) answer numbers I don’t know because; what if its publisher’s clearinghouse calling to confirm that finally, FINALLY “Jlaay Ewwing” (me) is a real finalist? Maybe it’s someone calling me with their last breath to tell me a secret destined to make me wealthy! What if it’s an ex-girlfriend calling with groundbreaking news, or a secret crush finally revealing herself?
What if its CINDY CRAWFORD AND SHE WANTS TO MEET AND DISCUSS MY BLOG AND OUR FUTURE TOGETHER?
When it’s an unknown number, ESPECIALLY an unknown area code (oh glory!) – anything can happen. If it’s Dad calling at 6:30 on a monday chances are good he has one question - “want to eat out or scrounge for leftovers?” He’s not calling to let me know that Cindy Crawford called and wants me to call her back – I’m pretty sure of that. He claims that occasionally, but let’s face it – it’s never true; so I don’t get excited about it anymore.
THIS particular morning it was my friendly banker, Jeff, calling; so I called him back. I like Jeff, generally, and we normally chat for a second but today he just said “Hey man did you write 4 checks totalling $12,000 to a guy named Bruce?”
“Yea, it was for three mules and some really awkward yoga instruction” I said.
…..“Really?” He said.
“NO OF COURSE NOT, JEFF! WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!?!”
The long and short of it is simply this: I just gave some guy named Bruce $12,000 and it’s not even Christmas.
Ordinarily, I tend to screen phone calls from people I KNOW for various reasons (nothing sinister) but I always (and I do mean ALWAYS) answer numbers I don’t know because; what if its publisher’s clearinghouse calling to confirm that finally, FINALLY “Jlaay Ewwing” (me) is a real finalist? Maybe it’s someone calling me with their last breath to tell me a secret destined to make me wealthy! What if it’s an ex-girlfriend calling with groundbreaking news, or a secret crush finally revealing herself?
What if its CINDY CRAWFORD AND SHE WANTS TO MEET AND DISCUSS MY BLOG AND OUR FUTURE TOGETHER?
When it’s an unknown number, ESPECIALLY an unknown area code (oh glory!) – anything can happen. If it’s Dad calling at 6:30 on a monday chances are good he has one question - “want to eat out or scrounge for leftovers?” He’s not calling to let me know that Cindy Crawford called and wants me to call her back – I’m pretty sure of that. He claims that occasionally, but let’s face it – it’s never true; so I don’t get excited about it anymore.
THIS particular morning it was my friendly banker, Jeff, calling; so I called him back. I like Jeff, generally, and we normally chat for a second but today he just said “Hey man did you write 4 checks totalling $12,000 to a guy named Bruce?”
“Yea, it was for three mules and some really awkward yoga instruction” I said.
…..“Really?” He said.
“NO OF COURSE NOT, JEFF! WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!?!”
The long and short of it is simply this: I just gave some guy named Bruce $12,000 and it’s not even Christmas.
Friday, February 13, 2009
The BoxerBrief Arson Squad
Ask someone what they think is man’s greatest, most groundbreaking, important invention and you tend to get run of the mill answers like "the wheel", "domesticated animals", "flight", "space travel", "irrigation systems," "the cotton gin", "electricity", "the peanut", and, occasionally, “the spork.” I tend to agree with the latter – why bother with a spoon and a fork, when you can have both in one hand? But lets face it - Carver didn't invent the peanut - he just figured out what to do with it, ok?
Continue asking for awhile and often someone will come across your bows with “fire!” Not bad, I think, despite the obvious truth that man didn’t actually CREATE fire, it’s still a good point – where would we be without it? Pick a product and work it backwards in your mind to its raw materials, then think about the process required to create it and, ultimately, fire is most likely going to play a part in there somewhere; except in beef jerky (man’s other most important invention) - no need for fire there – just the sun. Oops, wait – the sun is made of fire! Got myself stuck in a thought loop there for a second.
Hate it or love it, raw, hot, fire is a part of your life. Open up your heater tonight - what do you see?
Fire.
What makes your car run? Gasoline? Nope. Not exactly. Fire.
I don’t know about you – but I’ve had a long and fruitful relationship with open flame. Campfires, fireplace fires, bonfire, lighters, fireworks, firearms - it’s a pyromaniac’s world out there and I bleed kerosene. Men are firebugs - it’s like a natural law. I think that’s why we like to have bonfires in the firepit at the Duderanch: they’re cheerful, tend to spur on great conversation, and they keep you warm. Plus, who doesn’t love burning aluminum cans? I know I do.
In fact, we had a great fire here on Thursday night. We told manly stories, had a few drinks, then called it a night. I put the grate over the pit about 11pm to avoid errant sparks and went to bed; smoke-cured and satisfied. This afternoon when I returned home from my last round of interviews I dumped the ashes and headed in the house to change. Ragone was loitering around on the couch and Austin was enjoying a light afternoon nap in his boxers.
I changed out of my suit and hung around my room for awhile in my boxers, then wandered in the den to check on Ragone. I felt a bit thirsty so I bypassed the couch and went straight to the fridge.
When I walked past the kitchen window I couldn’t help but notice that my entire backyard was engulfed in 10-foot-high orange flames.
Naturally my first instinct was to scream like a woman, which I did. This brought Ragone into the kitchen at a clip. He want straight past me through the screen door and began hopping up and down in the back yard spewing forth an ingenious litany of profanity so profound as to defy description. I swear to you the fire receded a bit in the face of his apopleptic fury.
I joined him for a second, then dove back in the house, woke up Austin with “GET UP THE YARD IS ON FIRE CALL 911” then dove under the kitchen sink for the fire extinguisher.
I couldn't figure out how to get the retaining pin out, so of course – I had to read the instructions. Bear in mind – we have a vintage 1993-yellowstone forest fire absolutely blazing in my backyard at this point and I’m hopping up and down in terror attempting to read fine-print.
I managed to figure it out, pulled the pin, ran out into the fire, and started spraying. Ragone went for the hose. Naturally, it was tied in a double bow, kinked in 14 places, and in the front yard – not the back.
We managed to get it working, but the fire was too hot – so Ragone and Austin started cutting a fire brake around the edges of the rapidly-spreading flames which, by this point, were headed directly for my house – on purpose, I’m sure.
I was engulfed in thick smoke trying to soak down the hottest parts, but over the crackling roar of the flames I clearly heard Ragone shout “f&ckity, f*ck, f@ck, d*mn, f*ck, sh%t, holy sh*t, its hot, oh its so d&mn hot, oh F*ck me, f@ck, d*mn that hose, d*mn you stupid f*cking, f%ckhead hose, horse’s @ss, son-of-a-b*tch leaves, Austin you f*cker give me that f*cking, d*mn rake!!!!!” Which, I have to admit was exactly what I was thinking. Then, mercifully, the first fireman showed up. Then another. After that a lady fireman ran up, looked at me condescendingly, and said into her radio “better bring up the big hose. Randy.”
Randy, who appeared to be about 17 and was apparently in training, trudged up with a gigantic fire hose and immediately began blasting water all over creation. It was at this point that I realized: I’m in my underwear and black dress socks, and my right sock is completely burned off except for the part around my ankle.
That might not sound too bad to you, initially, but let's back up for a second so I can impress upon you the gravity of this situation. Rewind, if you will to approximately 8:00AM this morning. I got up, took a shower and slid on my favorite pair of boxers. I then marched out of my room into the kitchen for a glass of water. Austin met me in the hallway and said "Hey man. nice boxers." I returned a congenial "Thanks! They're my lucky boxers!" - glad that he recognized how special those particular boxers were. He just grinned. Walking back from the kitchen I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror and realized: the crotch of my lucky boxers is entirely gone. I'm wearing a swiss-cheese boxer skirt with holes in all the wrong places. I do not know how this happened, but it wasn't intentional.
My first thought was "let me change my boxers and throw these away. What if I find myself in a situation where someone might see my boxers?!" My second thought was "Nah. Who is going to see these boxers? These things are even MORE comfortable now - I'm going with it."
Perhaps now you understand.
I don’t know what it is about my life, but anytime something really out of the ordinary happens I always end up standing around in the yard in my underwear surrounded by strangers.
By the time it was all over – we were standing around in the mudhole that was my backyard with 9 firemen, one fire chief, two policemen, a paramedic, and two neighbors – all looking at me for an explanation.
I didn’t know what else to do, so: I offered them refreshments. They declined.
The fire itself was pretty memorable, in fact it may have been the single greatest happening of 2009 on River Springs court to-date; but the thing I remember most clearly was Austin K. Lee, who adjusted his white v-neck, leaned over to me and whispered “you know Jimmy, we have way too many stories that start with us all sitting around the house half-naked.”
Viva La Duderanch
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
25 Things About Me! NOT YOU!!! ME!! ME ME ME!! ME!!!
1. I broke the hubcap off my Uncle Buster’s truck in 1986 and blamed it on the hound dog, Barney.
2. My house has a name and everyone who lives in it eventually gets married and moves out…..except me. Which I think means I’m going to have to sell it and buy a new house that likes me better than my roommates. Stupid house!
3. On the way back from the deercamp one day I asked my friend Agador Spartacus (name changed) if he preferred sex or deer hunting. When we pulled in his driveway an hour later he was still working through the pros and cons; then, his wife walked out of the house and we forgot what we were talking about. That’s one of my favorite conversations EVER.
4. I want to go to Africa and hunt big scary angry things with claws and teeth and tusks, but I really don’t want to get eaten. “Eaten by something” is probably my second least favorite way to die – right behind “crushed by something.”
5. I am not afraid to hang big, mounted, too-large-for-the-room animal heads in my house wherever I feel like it and I’m going to keep it up; so get used to the idea.
6. Granddad gave me a cigar when I was 8 to prove the point that tobacco would make you sick and not to mess with it. I smoked it to a nub and asked for another one. Right then Grandma walked in and he got in trouble, then he got mad at ME for smoking a cigar. Hey, did you want me to smoke the cigar or not? Make up your mind.
7. I know my cousin Maggie harbors a long-buried desire to go hunting with the guys, but she refuses to admit it. Come clean, Maggie, and we’ll buy you a rifle.
8. I can hit a chimney swift, flying, with a .22 rifle and so can my cousin Seth; but we bet you can’t.
9. I shot a squirrel in the head (on purpose) with a pellet rifle at 97 yards and I have a witness. Actually, I have two witnesses: Seth, and the neighbor whose birdfeeder the squirrel was sitting on. Only one of the witnesses was impressed.
10. I am always ready to go on an adventure of any kind.
11. Aaron Harris is one of my most trusted confidantes and greatest friends. He snores and gurgles in his sleep like a wounded grizzly bear, but still has the audacity to complain about MY snoring. It’s our only regular area of personal contention.
12. Emily Jones is one of my best friends, ever, in the world, period. Sometimes I have to holler at her, then she hollers at me, then we go out for dinner and fight over the check.
13. I would trade the next 30 years for October 1989, Grandma’s house, and a red ryder bb gun sighted in just the way I like it.
