For Mom

TESTIMONIALS
Memorial Service
For
Jennifer S. Ewing
July 31, 2006

James G. Ewing, Jr.

I think my family fought the tendency this week to blame itself for this trouble. Surely a family as strong as mine could have prevented this atrocity with more care for Mom’s safety, more attention to her whereabouts, or more warning on the dangers of riding alone.

What I have realized is this: only things can be made safe. You can hide away your treasures from the world, ensuring that they endure well beyond their use, but you cannot protect a person from the attacks of a ruthless enemy.

Mom was a staunch believer in spiritual warfare. Anytime we felt our family coming under spiritual attack, Mom was quick to remind us that a clever enemy only lashes out against a threat. She always said that, as a Christian, if you’re not under attack, you’re probably on the wrong track.

What we all must realize is that her death took place on the front lines of a battle much older than anyone in range of my voice. The enemy is smart, and Mom was always on the front line.
She was on the front lines of everything - especially anything funny. What can you say about a 54 year-old woman who watched Napoleon Dynamite on a weekly basis and regularly quoted Ferris Bueller’s Day Off at the dinner table?

Mom played her group of seventh-grade Home-school British Literature Students a clip from The Blues Brothers and created a miniature rift in the Home-school parent community.

She was hilarious.

I thumbed through Mom’s library this week and I came across a quote from Elisabeth Elliot’s book “A Lamp for My Feet.” She said:

When we imagine that our problems are so deep, so insoluble, or so unusual that no one really understands us, we delude ourselves…Our story, whatever it is, is an old one, and He who has walked the human road has entered fully into our experiences of sorrow and pain and has overcome them. He has comforted others in our situation, gone with them into the same furnaces and lions’ dens, and has brought them out without smell of fire or mark of tooth.


Hebrews 4:15 and 16 says:

Ours is not a high priest unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who, because of his likeness to us, has been tested in every way, only without sin. Let us therefore boldly approach the throne of our gracious God, where we may receive mercy and in his grace find timely help.

Today I ask for help, but I also bear witness to a life well-lived and a family built strong on Christ; the only foundation that can’t be shaken.

An annual tradition in our family was for Mom to read Truman Capote’s book “A Christmas Memory” as we sat by the tree. The last paragraph details the death of Capote’s dear friend and it’s a reflection of how I feel. Mom never made it through the end without crying, but I’ll try:

And when [she’s gone] that happens, I know it. A message saying so merely confirms a piece of news some secret vein had already received, severing from me an irreplaceable part of myself, letting it loose like a kite on a broken string. That is why, walking across a school campus on this particular December morning, I keep searching the sky. As if I expected to see, rather like hearts, a lost pair of kites hurrying toward heaven.

Today we feel like a thousand kites cut loose from their moorings…..but we’re not. We’re bound tightly to the hand of Jesus; connected to one another in a web of love crafted by my mother.

Hey, Haircut!

Friday night Melissa surprised me with tickets to the Guster / Ray Lamontagne concert at Chastain. As you all know - my polls come out consistently in favor of girfriends who get off their wallets. So, in a very predictable trend - preliminary results have shown a marked rise in Melissa's girlfriend poll from a near-record 97% to an all-time high 99% (with a standard deviation of approximately .9901).

As part of the "Classic Chastain" series, tickets to the event far exceeded my $75 credit limit, not to mention my frugal nature. So I feel like, on the whole, it was possibly the only profitable date I have ever engaged in. Plus, it was my first Classic Chastain Guster concert. Hopefully it was not my last (free) one.

As an added bonus Melissa not only arranged for the event, but she also prepared an entire Chastain-table meal complete with carry-in coolers, tray tables, candles, tablecloth and napkins (matching), wine glasses, champagne flutes, wine, champagne, two kinds of chicken, strawberries, two kinds of salad, cake, and various other eatables that are entirely not on my diet. She even thought to bring the thermacell mosquito repellent. Genius.

To put it mildly: I enjoyed it. A lot.

All I planned to do was show up (late), get in the car, pay for parking, park, complain about the heat, and complain about the walk, eat, drink, enjoy the concert, and then leave. That’s it. The requirements placed on me were entirely within my capabilities.

It was planned to a "T."