14. If I could get any one thing to put in my yard right now it would an Olympic trampoline. I would set it up behind the house so that when I bounced just high enough my head would pop up over the roofline every so often and people passing by on the street would see me and freak out.
15. I can’t think of anyone I actually “hate” but I can think of a whole bunch of people that would be much better off on an island together…with no electricity…..or telephones…..or clean underwear….If we could wire all the houses and broadcast their antics on the internet – that would be even better.
16. Dairy products make me feel itchy and hot which leads me to believe that yes, I’m still allergic to them.
17. I recently conquered my lifelong fear of sour cream by accidentally biting into a taco that was absolutely slam-full of it….but the conquering nearly killed me.
18. I’ve chosen a life without motorcycles, even though I love them, because I know my limitations: one of them is an inability to NOT go fast on machines that are built to GO FAST. When confronted with temptation I always think “well, I’ll just hop on here and putt around for a second to get a feel for the road” then 20 seconds later I’ve got bugs in my teeth, one eye won’t open, and my brain is screaming “I BET IT WILL GO FASTER IF YOU JUST LEAN INTO IT A BIT.”
19. I got on the back of a waverunner once with a tall blonde woman and to this day I still hate…………waverunners.
20. I hate to love fishing because it alternately bores me to tears and thrills me to death. Fishing with me is like watching a horror movie - long periods of boredom and awkward social interaction punctuated by moments of sheer terror and glory.
21. Michael Brock, John Dickens, Cody Broome, my Uncle Robert and Aaron Harris have the best dating stories the world has ever known. I could tell you one of their legendary dating stories entitled “BoomBoom Boiler Room”, but I refuse to contribute to the downfall of humanity.
22. I slammed on brakes once to scare a date who wasn’t paying attention to the road. That taught me the important lesson that sometimes I think things are funny that other people don’t think are funny…ever.
23. If I had to list my top 1000 favorite things in life it would include everything you might guess and some things you might not, like: marshmallows in the microwave, gasoline smell, fire, The Ragone when he’s on his game, The Ragone when he’s way OFF his game, leather smell, Labrador retrievers, burned gunpowder, heavy recoiling firearms, driving, Strib Stribling and Josh Youssef (preferably together), the word “dillydally”, and beef jerky.
24. I once dated a woman whose perfume gave me a headache and made my stomach hurt. Then one day I realized: it’s not the perfume.
25. Austin Lee just walked into the room in his nearly-see-through boxers with his gut hanging out, stopped at the dining room table, tied Ragone’s necktie around his neck, then danced around the room singing “I could be a Chippendale, oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah.” Nobody seemed surprised.
2. My house has a name and everyone who lives in it eventually gets married and moves out…..except me. Which I think means I’m going to have to sell it and buy a new house that likes me better than my roommates. Stupid house!
3. On the way back from the deercamp one day I asked my friend Agador Spartacus (name changed) if he preferred sex or deer hunting. When we pulled in his driveway an hour later he was still working through the pros and cons; then, his wife walked out of the house and we forgot what we were talking about. That’s one of my favorite conversations EVER.
4. I want to go to Africa and hunt big scary angry things with claws and teeth and tusks, but I really don’t want to get eaten. “Eaten by something” is probably my second least favorite way to die – right behind “crushed by something.”
5. I am not afraid to hang big, mounted, too-large-for-the-room animal heads in my house wherever I feel like it and I’m going to keep it up; so get used to the idea.
6. Granddad gave me a cigar when I was 8 to prove the point that tobacco would make you sick and not to mess with it. I smoked it to a nub and asked for another one. Right then Grandma walked in and he got in trouble, then he got mad at ME for smoking a cigar. Hey, did you want me to smoke the cigar or not? Make up your mind.
7. I know my cousin Maggie harbors a long-buried desire to go hunting with the guys, but she refuses to admit it. Come clean, Maggie, and we’ll buy you a rifle.
8. I can hit a chimney swift, flying, with a .22 rifle and so can my cousin Seth; but we bet you can’t.
9. I shot a squirrel in the head (on purpose) with a pellet rifle at 97 yards and I have a witness. Actually, I have two witnesses: Seth, and the neighbor whose birdfeeder the squirrel was sitting on. Only one of the witnesses was impressed.
10. I am always ready to go on an adventure of any kind.
11. Aaron Harris is one of my most trusted confidantes and greatest friends. He snores and gurgles in his sleep like a wounded grizzly bear, but still has the audacity to complain about MY snoring. It’s our only regular area of personal contention.
12. Emily Jones is one of my best friends, ever, in the world, period. Sometimes I have to holler at her, then she hollers at me, then we go out for dinner and fight over the check.
13. I would trade the next 30 years for October 1989, Grandma’s house, and a red ryder bb gun sighted in just the way I like it.
14. If I could get any one thing to put in my yard right now it would an Olympic trampoline. I would set it up behind the house so that when I bounced just high enough my head would pop up over the roofline every so often and people passing by on the street would see me and freak out.
15. I can’t think of anyone I actually “hate” but I can think of a whole bunch of people that would be much better off on an island together…with no electricity…..or telephones…..or clean underwear….If we could wire all the houses and broadcast their antics on the internet – that would be even better.
16. Dairy products make me feel itchy and hot which leads me to believe that yes, I’m still allergic to them.
17. I recently conquered my lifelong fear of sour cream by accidentally biting into a taco that was absolutely slam-full of it….but the conquering nearly killed me.
18. I’ve chosen a life without motorcycles, even though I love them, because I know my limitations: one of them is an inability to NOT go fast on machines that are built to GO FAST. When confronted with temptation I always think “well, I’ll just hop on here and putt around for a second to get a feel for the road” then 20 seconds later I’ve got bugs in my teeth, one eye won’t open, and my brain is screaming “I BET IT WILL GO FASTER IF YOU JUST LEAN INTO IT A BIT.”
19. I got on the back of a waverunner once with a tall blonde woman and to this day I still hate…………waverunners.
20. I hate to love fishing because it alternately bores me to tears and thrills me to death. Fishing with me is like watching a horror movie - long periods of boredom and awkward social interaction punctuated by moments of sheer terror and glory.
21. Michael Brock, John Dickens, Cody Broome, my Uncle Robert and Aaron Harris have the best dating stories the world has ever known. I could tell you one of their legendary dating stories entitled “BoomBoom Boiler Room”, but I refuse to contribute to the downfall of humanity.
22. I slammed on brakes once to scare a date who wasn’t paying attention to the road. That taught me the important lesson that sometimes I think things are funny that other people don’t think are funny…ever.
23. If I had to list my top 1000 favorite things in life it would include everything you might guess and some things you might not, like: marshmallows in the microwave, gasoline smell, fire, The Ragone when he’s on his game, The Ragone when he’s way OFF his game, leather smell, Labrador retrievers, burned gunpowder, heavy recoiling firearms, driving, Strib Stribling and Josh Youssef (preferably together), the word “dillydally”, and beef jerky.
24. I once dated a woman whose perfume gave me a headache and made my stomach hurt. Then one day I realized: it’s not the perfume.
25. Austin Lee just walked into the room in his nearly-see-through boxers with his gut hanging out, stopped at the dining room table, tied Ragone’s necktie around his neck, then danced around the room singing “I could be a Chippendale, oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah.” Nobody seemed surprised.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
25 Things About YOU
Everybody seems excited about this latest “25 Things About Me” Facebook fad; no real surprise there since a basic tenet of life is that your favorite topic will always be…..you….but after reading a few of them lately I have to admit: you guys are pretty mundane.
If you want me to read 25 things about you, they better be good enough to tear me away from focusing exclusively on typing up my favorite 25 interesting things about ME. Knowing the names of your first 5 pets just makes me feel dumber: get creative, folks.
Let’s get right to the nitty-gritty. Here are the 31 things we’d REALLY like to know about you:
1. Please describe, in detail, your single greatest betrayal including (but not limited to) names, dates, and rationale.
2. List your top three favorite people to smooch with (bonus points if it’s me).
3. Who is the worst person you’ve ever smooched with. Bonus points if I know him or her, or if they’re famous. (Lets take me out of the equation on this one).
4. Of all your friends: who has the worst breath?
5. What’s the nastiest thing you’ve ever done?
6. What do you feel the absolute WORST about in life?
7. Who do you secretly love?
8. I know you have a weird fantasy about something: what is it?
9. Tell me the 25 biggest secrets you’re NEVER supposed to tell anyone.
10. You have a friend who thinks you’re best friends, BUT YOURE REALLY NOT!! (HA HA!!) Who is it?
11. Somebody got hurt. You laughed. Who was it?
12. On a scale from 1-100 where is your self esteem?
13. What was the last real, soul-scorching lie you told?
14. You make fun of someone regularly. Who is it?
15. Who did you vote for?
16. What do you think about during church when you should be listening to the sermon?
17. You were madly in love with someone once and it didn’t work out, you still think about it quite alot. Who was it?
18. Your significant other doesn’t know that you ______________.
19. You’ve been publicly naked _____times.
20. The worst thing you’ve ever done was _________________.
21. You lied to ________ about __________ and you’d do it again.
22. You stole something once. You still have it and you’re not going to give it back. What is it?
23. You’re extremely proud of yourself for _______________ and you can’t WAIT for someone to bring it up again.
24. If you seriously had it to do over again you definitely wouldn’t _______________.
25. You’re way, WAY lustful. Primarily over _______________, and generally because ___________, and in church it’s _________ because ___________, and you’re probably going to keep it up.
26. You’re on __________ medication for ____________ and OH MAN you hope nobody finds out!
27. You cheated once and found out that cheaters DO sometimes win. When was it?
28. When someone swears you to secrecy it generally takes you ____________ minutes to tell someone else.
29. Your boss doesn’t know that you ____________ pretty regularly on company time.
30. You hate me right now, don’t you?
31. You firmly believe no list should ever end on a number indivisible by either “2” “3” or “5.”
There, now don’t you feel better?
My Surgical Residency
I pulled into the ICU parking lot Wednesday to visit my cousin Beau; I got out of my car, and walked out the front of the deck. Then I realized the deck I was in WASN’T the ICU parking lot – it was the Women’s Center parking lot, which would account for all the pregnant women wandering around; so I had to traipse around downtown Macon for awhile in my cowboy boots.
They hurt my feet.
I finally found the right place to be, mostly lost my truck, but managed to get inside without incident. Then there was the topic of elevators. Which to choose? And why all the signs with arrows pointing this way and that? How about just a “YOU ARE HERE” sign with a schematic of the hospital? I can figure that out, but I always have to stop under the stupid signs and think to myself “Well, ok. That arrow there is pointing UP. Does that mean ‘straight ahead’, or am I on the wrong floor?” Like I said – show me a damn schematic.
The elevators were marked A B C and D, and color-coded, so presumably somebody, somewhere, came up with a brilliant idea how to get around in this hospital and make it really easy for non-hospital folks. They failed and I hope they’re all dead so they can’t be held accountable for their folly in this life.
The problem is: the first four elevators that came slamming open in front of me I let go on by because they looked like “service elevators” inside - really deep, wide, and full of stainless steel and rubber bumpers – like the ones the catering crew used in my old office. I’m accustomed to mahogany, plush carpet, and mirrors you’re not supposed to look at yourself in.
Sometimes I look at myself in those mirrors and occasionally even try to “fix” my knappy hair – even when other people are there: sue me.
No mirrors here, but people behind me were starting to look REALLY pissed off because I guess I was blocking the entry. I figured I must be screwing it up some way so I just bit the bullet and got on the next one. I don’t know what I thought would happen if I DID ride on a service elevator: “get in trouble?”
With WHO? I still always feel like I’m just about to “get in trouble” for something. I live in a world full of adults and can never remember that I AM one. Stupid.
Halfway between floors three and four I realized: ALL the elevators look like this. It’s so a gurney will fit and you can puke and holler and skeet bodily fluids everywhere and it’s easy to hose down. There ARE NO “service elevators” - they’re ALL service elevators.
I needed to go to the fourth floor, but nobody had pushed the 4th floor button and I sure as hell wasn’t going to actually TOUCH an elevator button in a hospital; every bugger-ey, infected, finger in Macon, Georgia has touched those buttons. I had to ride all the way up and then back down again; then back again until finally, mercifully, someone said “which floor – 2?” and looked at me quizzically. I realized later I’d seen them a time or two already. I looked at the floor 2 office list later and realized – that’s the psych ward – they had seen me riding around on the elevator, thought I was retarded, and were trying to help.
That happened to me twice, actually, because later I got on the elevator to go home and an orderly got on with an empty wheelchair. All I could think was “where did you put the person that was in that wheelchair!??” but I didn’t say anything. If you want to push an empty wheelchair around the hospital - thats your business. I don’t tolerate hospitals well and I must have looked a bit wild-haired, or shell-shocked or something, because the orderly started asking me how I was doing, and “if I was ok?” I said “yeah this place kinda wears on me a bit after awhile.” He said “yeah man. I hear you buddy, I hope you feel better” and I realized that he thought I had some kind of chronic disease. I started to explain, but the door “ding-ed” and I hopped off without thinking.
It was the second floor.
I needed the first floor - NOT the second floor, so stood there with the other people who were waiting on an elevator until the next one came along. They knew I was the idiot that got off on the wrong floor - everyone always does. You’re kidding yourself if you think people don’t notice you got off on the wrong floor. If you avoid eye contact its better, but I didn’t. I looked the big lady behind me dead in the eye and said “I just didn’t like that elevator.” She didn’t think that was funny, I guess, because she just nudged her husband and they both looked at the floor. Then I realized: “second floor – psych ward - she thinks I belong here.”
A minute later the door opened. Same orderly from earlier. No wheelchair this time (where the hell is his wheelchair?). Nobody said anything for a second......then my resolve crumbled. I looked up and said, “Man, can you please tell me how to get out of this place!?”
He paused for a second, then asked: “Have you been discharged by your doctor?”
I looked at him, blankly, for a second.
“Yes” I said.
They hurt my feet.
I finally found the right place to be, mostly lost my truck, but managed to get inside without incident. Then there was the topic of elevators. Which to choose? And why all the signs with arrows pointing this way and that? How about just a “YOU ARE HERE” sign with a schematic of the hospital? I can figure that out, but I always have to stop under the stupid signs and think to myself “Well, ok. That arrow there is pointing UP. Does that mean ‘straight ahead’, or am I on the wrong floor?” Like I said – show me a damn schematic.
The elevators were marked A B C and D, and color-coded, so presumably somebody, somewhere, came up with a brilliant idea how to get around in this hospital and make it really easy for non-hospital folks. They failed and I hope they’re all dead so they can’t be held accountable for their folly in this life.
The problem is: the first four elevators that came slamming open in front of me I let go on by because they looked like “service elevators” inside - really deep, wide, and full of stainless steel and rubber bumpers – like the ones the catering crew used in my old office. I’m accustomed to mahogany, plush carpet, and mirrors you’re not supposed to look at yourself in.
Sometimes I look at myself in those mirrors and occasionally even try to “fix” my knappy hair – even when other people are there: sue me.
No mirrors here, but people behind me were starting to look REALLY pissed off because I guess I was blocking the entry. I figured I must be screwing it up some way so I just bit the bullet and got on the next one. I don’t know what I thought would happen if I DID ride on a service elevator: “get in trouble?”
With WHO? I still always feel like I’m just about to “get in trouble” for something. I live in a world full of adults and can never remember that I AM one. Stupid.
Halfway between floors three and four I realized: ALL the elevators look like this. It’s so a gurney will fit and you can puke and holler and skeet bodily fluids everywhere and it’s easy to hose down. There ARE NO “service elevators” - they’re ALL service elevators.
I needed to go to the fourth floor, but nobody had pushed the 4th floor button and I sure as hell wasn’t going to actually TOUCH an elevator button in a hospital; every bugger-ey, infected, finger in Macon, Georgia has touched those buttons. I had to ride all the way up and then back down again; then back again until finally, mercifully, someone said “which floor – 2?” and looked at me quizzically. I realized later I’d seen them a time or two already. I looked at the floor 2 office list later and realized – that’s the psych ward – they had seen me riding around on the elevator, thought I was retarded, and were trying to help.
That happened to me twice, actually, because later I got on the elevator to go home and an orderly got on with an empty wheelchair. All I could think was “where did you put the person that was in that wheelchair!??” but I didn’t say anything. If you want to push an empty wheelchair around the hospital - thats your business. I don’t tolerate hospitals well and I must have looked a bit wild-haired, or shell-shocked or something, because the orderly started asking me how I was doing, and “if I was ok?” I said “yeah this place kinda wears on me a bit after awhile.” He said “yeah man. I hear you buddy, I hope you feel better” and I realized that he thought I had some kind of chronic disease. I started to explain, but the door “ding-ed” and I hopped off without thinking.
It was the second floor.
I needed the first floor - NOT the second floor, so stood there with the other people who were waiting on an elevator until the next one came along. They knew I was the idiot that got off on the wrong floor - everyone always does. You’re kidding yourself if you think people don’t notice you got off on the wrong floor. If you avoid eye contact its better, but I didn’t. I looked the big lady behind me dead in the eye and said “I just didn’t like that elevator.” She didn’t think that was funny, I guess, because she just nudged her husband and they both looked at the floor. Then I realized: “second floor – psych ward - she thinks I belong here.”
A minute later the door opened. Same orderly from earlier. No wheelchair this time (where the hell is his wheelchair?). Nobody said anything for a second......then my resolve crumbled. I looked up and said, “Man, can you please tell me how to get out of this place!?”
He paused for a second, then asked: “Have you been discharged by your doctor?”
I looked at him, blankly, for a second.
“Yes” I said.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Juan Huang Lowe
Some time ago my roommate, Matt, burst into my room and, without so much as a “Hi, how are you”, dropped his trousers, looked me dead in the eye and said:
“Jimmy, does this look normal to you? Tell me straight. It doesn’t look normal, does it? I’ve got testicular cancer, I JUST KNOW IT. Something AINT RIGHT. WHAT DO I DO?”
I took a few moments to give the topic my full attention before replying: “to be perfectly honest with you I’d have to say no - that does not look at all normal (in general) but I don’t really think there is a problem.”
Despite my complete lack of medical training, he looked immensely relieved, sat down on the edge of my bed (trousers still at half-mast) and launched into a very long explanation concerning testicles in general, and, among other things, a certain size discrepancy which led him to the belief that he was suffering from testicular cancer (none of which made sense and all of which bordered on hypochondria).
Ultimately we came to the conclusion that he should merely keep an eye out for any sort of real anomaly, and perhaps run down to the doctor for a quick peek at the goods. Unfortunately, he understood that to mean that I had a vested interest in his reproductive health, so for the next three months the scene I just described replayed itself on a daily basis.
Nightly after work a mostly-naked Matt would throw my bedroom door open and say: “hey man – what do you think? Everything ok?”, I would reply simply: “Looks ok to me”, and he would respond with “Ok, as long as you’re sure” sigh, and walk out looking relieved.
Finally, his long-awaited doctor’s appointment came around and he went in (somewhat shakily) for a full-physical. The dudes of The Duderanch waited in eager anticipation for a report that evening, and, as Matt walked in; we turned to him and with one voice said: “everything ok with Lefty Hognut??”
He was extremely excited to show us graphically on his new 3"x5" doctor-provided diagram that yes, everything was indeed ok. He then took that small sheet of paper and taped it to his shaving mirror as a constant reminder of what to look out for; where it remained for the duration of Matt’s Duderanch career.
Matt moved out a couple of years ago and got married, but that diagram lives on. I found it this week under my bed between two canisters of dried-out “Floam” (the origins of which I could not even begin to imagine); and it made me miss the days of Matt “Caveman” Dunn a bit.
I guess it was nostalgia that led me to flatten out the water-stained edges, and tape it to MY shaving mirror for a change. It reminds me of Matt, and all those fun times……and the importance of good testicular health.
So, with that happy history fresh in my mind I was not at all surprised to overhear Matt at a rehearsal dinner recently, eagerly describing his previous testicular concerns…..to the mother of the bride.
She later confided in the bride her concern for Matt’s health, to which the bride responded:
“Mom he’s perfectly healthy! Whatever are you talking about?”
Her mother, fresh from the hairdresser, bedecked in all her wedding finery; inclined her head gently to one side and, with a quizzical look on her face, said in halting half-whisper: “Honey, did he not tell you about Lefty Hognut?”
Thank God I was near enough to hear it.
“Jimmy, does this look normal to you? Tell me straight. It doesn’t look normal, does it? I’ve got testicular cancer, I JUST KNOW IT. Something AINT RIGHT. WHAT DO I DO?”
I took a few moments to give the topic my full attention before replying: “to be perfectly honest with you I’d have to say no - that does not look at all normal (in general) but I don’t really think there is a problem.”
Despite my complete lack of medical training, he looked immensely relieved, sat down on the edge of my bed (trousers still at half-mast) and launched into a very long explanation concerning testicles in general, and, among other things, a certain size discrepancy which led him to the belief that he was suffering from testicular cancer (none of which made sense and all of which bordered on hypochondria).
Ultimately we came to the conclusion that he should merely keep an eye out for any sort of real anomaly, and perhaps run down to the doctor for a quick peek at the goods. Unfortunately, he understood that to mean that I had a vested interest in his reproductive health, so for the next three months the scene I just described replayed itself on a daily basis.
Nightly after work a mostly-naked Matt would throw my bedroom door open and say: “hey man – what do you think? Everything ok?”, I would reply simply: “Looks ok to me”, and he would respond with “Ok, as long as you’re sure” sigh, and walk out looking relieved.
Finally, his long-awaited doctor’s appointment came around and he went in (somewhat shakily) for a full-physical. The dudes of The Duderanch waited in eager anticipation for a report that evening, and, as Matt walked in; we turned to him and with one voice said: “everything ok with Lefty Hognut??”