Melissa even brought a handheld personal fan with foam blades; powered by two AA batteries to help us beat the formidable heat. What a great idea! A mini fan, just for you! Check out this link to get your own: http://www.alwaysbrilliant.com/aa/aspx-products/1-488/2-50809/3-1/bb/mini_portable_fan,create_your_own_personal_breeze_anywhere!.htm

It's a great little device. You flick the switch, point it at your face, and cool away. Its very refreshing. And no, of COURSE there isn't anything dangerous about a mini fan!!....until you get it too close to your girlfriend's long, blonde hair.

Whoops.

Melissa's piercing screams shattered the peaceful pre-concert night as my portable electronic min-fan quickly and inextricably wrapped a 1/4" thick locke of blonde hair into its tiny mini-axle. Rows C - F looked on in stunned silence as I neatly sliced away 4 inches of her hair along with the offending mini fan.

It only goes to show you: sometimes things in life go as planned and sometimes they don’t; but regardless - it is always a good idea to carry a pocket knife.

JGE

The Lightest Brush of Porcelain

I have to admit that I'm not a huge fan of the public restroom concept. Its unpleasant. I just don't like it very much; at least partly because I'm extremely conscious of the potential unsanitary condition created by even the lightest brush of porcelain, plastic, or stainless steel on skin….Any skin.

I don't want to touch the seats, sinks, or door handles. I don't want to brush past the door frames. I don't want to grasp the hot and cold knobs on the sink. I definitely don't want to handle the paper towel dispenser.

Unfortunately it’s a necessary part of life, so I've learned to cope, but mostly I just don't think about it. Today I did, but what grabbed me today wasn't the germ situation; it’s the urinals. In my office restroom there are two. One is three feet lower than the other.

I don't know why.

I have, however, noticed that people, for no clear reason, tend to gravitate towards one or the other. If you wander into your office restroom on day 1 and find Joe standing at righty; chances are good that’s where you can find Joe on any restroom visit in the future. He has committed.

I, for one, have opted not to make that important commitment just yet. I'm concentrating on ferreting out the pros and cons of both righty and lefty before making the call.

I'm also a little thrown by the melamine stall dividers. I mean, seriously, take it on down to the floor - you know? Why leave the shoe-identification gap at the bottom? Was that one additional foot really enough to blow the construction budget? I'd love to listen in on that conversation.

"Well, almost done. Just have to put the walls up on this here stall."
"Walls? Don’t you mean 'dividers'?"
"No, you know - a wall. All the way to the floor. I mean, it’s a bathroom. You need privacy."
"I'm sorry. That’s just not in our budget. Leave it just high enough off the floor for shoes to poke through."

There are probably only a few times in life that I really, really mind having my space invaded by feet. That’s one of them. Next time some guy's docsider cheats off into my side - he's going to get a solid stomp right in the toe.

Also - if that weren't bad enough, I think stall walls are shrinking. I walked into one restroom recently where you could easily slide an average-size dictionary through the gaps around the door. I guess it does help reduce the tendency for unwanted stall-handle rattlers.

I don't need a dictionary to tell you what I think about handle rattlers.

JGE

Wherefore Art Thou?

It has recently come to my attention that I am sadly lacking in the poetry-writing department. Furthermore, my most recent relationship user poll has indicated that I should begin to consider developing my talents in that arena and start putting some serious thought into directing those efforts towards a certain someone.

I'm fairly well-educated. I went to college. Studied the great thinkers. Read some Shakespeare, Faust, Goethe, maybe a little Sappho. So sure, I understand poetry. I like Robert Service quite alot and Service was a great poet! He tended to stay within the comfortable confines of man-talk. I can appreciate that, but somehow I doubt any young lady I know would appreciate the appelation "claw fingered" or "wanton." See below:

Dance-Hall Girls
~ A Poem by Robert Service ~

Where are the dames I used to know
In Dawson in the days of yore?
Alas, it's fifty years ago,
And most, I guess, have "gone before."
The swinging scythe is swift to mow
Alike the gallant and the fair;
And even I, with gouty toe,
Am glad to fill a rocking chair.

Ah me, I fear each gaysome girl
Who in champagne I used to toast,
or cozen in the waltz's whirl,
Is now alas, a wistful ghost.
Oh where is Touch The Button Nell?
Or Minnie Dale or Rosa Lee,
Or Lorna Doone or Daisy Bell?
And where is Montreal Maree?