He was extremely excited to show us graphically on his new 3"x5" doctor-provided diagram that yes, everything was indeed ok. He then took that small sheet of paper and taped it to his shaving mirror as a constant reminder of what to look out for; where it remained for the duration of Matt’s Duderanch career.
Matt moved out a couple of years ago and got married, but that diagram lives on. I found it this week under my bed between two canisters of dried-out “Floam” (the origins of which I could not even begin to imagine); and it made me miss the days of Matt “Caveman” Dunn a bit.
I guess it was nostalgia that led me to flatten out the water-stained edges, and tape it to MY shaving mirror for a change. It reminds me of Matt, and all those fun times……and the importance of good testicular health.
So, with that happy history fresh in my mind I was not at all surprised to overhear Matt at a rehearsal dinner recently, eagerly describing his previous testicular concerns…..to the mother of the bride.
She later confided in the bride her concern for Matt’s health, to which the bride responded:
“Mom he’s perfectly healthy! Whatever are you talking about?”
Her mother, fresh from the hairdresser, bedecked in all her wedding finery; inclined her head gently to one side and, with a quizzical look on her face, said in halting half-whisper: “Honey, did he not tell you about Lefty Hognut?”
Thank God I was near enough to hear it.
The Year to Come
I bumped noisily down the narrow drive to the camphouse; swinging past a large dog kennel housing the three shorthair pointers who eagerly announced my arrival. The driveway quickly petered out and I found myself very much in the front yard. I circled twice around the sprawling ramshackle building that was my destination trying to decide where to park, turned around a few times, then left my truck on the grass just by the back door.
Inside I found the usual accoutrements of male activity: crumbs, shotgun shells, congealed bean dip, cheap liquor, a few solo cups roundabout; but the inhabitants were nowhere to be found. I noticed no boots or waders on the stoop so I deduced that my late arrival did not long keep my friends from the chase. Later, the distant hollow "boom" of a late afternoon duck shoot in a neighboring swamp confirmed my suspicions.
Unfamiliar with the territory, I made myself comfortable in the game room listening for shots and reading 3-year-old sporting periodicals while I awaited their return.
Shortly after dark I heard voices and laughter proceeding up the drive then the loud clump-clump of booted feet on the wooden stoop as the men returned with their stories.
In came The Wingfields (3 of 4), Josh, Strib Stribling, his children, Bill, a dog named Maggie. Greetings all around. Bottles opening. Soon a pot boils, we talk of the coming days. Warm weather, dogs, hot noses, quail. Man-style spaghetti appears - lots of meat. The Wingfields descend on it like a sweaty chain gang and Joseph (the tallest) makes away with most of the meatsauce. I wonder aloud if years of similar deprivation have made Jared the shorter brother. We laugh. Josh, grinning, steals a plate from a Wingfield brother. The bread is ready. We crowd around the table, too short for 7 pairs of knobby knees, and our first meal together begins.
Bedtime finds us piled into a small bunk room stacked high with guns and gear. I walk in last to find Joseph, Josh, and Jared choosing bunks and discussing duck strategy; not at all unusual bunkroom talk except that Jared is standing idly in the center of the small room, loudly expounding wood duck theory, naked as a jaybird. No one seems to notice. Underwear, it seems, make him feel distinctly claustrophobic. Claustrophobic is no way to go through life, we agree on that, and he nonchalantly jiggles his way into his sleeping bag.
I mention that I tend to snore a bit. No one listens. Midway through the night I awaken to peals of uprorious laughter and Josh peeks over the edge of my top bunk to announce "Man, you sound like somebody is strangling a bear in your nasal cavity." I respond, but he can't hear me through the toilet paper stuffed in his ears.
The coming days bring bonfires and food, ducks and waders and shotgun shells. New rifles shoot well, rains come and go, we forget that there is no cell phone service. Late in the evening the coyotes howl their hunting song away back in the swamp, the fire burns low, and we agree - its a good year already.
Inside I found the usual accoutrements of male activity: crumbs, shotgun shells, congealed bean dip, cheap liquor, a few solo cups roundabout; but the inhabitants were nowhere to be found. I noticed no boots or waders on the stoop so I deduced that my late arrival did not long keep my friends from the chase. Later, the distant hollow "boom" of a late afternoon duck shoot in a neighboring swamp confirmed my suspicions.
Unfamiliar with the territory, I made myself comfortable in the game room listening for shots and reading 3-year-old sporting periodicals while I awaited their return.
Shortly after dark I heard voices and laughter proceeding up the drive then the loud clump-clump of booted feet on the wooden stoop as the men returned with their stories.
In came The Wingfields (3 of 4), Josh, Strib Stribling, his children, Bill, a dog named Maggie. Greetings all around. Bottles opening. Soon a pot boils, we talk of the coming days. Warm weather, dogs, hot noses, quail. Man-style spaghetti appears - lots of meat. The Wingfields descend on it like a sweaty chain gang and Joseph (the tallest) makes away with most of the meatsauce. I wonder aloud if years of similar deprivation have made Jared the shorter brother. We laugh. Josh, grinning, steals a plate from a Wingfield brother. The bread is ready. We crowd around the table, too short for 7 pairs of knobby knees, and our first meal together begins.
Bedtime finds us piled into a small bunk room stacked high with guns and gear. I walk in last to find Joseph, Josh, and Jared choosing bunks and discussing duck strategy; not at all unusual bunkroom talk except that Jared is standing idly in the center of the small room, loudly expounding wood duck theory, naked as a jaybird. No one seems to notice. Underwear, it seems, make him feel distinctly claustrophobic. Claustrophobic is no way to go through life, we agree on that, and he nonchalantly jiggles his way into his sleeping bag.
I mention that I tend to snore a bit. No one listens. Midway through the night I awaken to peals of uprorious laughter and Josh peeks over the edge of my top bunk to announce "Man, you sound like somebody is strangling a bear in your nasal cavity." I respond, but he can't hear me through the toilet paper stuffed in his ears.
The coming days bring bonfires and food, ducks and waders and shotgun shells. New rifles shoot well, rains come and go, we forget that there is no cell phone service. Late in the evening the coyotes howl their hunting song away back in the swamp, the fire burns low, and we agree - its a good year already.
Monday, December 01, 2008
Hunting For Buster
From halfway across the yard at TDC Uncle Buster hollered "we're headed out to hunt - do you want to go?" I responded in the only way one can in that situation (if one wants to be invited back) which is to look away like you don't really care, spit, scratch around the crotch-al region a bit, mumble "I reckon", then make sure you beat him to his house to load up your gear first so you don't get accidentally left.
There is also the question of funds to consider. LAST time I went hunting with him I was swaying in the breeze 15 feet up a tree half-in, half-out of a stand when, from the comfort of his four-wheel-drive golf cart Uncle Buster announced: "Ok, good luck. Oh - also - if you shoot something big its going to cost you $975."
Based on that new information - as soon as Uncle Buster was out of sight I unloaded my gun and left it on the ground to avoid temptation; then I spent the evening watching a monster 8-pt with a 20" inside spread gently hump the first 2 steps up to my stand. All I could think is: that's $121.87 per point.
After awhile I noticed through my binoculars that, at 8x, the coal black eye of a monster buck standing directly underneath you looks extremely malevolent. When the sun set that fact, compounded with my already profound fear of the dark, AND my recent viewing of Pet Sematery I made me extremely scared - enough so that someone eventually had to come find me with a flashlight and help me get down. In the process I managed to step on my favorite rifle which, in my excitement, I had forgotten was still on the ground.
After a great deal of introspection on the way home, what I ultimately realized is that my purpose on that occasion was not to hunt FOR ME or WITH Uncle Buster - it was to hunt FOR Uncle Buster. He wanted to sit on BOTH stands himself, but hadn't figured out an effective way to do that yet with current technology, so he was willing to settle for two pairs of eyes and just one gun (his). Either way he would get most of the benefit of having hunted both locations at once with very little downside at all. A brilliant plan.
Ever hopeful, this week I thought "perhaps this time I am hunting for ME!" and I hopped up into the truck. A short 30 minutes later we arrived at our location. Uncle Buster let me out on a dirt road, indicated a general direction, and said "go that way, then after dark - come back this way." I prepared to do so, but this time, with my prior experience firmly in mind, I first asked: "how much is this going to cost me?"
"Shut up" he said.
"Ok" I said.
When the cloud of dust from his 200 horsepower golf cart subsided - I unloaded my gun and checked to make sure my flashlight battery was dead. It was, so I left my gun on the ground and clambered up into my stand with my binoculars.
When you're deer hunting - two pairs of eyes are better than one.
There is also the question of funds to consider. LAST time I went hunting with him I was swaying in the breeze 15 feet up a tree half-in, half-out of a stand when, from the comfort of his four-wheel-drive golf cart Uncle Buster announced: "Ok, good luck. Oh - also - if you shoot something big its going to cost you $975."
Based on that new information - as soon as Uncle Buster was out of sight I unloaded my gun and left it on the ground to avoid temptation; then I spent the evening watching a monster 8-pt with a 20" inside spread gently hump the first 2 steps up to my stand. All I could think is: that's $121.87 per point.
After awhile I noticed through my binoculars that, at 8x, the coal black eye of a monster buck standing directly underneath you looks extremely malevolent. When the sun set that fact, compounded with my already profound fear of the dark, AND my recent viewing of Pet Sematery I made me extremely scared - enough so that someone eventually had to come find me with a flashlight and help me get down. In the process I managed to step on my favorite rifle which, in my excitement, I had forgotten was still on the ground.
After a great deal of introspection on the way home, what I ultimately realized is that my purpose on that occasion was not to hunt FOR ME or WITH Uncle Buster - it was to hunt FOR Uncle Buster. He wanted to sit on BOTH stands himself, but hadn't figured out an effective way to do that yet with current technology, so he was willing to settle for two pairs of eyes and just one gun (his). Either way he would get most of the benefit of having hunted both locations at once with very little downside at all. A brilliant plan.
Ever hopeful, this week I thought "perhaps this time I am hunting for ME!" and I hopped up into the truck. A short 30 minutes later we arrived at our location. Uncle Buster let me out on a dirt road, indicated a general direction, and said "go that way, then after dark - come back this way." I prepared to do so, but this time, with my prior experience firmly in mind, I first asked: "how much is this going to cost me?"
"Shut up" he said.
"Ok" I said.
When the cloud of dust from his 200 horsepower golf cart subsided - I unloaded my gun and checked to make sure my flashlight battery was dead. It was, so I left my gun on the ground and clambered up into my stand with my binoculars.
When you're deer hunting - two pairs of eyes are better than one.
A Strong Seat on the Matter
Thanksgiving, and the vast quantities of food it entails, exacts a heavy toll on my delicate psyche. At some point during the week I generally feel it necessary to escape the gluttonous fetters that keep me tethered within a 20ft striking range of the kitchen and actually DO something productive.
Ordinarily I’d run off to TDC for a few days of laying around in front of the fire while slowly weaning myself off of Thanksgiving leftovers, but this year the weather was so miserable I decided to remain at home. Instead of going hunting on Saturday I did the unthinkable and I actually went shopping. I, James G Ewing Jr., loaded myself into the truck, alone, and alone I essayed forth into the wilds of post-Thanksgiving shopper-zombie-hell.
Actually, I stopped off at my local federal firearms-licensed gun broker and bought a new rifle, THEN I went shopping. That’s not terribly important though; except to explain why there was a shiny new rifle laying across the front seat of my truck when I pulled up outside Joseph A. Banks (clothiers) a scant 30 minutes later. If you weren’t there you wouldn’t have noticed, but if you were: that’s why.
Now you know and you can quit interrupting.
I made myself a parking spot very near the front of that fine establishment, walked in the door, and immediately noticed two things that are salient to this conversation
1. EVERYTHING was on sale.
2. Two extremely well-dressed, extremely gay, gentlemen were making cooing sounds of delight while floating rapidly across the store in my direction.
I ended up spending roughly $351.97 more than I had originally intended ($99) in order to save approximately $898 off of quoted retail prices; a fact rapidly brought to my attention by the cheeky cashier whose smile quickly faded when I upended my empty wallet, shook it vigorously in his face, and asked him if he would “kindly bend over and pick up my $898”. Generally, I’ve found any retail conversation I start by suggesting that the other party “bend over” doesn’t go well by the standards of polite society, but this time it was worth a cool $898 if you ask me. I can’t help it if every cashier in North American thinks I’m The Un-funny.
I know certain of you can sympathize with my post-purchase cognitive dissonance; but this story really isn’t about shopping - it’s about appropriate personal interaction with strangers; to which end - please allow me to transport you to the fitting room….
It was brought to my attention recently by a certain female that “pleated-front pants” were somewhat out of vogue for men under 50 – a fact that had escaped my attention thus far; evidenced by the preponderance of pleated-front pants inhabiting my closet. So, in good faith I loaded up gay salesman #1 with a stack of high-quality wool plain-front pants, slipped a pair on in the dressing room, and marched back out for a viewing.
So, now I’m standing in the center of the store in thin wool dress pants, cowboy boots, a white t-shirt, and a camo hat; twirling around in front of a three-sided-mirror-thing surrounded by sales staff and one little Vietnamese guy who grew up out of the floor somewhere with a cloth tape wrapped around his neck and pins stuck in all his lapels; and I’m trying my best to get a good viewing angle on my backyard which, with that many people standing in my immediate personal space, ain’t easy. To make things even more difficult - the little Vietnamese clothing genii is unaccountably swiping at my crotch with a tiny bar of soap while spouting off clothing jokes in quick succession; so between slapping at his hands and twisting this-way-and-that; my natural good humor is rapidly wearing thin.
I finally managed to achieve line-of-sight on my rump and crotch at once only to conclude that what gay salesman #2 described as “a wee bit tight up front” actually looks more like a meatpacking accident during an executive tour of the plant.
Quick switch of trouser.
More plain-fronts (next size up) appear draped around the neck of gay salesman #1.
Everyone appears sweaty for some reason - which makes me sweaty - so now my plain-fronts are sticking to my plain-rump and - even worse - the backs of my knees (which makes me feel vaguely suicidal).
I power through a quick change-out and, finally, a pair fits in the waist. I can breathe again - so I’m happy.
Silence abounds.
Crickets chirp.
Then, in a very soothing voice, gay salesman #2 pipes up: “perhaps we should go to a pleated front….they’re better for someone with a strong seat and powerful thighs.”
All I’m saying is: you don’t have to hurt my feelings to sell me pleated pants.
Ordinarily I’d run off to TDC for a few days of laying around in front of the fire while slowly weaning myself off of Thanksgiving leftovers, but this year the weather was so miserable I decided to remain at home. Instead of going hunting on Saturday I did the unthinkable and I actually went shopping. I, James G Ewing Jr., loaded myself into the truck, alone, and alone I essayed forth into the wilds of post-Thanksgiving shopper-zombie-hell.
Actually, I stopped off at my local federal firearms-licensed gun broker and bought a new rifle, THEN I went shopping. That’s not terribly important though; except to explain why there was a shiny new rifle laying across the front seat of my truck when I pulled up outside Joseph A. Banks (clothiers) a scant 30 minutes later. If you weren’t there you wouldn’t have noticed, but if you were: that’s why.
Now you know and you can quit interrupting.
I made myself a parking spot very near the front of that fine establishment, walked in the door, and immediately noticed two things that are salient to this conversation
1. EVERYTHING was on sale.
2. Two extremely well-dressed, extremely gay, gentlemen were making cooing sounds of delight while floating rapidly across the store in my direction.
I ended up spending roughly $351.97 more than I had originally intended ($99) in order to save approximately $898 off of quoted retail prices; a fact rapidly brought to my attention by the cheeky cashier whose smile quickly faded when I upended my empty wallet, shook it vigorously in his face, and asked him if he would “kindly bend over and pick up my $898”. Generally, I’ve found any retail conversation I start by suggesting that the other party “bend over” doesn’t go well by the standards of polite society, but this time it was worth a cool $898 if you ask me. I can’t help it if every cashier in North American thinks I’m The Un-funny.
I know certain of you can sympathize with my post-purchase cognitive dissonance; but this story really isn’t about shopping - it’s about appropriate personal interaction with strangers; to which end - please allow me to transport you to the fitting room….
It was brought to my attention recently by a certain female that “pleated-front pants” were somewhat out of vogue for men under 50 – a fact that had escaped my attention thus far; evidenced by the preponderance of pleated-front pants inhabiting my closet. So, in good faith I loaded up gay salesman #1 with a stack of high-quality wool plain-front pants, slipped a pair on in the dressing room, and marched back out for a viewing.
So, now I’m standing in the center of the store in thin wool dress pants, cowboy boots, a white t-shirt, and a camo hat; twirling around in front of a three-sided-mirror-thing surrounded by sales staff and one little Vietnamese guy who grew up out of the floor somewhere with a cloth tape wrapped around his neck and pins stuck in all his lapels; and I’m trying my best to get a good viewing angle on my backyard which, with that many people standing in my immediate personal space, ain’t easy. To make things even more difficult - the little Vietnamese clothing genii is unaccountably swiping at my crotch with a tiny bar of soap while spouting off clothing jokes in quick succession; so between slapping at his hands and twisting this-way-and-that; my natural good humor is rapidly wearing thin.
I finally managed to achieve line-of-sight on my rump and crotch at once only to conclude that what gay salesman #2 described as “a wee bit tight up front” actually looks more like a meatpacking accident during an executive tour of the plant.
Quick switch of trouser.
More plain-fronts (next size up) appear draped around the neck of gay salesman #1.
Everyone appears sweaty for some reason - which makes me sweaty - so now my plain-fronts are sticking to my plain-rump and - even worse - the backs of my knees (which makes me feel vaguely suicidal).
I power through a quick change-out and, finally, a pair fits in the waist. I can breathe again - so I’m happy.
Silence abounds.
Crickets chirp.
Then, in a very soothing voice, gay salesman #2 pipes up: “perhaps we should go to a pleated front….they’re better for someone with a strong seat and powerful thighs.”
All I’m saying is: you don’t have to hurt my feelings to sell me pleated pants.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
A Brief Lesson in Supply and Demand
I’m vaguely disturbed at the current discrepancy between actual demanded volume of gasoline in the metro Atlanta area and actual gasoline supply.
I say “vaguely” disturbed because, to be honest with you I hadn’t noticed it until today. I filled up in Macon on Sunday, and I haven’t thought about it since. Gasoline BELONGS to be inside gas station pumps – its where gasoline lives. The thought that I might go to a gasoline store intending to buy gasoline – and find NO GASOLINE never even crossed my mind. When I need gasoline – I drive to the pump, stick a little plastic thingy in a slot, type in my zip code, pump the gasoline, then I drive off.
I don’t even have to PAY for anything.
What in the world could make it so that I can’t do that anymore? I ask you!!?!?!
I ask you because: I don’t know.
I don’t read the paper or watch the news. I rely on other people to tell me important things and I do that on purpose for two main reasons:
1. I hate the news, newspapers, weather, weather people, reporters, special reports, breaking news stories, stories, and people on tv, in general.
2. By not watching the news; when something big DOES happen - the first person to tell me about it gets a wonderfully satisfying response. I go “WHAT?!!” ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?! And they feel satisfied all day long. It’s a little public service I provide. Have some news? Break it to ME – I promise I don’t already know.
When my work friends walked in yesterday complaining about not being able to find any gasoline I said “well, did you try the gas station?” Turns out: they had.
I ultimately have come to the following theoretical conclusion: someone ELSE bought up all the gas. They are sitting (right now) on a giant lake of my personal gasoline.
I want it back; and I want it at $0.79 per gallon.
I say “vaguely” disturbed because, to be honest with you I hadn’t noticed it until today. I filled up in Macon on Sunday, and I haven’t thought about it since. Gasoline BELONGS to be inside gas station pumps – its where gasoline lives. The thought that I might go to a gasoline store intending to buy gasoline – and find NO GASOLINE never even crossed my mind. When I need gasoline – I drive to the pump, stick a little plastic thingy in a slot, type in my zip code, pump the gasoline, then I drive off.
I don’t even have to PAY for anything.
What in the world could make it so that I can’t do that anymore? I ask you!!?!?!
I ask you because: I don’t know.
I don’t read the paper or watch the news. I rely on other people to tell me important things and I do that on purpose for two main reasons:
1. I hate the news, newspapers, weather, weather people, reporters, special reports, breaking news stories, stories, and people on tv, in general.
2. By not watching the news; when something big DOES happen - the first person to tell me about it gets a wonderfully satisfying response. I go “WHAT?!!” ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?! And they feel satisfied all day long. It’s a little public service I provide. Have some news? Break it to ME – I promise I don’t already know.
When my work friends walked in yesterday complaining about not being able to find any gasoline I said “well, did you try the gas station?” Turns out: they had.
I ultimately have come to the following theoretical conclusion: someone ELSE bought up all the gas. They are sitting (right now) on a giant lake of my personal gasoline.
I want it back; and I want it at $0.79 per gallon.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
The Price of Vanity
I like to linger luxuriously in the bathroom in the morning. Its true - I've come to terms with it. There aren't that many opportunities in life to hang around mostly nekkid, so I take advantage of it. Its a little "me" time, if you will.
Actually, its usually a little "Me AND Bud" time because ordinarily by the time I get to the bathroom he's already in there (nekkd) brushing his teeth. But hey, thats ok - we have two sinks, so nobody's nekkid space gets invaded.
I woke up this morning, yawned, stretched, and gently scratched my hairy chest. I relaxed for a second while I wondered where I was. I remembered the night before, then looked at the clock; it said time to get up, so I walked across the hotel room floor into the bathroom of my suite.