Fair ladies of my lusty youth,
I fear that you are dead and gone:
Where's Gertie of the Diamond Tooth,
And where the Mare of Oregon?
What's come of Violet de Vere,
Claw-fingered Kate and Gumboot Sue?
They've crossed the Great Divide, I fear;
Remembered now by just a few.

A few who like myself can see
Through half a century of haze
A heap of goodness in their glee
And kindness in their wanton ways.
Alas, my sourdough days are dead,
Yet let me toss a tankard down . . .
Here's hoping that you wed and bred,
And lives of circumspection led,
Gay dance-hall girls o Dawson Town!

Now, wasn't that nice? Lusty youths? Claw-fingered Kate? Thats good poetry. I'm sure I could probably whip up some pithy, over-the-moon, wherefore-art-thou talk, but certainly not in the daylight, and definitely not during deer season. I just don't have the strength.

Bad Carbitude

Monday is a fitting day to begin any sort of torturous endeavor, so I figured - why not start a low-carb diet this Monday? I'm starting my whale-down workshop today so watch out Krispy Kreme - your profit margin just dropped about 2%.

Diets always sounds like a great idea while happily satiated and sitting around the remains of Sunday lunch, but when confronted with the glorious offerings of Rosa's pizza, I tend to inwardly curse my well-intended post-lunch declarations. Of course, then I'm like "well I might as well workout today too (at 6AM) if I'm going to eat healthy." I think you can see the downward spiral from there.

You know you're relatively overweight when your family becomes so accustomed to your porkosity that they feel comfortable remarking on it. "Well, you know how round your face gets..." is not on my top ten list of things I'd expect to hear from a conscientious support group.

The end result of my well-intended new diet is that I'm not only starving, but I'm really sore - sometimes in specific places, but mostly just all over. Plus, my little pinkie toe appears to be sprained. A man ought not ever to be made aware of his pinkie toe.

There is nothing so discomfiting as an acute awareness of one's pinkie toe. It is hard to feel masculine and powerful if you're forced to consider a pinkie toe because an internal undercurrent of pinkie-toe awareness is very distracting. They are perhaps the most unmanly and powerless human appendages ever devised so I prefer to ignore them altogether. When I can't ignore them - it’s a problem.

Dating has taught me that many women seem to feel much better after a nice long conversation about their most recent painful life event. Having talked about my pinkie toe issue, now I think I feel a great deal worse. I can only conclude, then, that despite my pinkie toe awareness - I am not a woman. Thats good news.

Also, I just got a Krispy Kreme mailer with a 10% discount. I've got that going for me. Monday might not be so bad after all.

JGE

Used, Dented, Damaged, Slightly Scratched Car Parts for Sale

It turns out that a 2006 Honda Accord hood costs $1,200 to replace. I know this because I bought one.

Not a Honda Accord - a Honda Accord hood.

I bought one because I backed into my girlfriend's Honda Accord parked in my driveway on Monday morning. It gave up the ghost with a very pleasing"Crunch."

My insistence that the large bumper-shaped dent in her hood "wasn't that bad" has done very little for my love life. As a concession I offered to buy her a used dirt bike for $1,200. I figured we could share the new dirt bike and just leave the dented hood alone. Hoods really aren't that useful if you ask me. I'd just as soon see down into the engine guts on my car. That way you can see right off if anything is amiss.

My kind suggestion didn't help me much and from the looks of things I won't be enjoying the blazing speed of a Kawasaki 250cc dirt bike anytime soon either.

So now I have no dirt bike, no money, and a dented Honda Accord hood. I also just got a property tax bill in the mail. Oh, and one of these days I'm probably going to die.

From the looks of things I'd say a Honda Accord might be involved.


JGE

Beauty Fades

This week my hotel manager put me in a handicap-accessible room; ostensibly to take advantage of the king bed. I had to kneel down to access the thermostat, the clothes bar in the closet was so low that my pants all dragged the floor, and I managed to break the shower chair neatly in half while trying to work the faucet.

Next time I'll take the two doubles.

Last week I spent two nights in a bridal suite (bride not included) because there were no other rooms. I hung my clothes on the shower rod to steam the wrinkles out and overspray soaked my suit jacket just before dinner.