When I got to the bathroom I looked in the mirror and yawned; admired my collection of freckles for a second or two then, still looking at myself in the mirror, I reached my right hand up into my doc kit and rummadged around until I found my toothpaste tube
I craned my neck back to get a better look at my tonsils while I squeezed a very large glob of paste out on my toothbrush by feel - hey, its hotel toothpaste so I can be wasteful, right?
Satisfied with the paste quantity, I leaned back, cracked two of my toes, stretched again, then started to put my toothbrust in my mouth; but I realized something - I had forgotten to wet the boothbrush. So, I leaned around and cracekd my neck while I turned the faucet on and wet my toothbrush; then I opened both eyes wide to check for eye boogers while I began brushing my teeth.
About 15 seconds into my brushing routine I realized something was wrong.
At about 18 seconds I realized something was very, very wrong.
And at 20 seconds I knew exactly what was wrong: I was brushing my teeth with Preparation H.
Thats the price of vanity.
Actually, its usually a little "Me AND Bud" time because ordinarily by the time I get to the bathroom he's already in there (nekkd) brushing his teeth. But hey, thats ok - we have two sinks, so nobody's nekkid space gets invaded.
I woke up this morning, yawned, stretched, and gently scratched my hairy chest. I relaxed for a second while I wondered where I was. I remembered the night before, then looked at the clock; it said time to get up, so I walked across the hotel room floor into the bathroom of my suite.
When I got to the bathroom I looked in the mirror and yawned; admired my collection of freckles for a second or two then, still looking at myself in the mirror, I reached my right hand up into my doc kit and rummadged around until I found my toothpaste tube
I craned my neck back to get a better look at my tonsils while I squeezed a very large glob of paste out on my toothbrush by feel - hey, its hotel toothpaste so I can be wasteful, right?
Satisfied with the paste quantity, I leaned back, cracked two of my toes, stretched again, then started to put my toothbrust in my mouth; but I realized something - I had forgotten to wet the boothbrush. So, I leaned around and cracekd my neck while I turned the faucet on and wet my toothbrush; then I opened both eyes wide to check for eye boogers while I began brushing my teeth.
About 15 seconds into my brushing routine I realized something was wrong.
At about 18 seconds I realized something was very, very wrong.
And at 20 seconds I knew exactly what was wrong: I was brushing my teeth with Preparation H.
Thats the price of vanity.
Monday, September 15, 2008
A Brief Word on The Truth
Several years ago I became quite enamored of a lovely young woman. We met briefly at church (neither of us were drinking) and we hit it off.
Well, I hit it off - she found me mildly irritating enough to go out with (once).
Naturally, when I managed to determine her name I did the only thing a normal red-blooded American man could do: I “Googled” her; and I mean I really Googled her. I Googled so effectively that I hit the veritable pot of gold at the end of the Googlestalking rainbow: Yes, I located her online photo album.
That’s right gentlemen. Jackpot.
From then until our first date she was googled daily by me, my friends, family, the postman - anyone who would loiter by an internet connection long enough for me to dump in my Yahoo! password and pull up that glorious online album.
My friends and I analyzed angles, pieced together family ties, reviewed her friends, and generally memorized those photos as if they were our own.
I had done my homework. I was ready for that first date.
Mid-way through dinner (which was going swimmingly, I might add) she leaned in coquettishly and breathed: “Oh? You want to see my dog? Well, you should check out my Yahoo! Photo album!! Have you seen it?”
As I’m sure you guessed: NO, I didn’t want to see the dog at all; and YES, I HAD seen the photo album, but what to do?
Does the Bible REALLY mean “thou shalt not EVER lie?” EVER? Or is it more like “Thou shalt GENERALLY not lie unless she catches you?”
I sensed the trap, but the innocently furrowed brow shading sky blue eyes lulled me into a false sense of security in my own ingenuity.
In short: I underestimated my fierce opponent - feminine wiles; and gentlemen: I lied.
Had I known that Yahoo! tracks photo album login attempts, reporting them to the album owner daily; I may have been more circumspect in my pursuit of the truth.
Well, I hit it off - she found me mildly irritating enough to go out with (once).
Naturally, when I managed to determine her name I did the only thing a normal red-blooded American man could do: I “Googled” her; and I mean I really Googled her. I Googled so effectively that I hit the veritable pot of gold at the end of the Googlestalking rainbow: Yes, I located her online photo album.
That’s right gentlemen. Jackpot.
From then until our first date she was googled daily by me, my friends, family, the postman - anyone who would loiter by an internet connection long enough for me to dump in my Yahoo! password and pull up that glorious online album.
My friends and I analyzed angles, pieced together family ties, reviewed her friends, and generally memorized those photos as if they were our own.
I had done my homework. I was ready for that first date.
Mid-way through dinner (which was going swimmingly, I might add) she leaned in coquettishly and breathed: “Oh? You want to see my dog? Well, you should check out my Yahoo! Photo album!! Have you seen it?”
As I’m sure you guessed: NO, I didn’t want to see the dog at all; and YES, I HAD seen the photo album, but what to do?
Does the Bible REALLY mean “thou shalt not EVER lie?” EVER? Or is it more like “Thou shalt GENERALLY not lie unless she catches you?”
I sensed the trap, but the innocently furrowed brow shading sky blue eyes lulled me into a false sense of security in my own ingenuity.
In short: I underestimated my fierce opponent - feminine wiles; and gentlemen: I lied.
Had I known that Yahoo! tracks photo album login attempts, reporting them to the album owner daily; I may have been more circumspect in my pursuit of the truth.
Grandkid Trip 2008
Some weeks ago I initiated the Official 2008 Grandkid Trip Plan with the email below:
Dear Fellow Tier 1 and Tier 2 Grandkids, assorted Aunts and Uncles, and Tier 3 cousins:
As the President and CEO of Grandkid Trip Planning, Inc. it is my great pleasure to inform you that 08 Annual Grandkid Trip planning efforts are currently underway. Due to recent economic fluctuations, the overall state of the economy, rising oil prices, and the sad fact that I entirely depleted my own personal funds early in the year; Grandkid Trip ’07, though seriously considered, never came to fruition.
Please accept my sincerest apologies for such an embarrassing dereliction of duty and allow me to affirm my solemn vow that there shall never again be a year devoid of Grandkid Trip hilarity.
GRANDKID TRIP 2008 ANNOUNCEMENT
LOCATION
Grandkid Trip ’08 will take place on the glorious Island of Anegada in either Mid-December 2008, or early January 2009 – pending further investigation. See the links below for the two hotels on the island and general information:
Neptune’s Treasure Hotel
http://www.neptunestreasure.com/
http://www.neptunestreasure.com/slideshow/index.htm
Anegada Reef Hotel
http://www.anegadareef.com/Accomodations.htm
http://www.anegadareef.com/photo.htm
General Info
http://www.b-v-i.com/Anegada/default.htm
http://www.bareboatsbvi.com/anegada.html
http://www.lavendabreeze.com/index.html
PRELIMINARY COST ESTIMATE
I estimate total travel, room, and board costs should top approximately $1,000 per person as follows:
Plane Tickets $500
Ferry $100
Hotel $400
Total $1,000
Food and beverage consumption will vary based on your personal consumption habits. Before you go bananas and respond with vicious cost-conscious emails, please read the “COST DISCLAIMER” below.
COST DISCLAIMER
I am aware that this is slightly higher than previous Grandkid Trips, but as each of you are able-bodied enough to obtain a weekend job if necessary (and have nearly 6 months to obtain the required funds) I don’t want to hear your whining. You do NOT want to be like Daniel and Shannon (boooo hisssssss) and forever regret missing The First Annual Grandkid Trip - the sadness has marked them for eternity. I also recommend each of you take a moment to address a support letter to each of your parents and follow it, weekly, with a modicum of begging and pleading for funds.
This email will be followed by an official “Evite” containing further details, cost updates, and definite trip dates as soon as possible.
Sincerely,
Baby Jimmy
President and CEO - Grandkid Trip Planning, Inc., Representing:
Tier 1 Grandkids
Seth Slocumb
Jimmy “Baby Jimmy” Ewing
Maggie Slocumb
Ashley Slocumb
Margaret “Spike” Ewing
Beau Slocumb
Tier 2 Grandkids
Shannon Slocumb
George Ewing
Daniel Slocumb
Natalie Slocumb
Rob Slocumb
Thomas Slocumb
Austin “Squishy” Slocumb
CC: Tier 3 Cousins and Other Interested Parties
Jim “Big Jimmy” Ewing, Sr.
John T. Slocumb, MD
Sherry Slocumb
Eric Floss
Weesie Floss
Sarah Dozier
Martin Dozier
Charlotte Jimmy Ewing
Beth Ewing
William Slocumb
Paige “Bahki” Slocumb
Emily A. Jones
So, that's my email, but my favorite part is the email I received from my Uncle Robert several days later when he realized I had (inadvertently) left him off the original email. Please see below:
Pot Pot Face:
Where in the HELL is MY name ? It’s too late now, but I should have been the first one in "Tier One"! I guess my wife is cooler and more hip than I am (even though she only made "Tier Three"). May the fleas of 1000 camels infest your nasty butt!!
Sincerely,
Uncle (maybe ex-uncle) Robert
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Dear Fellow Tier 1 and Tier 2 Grandkids, assorted Aunts and Uncles, and Tier 3 cousins:
As the President and CEO of Grandkid Trip Planning, Inc. it is my great pleasure to inform you that 08 Annual Grandkid Trip planning efforts are currently underway. Due to recent economic fluctuations, the overall state of the economy, rising oil prices, and the sad fact that I entirely depleted my own personal funds early in the year; Grandkid Trip ’07, though seriously considered, never came to fruition.
Please accept my sincerest apologies for such an embarrassing dereliction of duty and allow me to affirm my solemn vow that there shall never again be a year devoid of Grandkid Trip hilarity.
GRANDKID TRIP 2008 ANNOUNCEMENT
LOCATION
Grandkid Trip ’08 will take place on the glorious Island of Anegada in either Mid-December 2008, or early January 2009 – pending further investigation. See the links below for the two hotels on the island and general information:
Neptune’s Treasure Hotel
http://www.neptunestreasure.com/
http://www.neptunestreasure.com/slideshow/index.htm
Anegada Reef Hotel
http://www.anegadareef.com/Accomodations.htm
http://www.anegadareef.com/photo.htm
General Info
http://www.b-v-i.com/Anegada/default.htm
http://www.bareboatsbvi.com/anegada.html
http://www.lavendabreeze.com/index.html
PRELIMINARY COST ESTIMATE
I estimate total travel, room, and board costs should top approximately $1,000 per person as follows:
Plane Tickets $500
Ferry $100
Hotel $400
Total $1,000
Food and beverage consumption will vary based on your personal consumption habits. Before you go bananas and respond with vicious cost-conscious emails, please read the “COST DISCLAIMER” below.
COST DISCLAIMER
I am aware that this is slightly higher than previous Grandkid Trips, but as each of you are able-bodied enough to obtain a weekend job if necessary (and have nearly 6 months to obtain the required funds) I don’t want to hear your whining. You do NOT want to be like Daniel and Shannon (boooo hisssssss) and forever regret missing The First Annual Grandkid Trip - the sadness has marked them for eternity. I also recommend each of you take a moment to address a support letter to each of your parents and follow it, weekly, with a modicum of begging and pleading for funds.
This email will be followed by an official “Evite” containing further details, cost updates, and definite trip dates as soon as possible.
Sincerely,
Baby Jimmy
President and CEO - Grandkid Trip Planning, Inc., Representing:
Tier 1 Grandkids
Seth Slocumb
Jimmy “Baby Jimmy” Ewing
Maggie Slocumb
Ashley Slocumb
Margaret “Spike” Ewing
Beau Slocumb
Tier 2 Grandkids
Shannon Slocumb
George Ewing
Daniel Slocumb
Natalie Slocumb
Rob Slocumb
Thomas Slocumb
Austin “Squishy” Slocumb
CC: Tier 3 Cousins and Other Interested Parties
Jim “Big Jimmy” Ewing, Sr.
John T. Slocumb, MD
Sherry Slocumb
Eric Floss
Weesie Floss
Sarah Dozier
Martin Dozier
Charlotte Jimmy Ewing
Beth Ewing
William Slocumb
Paige “Bahki” Slocumb
Emily A. Jones
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
So, that's my email, but my favorite part is the email I received from my Uncle Robert several days later when he realized I had (inadvertently) left him off the original email. Please see below:
Pot Pot Face:
Where in the HELL is MY name ? It’s too late now, but I should have been the first one in "Tier One"! I guess my wife is cooler and more hip than I am (even though she only made "Tier Three"). May the fleas of 1000 camels infest your nasty butt!!
Sincerely,
Uncle (maybe ex-uncle) Robert
P.S. JACKASS!
And THAT, my friends, is why you wish you could come with us.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Dating Regression
An email from my good friend Bobby popped up the other day around lunchtime with the subject line "hey tell me what you think about this" and a "fwd" header.
Intrigued, I opened it up and found a very brief explanation followed by a forwarded email from a woman (who I didn't know) preceeded by a (somewhat flowery) email from Tommy to the young woman. Below that, the question from Bobby directed at me (in bold) was: "Well, what do you think this means? I think I'm in good shape, don't you?"
I quickly read through the chain of correspondence and determined that he had attempted to "sling some game" in her general direction via email. She responded to a very polite and chivalrous dinner invitation with a terse, delayed, "lets meet for coffee" email and only a passing jab at an apology for the delay.
That. my friends, is the Shaft-O-Matic.
Naurally, I wanted to be the one to let him down easy; so I said (gently): "Bobby, she hates you" and followed with the comments below. I thought you, gentle reader, may appreciate the following show of depth and character:
Bobby:
I recommend the following general, non-specific advice to anyone in your position. Bear in mind some of this does not apply to you, but I went ahead and threw it all in for good measure:
Just meet the girl for coffee. Don't talk about anything serious, how you feel about her, dating, or anything like that. Keep it light and be funny. Don't talk politics, don't mention your shrink, don't share your thoughts on abortion, Obama, Osama, Hillary, Florida football, female softball players, ethnic groups, the NRA, liberals, or public pools. And please, please, PLEASE do NOT mention that buying feed for the cows you keep in your backyard is one of your highest monthly expenses.
Anytime you talk about YOU for more than 30 seconds you're already screwing up. You'll have to share stuff about you, but keep it brief. At the same time - don't pepper her with questions about HER; just follow whatever rabbit trail she lays down and be ready to suggest your own if she falters.
If you get in a jam, remember: everybody loves the Olympics, panda bears, great restaurants, funny stories, and John F. Kennedy. "Hey, did you hear about John F. Kennedy's pet Panda Bear choking to death on water chestnuts during the olympic opening ceremonies" is no good though; its too elaborate. If you must fabricate a news story to keep the ball rolling - mind the two rules of thumb: keep it simple and don't kill off any endangered species.
DO - open the door, pay, and MOST IMPORTANTLY: be the one to suggest you leave shortly after coffee is over.
DON'T loiter and give her the opportunity to say "hey ok....well.....I gotta go....."
If she starts playing with her her keys, fiddling with her phone, or looks around for her purse - shout "Oh MAN!!! I gotta meet so and so for such and such - so we better go!!!" as fast as you can blurt it out, then seek shelter.
DON'T hang by her car, park near her, or walk her to it. Let the door be the bifurcation in your parting.
Afterwards, a great thing to do is: DON'T email her! Then another great thing to do is.....DON'T DO ANYTHING INVOLVING THE INTERNET OR EMAILING HER. Instead: wait and see what happens.
If she later emails to say 'hey I had fun at coffee; we should do it again sometime!' say, "hey that's a great idea - when are you free next week?"
It is important you memorize that line. NEVER suggest a firm day immediately, because if she's NOT free that day you'll have to say "what about Friday" and it looks like you're a complete loser and have nothing to do.
If you blow it like a big dummy and follow with "what about Friday" like I just told you not to, and you get lucky and she says "yeah Friday works" you can recover with "NO, wait! I forgot I'm busy Friday" and then say "ok this is ridiculous!! What works for you other than Friday?"
If she says no to Friday you're in complete loser territory; thats two no's in a row - get out immediately.
If she says "thanks for coffee I had fun", or she says nothing at all; you're done - move on. Don't be the guy who can't take a hint.
In the even of a misfire (click! - no "boom!") - make sure youre always happy and smile alot anytime shes around. Talk to lots of people and be friendly, acknowledge her and be friendly to her, but let her see that you didn't care. You can still turn a "misfire" into a "hang-fire" http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hang_fire (click!! POP!!! wait for it...wait for it.......BOOOMMMM!!!) if you're lucky.
If you do as I say - your kindness will be a splinter in her mind. She'll hate it, and despise you so efficiently that she might just come full circle. Remember - women are perverse. They only like you if you're not interested.
But like I said: you should definitely go to coffee.
Sincerely,
Intrigued, I opened it up and found a very brief explanation followed by a forwarded email from a woman (who I didn't know) preceeded by a (somewhat flowery) email from Tommy to the young woman. Below that, the question from Bobby directed at me (in bold) was: "Well, what do you think this means? I think I'm in good shape, don't you?"
I quickly read through the chain of correspondence and determined that he had attempted to "sling some game" in her general direction via email. She responded to a very polite and chivalrous dinner invitation with a terse, delayed, "lets meet for coffee" email and only a passing jab at an apology for the delay.
That. my friends, is the Shaft-O-Matic.
Naurally, I wanted to be the one to let him down easy; so I said (gently): "Bobby, she hates you" and followed with the comments below. I thought you, gentle reader, may appreciate the following show of depth and character:
Bobby:
I recommend the following general, non-specific advice to anyone in your position. Bear in mind some of this does not apply to you, but I went ahead and threw it all in for good measure:
Just meet the girl for coffee. Don't talk about anything serious, how you feel about her, dating, or anything like that. Keep it light and be funny. Don't talk politics, don't mention your shrink, don't share your thoughts on abortion, Obama, Osama, Hillary, Florida football, female softball players, ethnic groups, the NRA, liberals, or public pools. And please, please, PLEASE do NOT mention that buying feed for the cows you keep in your backyard is one of your highest monthly expenses.
Anytime you talk about YOU for more than 30 seconds you're already screwing up. You'll have to share stuff about you, but keep it brief. At the same time - don't pepper her with questions about HER; just follow whatever rabbit trail she lays down and be ready to suggest your own if she falters.
If you get in a jam, remember: everybody loves the Olympics, panda bears, great restaurants, funny stories, and John F. Kennedy. "Hey, did you hear about John F. Kennedy's pet Panda Bear choking to death on water chestnuts during the olympic opening ceremonies" is no good though; its too elaborate. If you must fabricate a news story to keep the ball rolling - mind the two rules of thumb: keep it simple and don't kill off any endangered species.
DO - open the door, pay, and MOST IMPORTANTLY: be the one to suggest you leave shortly after coffee is over.
DON'T loiter and give her the opportunity to say "hey ok....well.....I gotta go....."
If she starts playing with her her keys, fiddling with her phone, or looks around for her purse - shout "Oh MAN!!! I gotta meet so and so for such and such - so we better go!!!" as fast as you can blurt it out, then seek shelter.
DON'T hang by her car, park near her, or walk her to it. Let the door be the bifurcation in your parting.
Afterwards, a great thing to do is: DON'T email her! Then another great thing to do is.....DON'T DO ANYTHING INVOLVING THE INTERNET OR EMAILING HER. Instead: wait and see what happens.
If she later emails to say 'hey I had fun at coffee; we should do it again sometime!' say, "hey that's a great idea - when are you free next week?"
It is important you memorize that line. NEVER suggest a firm day immediately, because if she's NOT free that day you'll have to say "what about Friday" and it looks like you're a complete loser and have nothing to do.
If you blow it like a big dummy and follow with "what about Friday" like I just told you not to, and you get lucky and she says "yeah Friday works" you can recover with "NO, wait! I forgot I'm busy Friday" and then say "ok this is ridiculous!! What works for you other than Friday?"
If she says no to Friday you're in complete loser territory; thats two no's in a row - get out immediately.
If she says "thanks for coffee I had fun", or she says nothing at all; you're done - move on. Don't be the guy who can't take a hint.
In the even of a misfire (click! - no "boom!") - make sure youre always happy and smile alot anytime shes around. Talk to lots of people and be friendly, acknowledge her and be friendly to her, but let her see that you didn't care. You can still turn a "misfire" into a "hang-fire" http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hang_fire (click!! POP!!! wait for it...wait for it.......BOOOMMMM!!!) if you're lucky.
If you do as I say - your kindness will be a splinter in her mind. She'll hate it, and despise you so efficiently that she might just come full circle. Remember - women are perverse. They only like you if you're not interested.
But like I said: you should definitely go to coffee.
Sincerely,
Jimmy The Love Stallion
aka "LoveMonster"
aka "Lonesome Dove"
aka "Take what I can get"
aka "Please Don't Leave Me"
aka "Homeschool"A Commitment to Good Health
I believe that paying for a gym membership on a monthly basis is the cornerstone of good health. I haven’t actually BEEN to the gym in several years, but just knowing that I could (if I wanted) go sweat my face off with 20 strangers is enough for me. I may not ever go, but I definitely pay for it once a month – and that’s inexpensive peace of mind if you ask me. I consider it part of my general life-long commitment to good health.
I have no excuse for avoiding it other than that I HATE working out; plus something inside me rebels against the idea of running in place. It makes me feel like a big sweaty, hairy, hamster on a giant mechanized hamster wheel – and I don’t like that. At no point in my life do I want to feel that I have something in common with a tailless rodent. I also hate running, in general. In fact, if you see me running down the street – shoot whoever is right behind me. I’m running FROM him, not WITH him.
I’m sure you see my dilemma.