I showed up to an attorney's office the next morning in slacks and a polo shirt only to find myself surrounded by black suits and red ties. On the way home I shoved a binder into my attache case and accidentally crushed a Chic-fil-a honey mustard packet that had snuck into one of the pockets - leaking honey mustard all over my wallet and keys.

Its hard to know what to do when one finds oneself apprehended by one's boss in the restroom while scrubbing a yellow gummy substance out of one's wallet and keys. I find the best approach is to shrug and grin like an amiable dolt while wildly gesturing in an incomprehensible manner. People don't normally stick around for much of that.

On the way back, after I approached the airline ticket agent with my credit card; I discovered that my assistant had erroneously booked me on another flight....the one that had just taken off.

I was upgraded to first class on the flight home - a potential indicator that my travel luck might be changing....Until I realized that I had been upgraded, but my 4 bosses weren't. Ridicule heaped high upon me as the majority of the upper-level Mergers and Acquisitions Consulting group filed past traveler Ewing in seat 1A on their way to the back of the plane.

When I finally found my truck in the airport parking deck I found that someone had smeared axle grease all over the passenger-side door, and honestly, I don't know why.  I guess they just don't like silver pickups.

Finally, I returned to my office from traveling and promptly dumped Sprite all over myself in the kitchen in front of our managing partner.

So it turns out - as I have gotten older many aspects of my life have changed, but I'm definitely still clumsy. Thats the one constant.

Beauty fades, but clumsy is forever.

JGE.

Philthie McNastie's

There is something magical about Toronto in the Springtime.

Unfortunately, its not Springtime in Toronto right now. Its quite cold. Cold enough for an American unfamiliar with the meteorological vagueries of Canadian weather to find himself quite chilly and in need of a coat and wooly hat of some sort.

I didn't find a hat or wooly coat, but I did find a Canadian Hockey bar aptly named"Philthie McNastie's" complete with approximately 14 alcohol-laden Canadians of approximately middle age and intellect.

If you haven't been to a "hockey" bar in celebration of a team called the "Maple Leafs" you simply haven't lived. For some reason I can never forget that we're talking about a team of full-grown men named after a leaf. Might as well be the "Toronto Dandelions" if you ask me. Good thing they didn't or my ordinary inability to hold my peace might have gotten me in a tight spot.

Actually, thats probably not true. My (very American) boss kept yelling "I JUST WANT TO PLAY HAACKEY" and nobody seemed to mind. I guess they just thought he was Candian.

So hockey is great I guess. Its sort of cold and slippery, but from what I can tell - most things in Canada are.

Toronto is very pleasant and metropolitan except for the unusually high number of smokers. Torontonians exhibit, based on my meager observation, a commendable dedication to cigarettes. Apparently the recent literature on tobacco hazards hasn't quite made its way north of the great lakes.

BUT the point is - the GREAT thing about Canada is the karaoke. I happened to be positioned on the front row at a long bar table with my friends and we were joined by 4 very young-ish little Candian Hams all rosy-cheecked over their impending performances. After the DJ finished waggling his ridiculous pelvis all around to Britney Spears' latest hit - the fun began.

We were all tense with anticipation over watching the first little Canadian girl try and belt out something totally unrecognizable. The DJ announced his excitement that a contestant had chosen some classic Canadian rock (whatever that is) and our little piglet made her way to the front. When she opened her mouth to sing for all of Canada - Alannah Myles' Black Velvet came pouring out in a torrent of power ballad fury the like of which I've never experienced.

I kid you not: this 5' 90lb Maple Leafs fan had to have been singing Black Velvet into a bar of soap for three years because I swear she put Alannah Myles to shame. She was followed by a veritable torrent of karaoke attempts - all of which were preceeded by the DJ claiming "more great Canadian music" which turned out to be 100% American top 40 hits. It just goes to show you - Canada is a grea big cold suburb of the US after all.

I wanted a taste of Canada and all I got was this Philthie T-shirt.

JGE

Porsche

Friendly Reader:

The tricky thing about Spring in Atlanta is that you're never really sure that it IS Spring in Atlanta. Take yesterday for instance - 30 degrees. Three days before that it was hot pollen and heatstroke. They were selling boiled exotic fish outside the new aquarium. Its like the Weatherman has gone schizophrenic*.

Actually, I know our weatherman personally and he isn't schizophrenic at all. He's a golfer.

I was there when the Weatherman's son wrecked his Porsche. In fact, I provided the buffing compound to attempt scratch removal at 3AM. George held the light for us in the driveway. It was a team effort Porsche-wrecking. We failed in the buffing and thus ended those halcyon days of us in the weatherman's Porsche. I liked my 1978 Bronco better anyway (when it ran). Which was approximately...never. So I guess I showed you, Weatherman!

As I write this I find myself absentmindedly biting my fingernails.

Why do I do that? I know it isn't good for me. Sometimes I think to myself:
"I know it ruins my fingers, people notice, fingernails are dirtier than roaches, and what do you do when you bite it off? Swallow it? Spit it out? Either way somebody in the room is offended and then do I feel bad? What then? Am I self-conscious about it? Should I be? Maybe I should quit."

What it boils down to is this: I really like doing it and I've invested so much effort into it at this point that I think I'm going to keep it up.

Nobody likes a quitter.


JGE


*If you find yourself reading this, think "HEY I'm schizophrenic and you're making fun of me!!!", and contemplate taking some sort of retaliatory action; first ask yourself and yourself what to do about it and if you two can agree on a plan of action - let me know. Until then don't bother me with it. I'm insensitive. There, I said it.

Spandex

So, Mom and Margaret love to ride their bicycles down the Silver Comet Trail. Apparently its relaxing.

I have to admit strapping myself to a metal frame and hurtling down a long concrete ribbon at 20mph sounds about as fun to me as an accidental branding, but hey - whatever.

The point is: they love it.

I guess I can't blame them. It’s a legitimate opportunity to wear spandex in public and not get laughed at, so I'm all for it. I think spandex is the funniest manufactured material in the history of the world. Spandex - a garment that instantly clings to every crevice on your body. Who in the world thought that was a great idea?

"Hey, look at this - if I stretch it 'real tight over my buns you can see the little dimples right through the material!! We'll make millions!"

If I'd have been standing there - all my business partner would have gotten is a stinging smack to the back of the head and a chuckle...And we'd both still be broke. Chalk one up to visionary intellect I guess.

Anyway, the real point is this:

On Tuesday while riding her bike down the trail, Margaret (in spandex) ran over a squirrel….and KILLED IT with her bike. THATHUMP. SQUEEK! She maintains that the squirrel "ran into her bike." I think you all know the truth.

Now THAT is one unlucky squirrel. To be killed by the least dangerous human conveyance in the history of the world has to be some sort of bad squirrel karma. I say he deserved it. Sort of makes all that ridiculous nut storing they do seem sort of pointless, doesn't it? I mean, if you're just going to go out and get killed by a 100lb girl on a Schwinn you definitely don't need to be filling up a hollow tree with acorns.

Anyway, that’s just my thought on it.

Beware anything thats in Spandex and wearing a helmet.

JGE

Small Town Practicality

I recently had lunch with a friend of mine at a little cafe in a small, South Georgia town. We had a wonderful lunch and had a great time catching up before I headed back to work. Our return route took us past the turnoff to her house and as we approached the turn she mentioned that her husband often went home for lunch in the middle of the day.

As we rounded the bend her husband's truck came barrelling across the road out of their driveway and he swung off onto the shoulder as we went by. She waved excitedly and honked her horn as we flew past him.

After we passed, I turned to her and said (facetiously), "Who was that beautiful young blonde sitting on the passenger side of your husband's truck?"

She looked at me and exclaimed, "I don't know, but I sure hope she cleaned my house!!!"

JGE

Observance of the Birthday Month

FRIENDS:

In observance of my birthday month I will be accepting gifts throughout March beginning at noon March 1 and extending through midnight on March 31.

Just FYI to aid you in your gift-giving budgeting and preparation for my birthday month - I prefer useful man toys such as anything with a blade, anything that explodes, anything that you put gasoline in, anything that requires a pump or motor, anything that you shoot, anything camoflauge (mossy oak), or any sort of tool (over $65).