It’s not like there are hungry lions lurking in the neighborhood. If I need to get in great shape in case I feel predatory eyes trained on me out by the garbage cans – I believe I’ll learn to love running. The fact is - I don’t need to be in great shape to do what I do. In fact, I could spend 90% of my day tethered to a mule and it wouldn’t seriously cramp my style.
Certain people in my life don’t understand that. These certain people seem to feel that gym membership alone isn’t enough. Apparently, there is a widely-held misconception in the world that suggests gym ATTENDANCE is the heart of the matter.
It’s a tough argument and honestly, I don’t have a great excuse. I JUST DON’T LIKE IT and, consistent with my habit of not doing things I don’t want to do - I don’t work out.
My roommate, Austin K. Lee, has a medical condition wherein his entire body breaks out into angry hives if his heart climbs 10% over its resting rate. The man is, literally, allergic to hard work. I wish I had that problem, but I don’t. “Hey I WOULD work out, but I blow up like a big, puffy, red, hairy balloon if I get sweaty” is a much more compelling argument than “nahhhh, I don’t like it.”
Much to my chagrin, my girlfriend, Jessica, compelled me to actually ATTEND a boot camp-type gym class on Monday morning.
I didn’t break into hives....but now I can’t walk.
I guess I showed her!
I woke up at 3am on Monday morning and I couldn’t get back to sleep. So I did what I normally do when I can’t sleep - I snuck into each of my roommates rooms and tiptoed around their beds once to see how sneaky I can be (very sneaky), then I sat on the edge of my bed and tried to fast forward through all my Tivo’d hunting shows. I can’t delete a show unless I watch a little bit of it, so I’m on a constant campaign to get my Tivo memory down to zero. Then, I lay on my back and watched my ceiling fan for a little while until I got dizzy. After that I got up, dressed in workout attire, and headed out.
I arrived early and stood around in the parking lot for a little while watching cars go by until burly women in weightlifting gloves started pulling up. I picked a particularly mannish patron, followed her in the door for protection from flying medicine balls, and started warming up.
My warm-up routine involves shooting the breeze with the gym owner for a few minutes, getting a cup of water, going to the bathroom and smelling the weird air freshener, then standing in a prominent position in front of the mirror sucking my gut in for a little while. I concentrate on looking tough (which is hard to do with so many freckles) - so I end up with a sort of snarling grimace on my face.
When my warm-up routine is over the “class” starts and we end up basically running around a lot with weights, laying around on the floor a lot with weights, and rolling around on a big rubber ball a lot…also with weights. Ordinarily someone sweats on me, someone else smells really weird and gets too close to me, someone else surpasses me at some feat of strength, and finally weird/smellly accidentally touches me and I'm halfway home before the trainer knows I'm gone: usually in that order.
So, we kick that process off at about 6:40. 9 minutes later I’m 50% of the way through 100 jumping-rope-jumps (I can’t get a streak of more than about 4 in a row so it takes a while) when our trainer walks over, looks at the gigantic woman next to me, then back at me, and says “hey you look like you’re in reasonable shape. I’ve got a challenge for you.”
Well, that already doesn’t sound good to me at all, but the big lady next to me was huffing like a blue whale and she looked so grateful at the chance to catch her breath that I figured I’d draw it out a little. So, I asked him what exactly he meant, and how much challenge did he think was appropriate for 6:42AM on a Monday? I meant it rhetorically as a conversation starter, but he promptly snatched away the 45lb barbell I had forgotten to take it down from over my head, pointed at an 10ft long PVC pipe, and said “give that bad boy a try.”
I immediately think slyly to myself: "This guy ain’t real sharp. Here I am holding 45lbs of steel over my head like a prison camp intern and he wants to 'challenge' me with 4lbs of PVC." Naturally, I’ll take him up on his offer – you know?
First – a little bit about the gym. It's not more than 22 feet across. A 225lb sweaty guy stumbling around in the middle of it with an 10ft 4” diameter PVC pipe over his shoulders is what some insurance companies might call “a hazardous situation”, but I figured if the TRAINER told me to do it – it was fine.
So, I lifted all 4lbs of PVC over my head…….and immediately fell over. He neglected to mention that it was 50% full of water "for balancing". He grins. I feel stupid from down on the floor, which is where I often feel stupid.
At exactly that point; as I'm struggling back to my feet holding 10 feet of white plastic-filled water-torture across my shoulders in a melee of huffing, jogging, early-morning workout-people: weird/smelly brushes against me and I'm out the door before that PVC hit the ground.
I would go back, but going to the gym makes me not able to walk.
I have no excuse for avoiding it other than that I HATE working out; plus something inside me rebels against the idea of running in place. It makes me feel like a big sweaty, hairy, hamster on a giant mechanized hamster wheel – and I don’t like that. At no point in my life do I want to feel that I have something in common with a tailless rodent. I also hate running, in general. In fact, if you see me running down the street – shoot whoever is right behind me. I’m running FROM him, not WITH him.
I’m sure you see my dilemma.
It’s not like there are hungry lions lurking in the neighborhood. If I need to get in great shape in case I feel predatory eyes trained on me out by the garbage cans – I believe I’ll learn to love running. The fact is - I don’t need to be in great shape to do what I do. In fact, I could spend 90% of my day tethered to a mule and it wouldn’t seriously cramp my style.
Certain people in my life don’t understand that. These certain people seem to feel that gym membership alone isn’t enough. Apparently, there is a widely-held misconception in the world that suggests gym ATTENDANCE is the heart of the matter.
It’s a tough argument and honestly, I don’t have a great excuse. I JUST DON’T LIKE IT and, consistent with my habit of not doing things I don’t want to do - I don’t work out.
My roommate, Austin K. Lee, has a medical condition wherein his entire body breaks out into angry hives if his heart climbs 10% over its resting rate. The man is, literally, allergic to hard work. I wish I had that problem, but I don’t. “Hey I WOULD work out, but I blow up like a big, puffy, red, hairy balloon if I get sweaty” is a much more compelling argument than “nahhhh, I don’t like it.”
Much to my chagrin, my girlfriend, Jessica, compelled me to actually ATTEND a boot camp-type gym class on Monday morning.
I didn’t break into hives....but now I can’t walk.
I guess I showed her!
I woke up at 3am on Monday morning and I couldn’t get back to sleep. So I did what I normally do when I can’t sleep - I snuck into each of my roommates rooms and tiptoed around their beds once to see how sneaky I can be (very sneaky), then I sat on the edge of my bed and tried to fast forward through all my Tivo’d hunting shows. I can’t delete a show unless I watch a little bit of it, so I’m on a constant campaign to get my Tivo memory down to zero. Then, I lay on my back and watched my ceiling fan for a little while until I got dizzy. After that I got up, dressed in workout attire, and headed out.
I arrived early and stood around in the parking lot for a little while watching cars go by until burly women in weightlifting gloves started pulling up. I picked a particularly mannish patron, followed her in the door for protection from flying medicine balls, and started warming up.
My warm-up routine involves shooting the breeze with the gym owner for a few minutes, getting a cup of water, going to the bathroom and smelling the weird air freshener, then standing in a prominent position in front of the mirror sucking my gut in for a little while. I concentrate on looking tough (which is hard to do with so many freckles) - so I end up with a sort of snarling grimace on my face.
When my warm-up routine is over the “class” starts and we end up basically running around a lot with weights, laying around on the floor a lot with weights, and rolling around on a big rubber ball a lot…also with weights. Ordinarily someone sweats on me, someone else smells really weird and gets too close to me, someone else surpasses me at some feat of strength, and finally weird/smellly accidentally touches me and I'm halfway home before the trainer knows I'm gone: usually in that order.
So, we kick that process off at about 6:40. 9 minutes later I’m 50% of the way through 100 jumping-rope-jumps (I can’t get a streak of more than about 4 in a row so it takes a while) when our trainer walks over, looks at the gigantic woman next to me, then back at me, and says “hey you look like you’re in reasonable shape. I’ve got a challenge for you.”
Well, that already doesn’t sound good to me at all, but the big lady next to me was huffing like a blue whale and she looked so grateful at the chance to catch her breath that I figured I’d draw it out a little. So, I asked him what exactly he meant, and how much challenge did he think was appropriate for 6:42AM on a Monday? I meant it rhetorically as a conversation starter, but he promptly snatched away the 45lb barbell I had forgotten to take it down from over my head, pointed at an 10ft long PVC pipe, and said “give that bad boy a try.”
I immediately think slyly to myself: "This guy ain’t real sharp. Here I am holding 45lbs of steel over my head like a prison camp intern and he wants to 'challenge' me with 4lbs of PVC." Naturally, I’ll take him up on his offer – you know?
First – a little bit about the gym. It's not more than 22 feet across. A 225lb sweaty guy stumbling around in the middle of it with an 10ft 4” diameter PVC pipe over his shoulders is what some insurance companies might call “a hazardous situation”, but I figured if the TRAINER told me to do it – it was fine.
So, I lifted all 4lbs of PVC over my head…….and immediately fell over. He neglected to mention that it was 50% full of water "for balancing". He grins. I feel stupid from down on the floor, which is where I often feel stupid.
At exactly that point; as I'm struggling back to my feet holding 10 feet of white plastic-filled water-torture across my shoulders in a melee of huffing, jogging, early-morning workout-people: weird/smelly brushes against me and I'm out the door before that PVC hit the ground.
I would go back, but going to the gym makes me not able to walk.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Daily Correspondence
I thought you might enjoy a brief glimpse into my daily correspondence. See below for a recent thread between me and my good friend and associate, Emily Jones, discussing a mutual friend of ours:
From: Emily Jones
Well, I'm not sure if she needs cheering up or not. I'm not sure what is happening. I'm trying to be patient and wait for her to call me back.
From: Ewing, James
Go over there and smack her with a broom handle. That'll put a smile on her face.
From: Emily Jones
You are just Mr. Helpful!
From: Ewing, James
I know.
From: Emily Jones
I don't know how i would get thru without you.
From: Ewing, James
You wouldn’t.
From: Ewing, James
I've left a box with my lawyer. If I die its going to get mailed to you the day before my funeral. Inside will be a gun and two bullets. At my funeral, right before they play "Free Bird," shoot at my coffin, holler something unintelligible, then kill yourself.
That way people will always wonder what in the hell was going on.
From: Emily Jones
Well, I'm not sure if she needs cheering up or not. I'm not sure what is happening. I'm trying to be patient and wait for her to call me back.
From: Ewing, James
Go over there and smack her with a broom handle. That'll put a smile on her face.
From: Emily Jones
You are just Mr. Helpful!
From: Ewing, James
I know.
From: Emily Jones
I don't know how i would get thru without you.
From: Ewing, James
You wouldn’t.
From: Ewing, James
I've left a box with my lawyer. If I die its going to get mailed to you the day before my funeral. Inside will be a gun and two bullets. At my funeral, right before they play "Free Bird," shoot at my coffin, holler something unintelligible, then kill yourself.
That way people will always wonder what in the hell was going on.
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