I specifically do not request:

1. a pony
2. anything with a ruffle
3. a cute basket of any kind
4. a poodle
5. curtains
6. socks
7. a scarf
8. anything from banana republic
9. a manicure
10. hair gel
11. a Honda civic
12. a book on relationships
13. those little square sushi plates
14. a large, neon Pabst Blue Ribbon sign (matt)
15. a live tiger
16. a small knapsack
17. any musical score performed by Jewel, Sarah Mclachlan, Barbara Streisand, Dionne Warwick, or John Mayer.
18. anything from the Hello Kitty store
or
19. The Rent soundtrack on cassette

Please also note that anything less than $65 I consider "card wadding" and should be considered appropriate only when accompanied by a gift over $65.


JGE

The Rare and Legendary Kiss-Me-Not

(from earlier in the year)

Friends:

Lets hear it for pleasant surprises!

It turns out this "training facility" is actually one of the top rated golf course resorts in the US.

Apparently the spa is top-notch as well.

Am I a "heated-stone-shiatsu-massage" kind of guy or an "herbal-mudwrap-defoliating-seaweed-body-massage" kind of guy? These are the important questions I find myself pondering today. Have no fear - I am going to transition into some harder emotional problems later in the week. My plan is to attack the deep-seated childhood issues on Thursday like, "Do I prefer to tee off before breakfast or after dinner?" and "Is 6th street in Austin really the best live music scene in the lower 48?"

Stay tuned for my thoughts on "Chocolate-triple-extra-truffle cake vs. Double-overhead-negative-white-chocolate-explosion-torte." I get emotional just thinking about it.

So far the only major negative is that our team facilitator lady bears a frightening resemblance to Danny Devito which I find oddly unsettling.

Also, my all-male training team just lost scattegories because we couldn't name a flower that starts with a "K." (Hey, I'm a guy. I know "rose" and "honeysuckle" and I think you take somebody camelias when they die. Or is that chrisanthemums? And can they be red? I don't know). Anyway, one of the other teams said "Kiss-me-nots" as a flower type and got a point from our bonehead teacher; costing my team the squishy logo ball and a $5 gift certificate to Starbucks. Now, I'm no botanist, but that CAN'T be right. To whom might one give a "kiss-me-not?" They must be the least profitable flora in the universe.

Now that I think about it - they're not such a bad idea. A "Kiss-me-not": the perfect breakup flower. "Heyyyy!!! What a lovely bouquet of…WAIT ARE THOSE KISS-ME-NOTS??? MONTY YOU WOULDN’T!!!"

"That’s right Bertha. We're through."

Kiss me not.

JGE

Hotel Lounging

(from earlier last year)

Dear Friends:

I'm sitting in a hotel lounge in Vancouver on a wireless LAN for a quick email-check before I head up to bed. Just moments ago a lady walked straight through the lounge to the bar and asked the bartender (in a very annoyed tone) "WHERE is the hotel lounge?" as if he, personally, were responsible for misplacing the hotel lounge. I couldn't see his face from across the room, but I'd give all the crazy Canadian money in my wallet for a better seat to that show.

Now, I'm not a smart man, but I know a hotel lounge when I see one. You'll know it too when you're there. It’s a magical place. You will hear early-80s-vintage bar music. You will see a very large blonde woman in a business suit. There will be too many candles. Shrimp will be referred to as "prawns." Massive windows will look out upon a deserted pool. Garish houseplants will be in abundance. A rather shortish man in his late 30s will approach you and say, "welcome to the hotel lounge at the Hilton." Then, this man will call you "sir."* Only THEN, my friends - if the sign out front, the bartender, the maitre'd, the baggage drop, the elevator, the valet, and the patrons were no indication to you….THEN! You will know you're in a hotel lounge.

I don't know how you feel about it, but if I ever ask a question that dumb in public it should be an indication to you that I am never going to be useful again. If that happens and you are my friend; you will immediately take me out back and beat me until I either come to my senses or scream, "UNCLE!!!" - whichever comes first...

All the best from Canada.

JGE

Malaria Vs.

I think I am specifically not going to attempt any heavy dating topics in this little blog. Not because I'm immature, not because I lack the depth to understand why I act the way I do, not because I am hardheaded. Not because I am bitter, or confused, or angry with women. I am none of these things (except hardheaded).

Because its boring.

My new years' resolution is to quit dating and start smoking. Every time I feel like going on a date I'm going to light a cigarette, take $100 out of my wallet, and put it in the bank. In two years I'm going to take all that money out and go hunt lions in Africa with a bow in a malarial swamp.

It will be much safer than dating.

Heres a fun game. I call it "Malaria vs." You decide which you'd choose given the scenario "Malaria vs." Here is an example and my personal responses:

Malaria vs. accidental pregnancy? Malaria. I'm afraid of babies.

Malaria vs. crying at the dinner table? Malaria. I don't carry a hanky.

Malaria vs. $300 shoes? Malaria for obvious reasons.

Malaria vs. public displays of affection? Double Malaria.

Go on, draft your own answers and give it a try. Stay tuned for my newest game "Beartrap vs."

JGE

The Reason for it All

Funny - the things that end up standing out in your mind as defining moments in life. I wish I could predict it, prepare, and appreciate it when it happens, but it rarely happens on the days you anticipate.

Weddings are big events I guess, but they don't usually move me unless they happen on a Saturday in October or November; in which case I'm moved to helpless fury that I have to sit in church in a tie when I could be hunting. Send me pictures, call me from Maui, save me one of the little baggies with birdseed in it, Lord save me - I'll even watch your ridiculous slideshow, but don't make me play dress-up on a Saturday in the Fall.

I don't go to funerals. Nobody has ever invited me to a bar-mitzvah.

I'm a huge fan of birthdays, but mostly for gift-related reasons. Christmas is another big red circle on my calendar - also gift related. I like Fathers Day, Mother's Day, the Fourth of July, Easter, and Labor Day - but none of these days may reliably be expected to provide a truly defining moment. They might. Then again they might not.

So, I'll tell you what really moved me this week: my taxidermist called me at work.

Put simply: I have a taxidermist, and he calls me at work.

I am officially an Outdoorsman.

So, to Jerry Mosely at Buckmaster Taxidermy all I can say is this: you complete me.

That is all.

JGE

Growing the Family

So, it turns out: I'm an accountant.

I'm not really sure how that happened, but I'm certain of its veracity. Why else would I have so many red pencils and binder clips? I know, red pencils do not an accountant make, but they are definitely a warning sign. Sometimes in life you have to knuckle down and admit to your faults. I, am an accountant.

And thats just if I start with the "a"'s.

Even in the face of the recent unpleasantness mentioned above, I am quite pleased to announce the arrival of two very important new members to my family. Thats right: cowboy boots. Two of them. Chippewas. They're crunchy. And I dig 'em.

That is all.

JGE

Important Warning

Friends:

It has begun.

I'd like everyone to carefully note that Deer Season typically begins Saturday the 3rd weekend in October and runs until January 1 in the Northern half of the state. It extends into mid-January in the Southern half of the state. Many of you are unfamiliar with the crucial importance of these dates, so please take the time to familiarize yourself with them. Please also note that the Latin name of the Whitetail Deer is Odecoilus Virginianus, the Cherokee name of my favorite rifle is Blasteronimo, and as you've always feared: there IS a monster under your bed, but its a very small one.

To celebrate the upcoming season: I just built myself a hunting stuff closet. Thats right, a closet devoted entirely to hunting stuff. It smells strangely reminiscent of acorns and deer stinkum. I really like it.

Now, I know many of you like to watch The Foosball on Saturdays during the fall. The Foosball isn't really that interesting, especially when UGA almost loses to Arkansas in what was supposed to be a blowout. Who needs that? That guy breaking his leg during the game the other day was sort of neat, but I mean really - how often do you see that? Mostly its just up-and-down-the-field, cut to cheerleaders, yea!, whoops there goes the ball, look out, whammo, ouch!, and kick. Afterwards you've spent all day at a sporting event and didn't get a single chigger bite, tick, or mosquito. Never once did you fall off anything high while sleeping, cut your finger, fall in a creek, drop your $2,000 rifle barrel-first into the dirt, spray animal gland secretions all over you, put a deer in the back of your mom's minivan, back over your rifle with your truck tire, or get lost in a thicket.

My recommendation is this: turn The Foosball off, buy a gun, and lets shoot some stuff.


JGE

The Flying TurkeyRat

Dear Friends:

I was preparing to retire last night when I heard the distinct sound of a squirrel chewing on something in the attic over my bedroom. Ordinarily I object to wildlife taking up quarters in my immediate vicinity, so I went to investigate.

My original plan was to enlist Matt's help and pretend to carry on a conversation in the den to avoid suspicion, while simultaneously sneaking outside to have Matt flush the squirrel out onto the roof whereupon I would pick him off with my trusty pellet gun. The plan looked great drawn out in crayon. Matt, however, was unable to assist due to the sudden surprise appeareance of Rick Flair on the Monday Night WWE Wrestlemania Smackdown. The sound of the melee was so profound that I was forced to exit the den and forge ahead on my own.

So, quite alone, clad only in bravado and boxer shorts, toting my trusty Benjamin Pump rifle I made my way to the attic in search of adventure.

I stuck my head up through the drop-down stairs and panned my excessively-large flashlight around. Nothing. Back around (mimicing a searchlight). Nothing. Back around again and I spotted red eyes glowing at my from a startlingly close distance. There sat a huge norway rat on a beam about 8 feet away eyeballing me like I owed him money*. This critter had actually climbed up on a beam to get a better look at me. He was sizing me up and sported a really indignant look on his face, as if I had interrupting something important with all my clattering around. I looked to my left and realized the entire attic is now tiled in large, dark-hued feathers. All I could think was "How did this thing drag a flock of turkeys into my attic without the neighbors noticing?"

Then it came to me - this furry little beast had EATEN ALL of my turkey fans (I've been storing them to mount in a shadow box) from my last 3 years of turkey hunting. He ate the base off the feathers, the beards, the legs, AND the spurs. It looks like a flock of kamikazee turkeys exploded in my attic. Solid turkey feathers from end to end. Everywhere. In impossible places. Destined to remain for all time. We will come to be known as the "turkey house" on River Springs Court.

I hefted my old Benjamin Pump, lined up the sights, and let him have it. Before I had time to reload the miniature carnivore roared like a tiny lion and CHARGED me! Fortunately it was a perfect heart shot so he ran out of steam before I was mauled.

I'd estimate him at about .25lbs with a 5" tail and 1" tusks. A wallhanger. Once we get him back from the taxidermist I'll have everyone over.

In the meantime - beware the flying turkeyrat.

JGE

*"like I owed him money" borrowed from Robert Ruark's writings on Cape Buffalo in Africa. Thanks Robert.

'Twas the Night Before Thursday

My sincerest apologies to Clement Clarke Moore for his wonderful poem 'Twas the Night Before Christmas, and the poetic butchery to follow:

'Twas the night before Thursday when all through the house,
not a roomate was stirring, not even Matt's louse.
The gym socks were slung on the floors everywhere,
In hopes that the maid would just clean and not care.
I walked in real' late and got ready for bed,
then I thought to myself "no, go downstairs instead."
"I have washing to do and its not such a blast,
But I'll run to the basement and dump clothes in fast."
I grabbed hold of my wash and shouldered it up,
"no whites with the darks" and soap less than a cup!
I walked down the stairwell and what did I see?
A river of sewage rushing straight up at me.
I swore oh-so-loud at the miserable sight,
and woke up my brother to clean up all night.
We plunged and we roto-ed and we rooter-ed around,
but by 2AM the problem couldn't be found.
So to the plumber I went and I hugged him real' tight,
he just backed away quickly and said "its alright."
"I'll take all your money and dig up your yard,
with this great big bulldozer it really ain't hard."
"I'll kill all your shrubs and your trees just for fun,
to get me to finish you'll need a big gun."
I say all this now, but know when I'm through,
when its a plumber you need - no one else will do.
So on plungers! On rakes! On cleaners and spools!
On buddies with trucks and big racks full of tools!
On door locks! On rat bait! On old ceiling tiles!
On Pergo! On slate! On rails with no stiles!
On drip pans! On French drains! On sagging brick walls!
On wall lights! On mildew! On too-narrow halls!
On Mark Andy and Matt! On Bud (when awake)!
On Mom George and Dad who helped clean up the lake!
To the top of the roof! To the end of the hall!
Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!
We've braved unimaginable strain and cleaned many a mess,
so you all have my thanks - I could wish you no less!
The house is still standing and we all still live there,
The thought of it dark and cold gives me a scare,
But when I turn in the driveway I am greeted by light*!
So I say - Merry Basement to all, and to all a good night!

JGE


*turn it off. it costs me money.