So I went to my thirtieth high school reunion last Saturday. The good news is that I got to laugh at all the guys with whom I went to school who got fat. The bad news is that they got to laugh at me for losing my hair.
In all seriousness, I had a great time. Facebook may be great for reconnecting with old friends and flames, but nothing beats personal contact. The only problem was that the music was too damned loud. I could hardly converse with anyone, and because the shindig was in the low desert near Palm Springs it was too damned hot (even at 10:00 P.M.), to go outside to talk.
I've aged so much the only people who recognized me were friends with whom I've stayed close and people who know me on Facebook (in fact, even a couple of Facebook friends couldn't figure out who I was without reading my name-tag). I found that a tad disconcerting -- after all, I recognized almost everybody, but then I'm a salesman by trade and have learned to read and recognize people.
I think a total of fourteen of my classmates had died (their names and photos on an "In Memoriam" board at the front of the ballroom). I suspect quite a few more of us will be on that board in ten years -- hopefully I won't be one of them.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
We Have a New Dove Hunter Among Us
So I just got back from my annual Arizona dove hunt. My eight-year old son joined us for the first time, and, I must say, the apple certainly hasn't fallen far from the tree.
I was a bit worried about taking him. No other children would be there, so he'd have nobody with whom to play. It usually takes us about an hour or so to get our limits; the remainder of our days are filled with naps, beer drinking and lounging around the pool, not exactly fun and games to a tow-headed energetic young man. I waited with a sense of dread for the three words every parent hates to hear: Daddy, I'm bored.
The words were never uttered. Turns out he enjoyed every aspect of the hunt. The first morning he squealed with glee when I knocked down my first bird. He marveled at the dog's amazing ability to locate birds, and was awed when she tracked down a fluttering cripple. He liked helping us clean the doves, and was surprised by the kick of the old 20 gauge single-shot Stevens we let him shoot. He swam for hours, played cards and Yahtzee, and just hung out with us. He seemed pleased we accepted him as one of us, an equal, one of the guys.
I had him call his Mom Monday afternoon. He told her his favorite part was cleaning the doves. "I could see their intestines and heart and lungs, and got blood all over my hands," he said (probably a little more information than his Mom needed). He told her about the beer cans he obliterated with the 20 gauge (his Mom was not pleased, thinking him too young to be handling a gun). He said he really liked eating the deep-fried dove nuggets we had made the night before. He told her how he dispatched cripples by pulling off their heads. I have never been so proud. My ex-wife told me, again, how happy she is we are divorced.
So I've recruited another hunter. My son can't wait to go duck hunting with me in November, and wants to walk the fields with me when we chase peasants and quail this fall. I feel I've passed the torch to the next generation. I didn't think it possible, but my ex-wife is even more unhappy with me than before. All in all, a very successful outing.
I was a bit worried about taking him. No other children would be there, so he'd have nobody with whom to play. It usually takes us about an hour or so to get our limits; the remainder of our days are filled with naps, beer drinking and lounging around the pool, not exactly fun and games to a tow-headed energetic young man. I waited with a sense of dread for the three words every parent hates to hear: Daddy, I'm bored.
The words were never uttered. Turns out he enjoyed every aspect of the hunt. The first morning he squealed with glee when I knocked down my first bird. He marveled at the dog's amazing ability to locate birds, and was awed when she tracked down a fluttering cripple. He liked helping us clean the doves, and was surprised by the kick of the old 20 gauge single-shot Stevens we let him shoot. He swam for hours, played cards and Yahtzee, and just hung out with us. He seemed pleased we accepted him as one of us, an equal, one of the guys.
I had him call his Mom Monday afternoon. He told her his favorite part was cleaning the doves. "I could see their intestines and heart and lungs, and got blood all over my hands," he said (probably a little more information than his Mom needed). He told her about the beer cans he obliterated with the 20 gauge (his Mom was not pleased, thinking him too young to be handling a gun). He said he really liked eating the deep-fried dove nuggets we had made the night before. He told her how he dispatched cripples by pulling off their heads. I have never been so proud. My ex-wife told me, again, how happy she is we are divorced.
So I've recruited another hunter. My son can't wait to go duck hunting with me in November, and wants to walk the fields with me when we chase peasants and quail this fall. I feel I've passed the torch to the next generation. I didn't think it possible, but my ex-wife is even more unhappy with me than before. All in all, a very successful outing.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Some Football Predictions
Another football season is upon us, so it's time for some predictions:
Brett Favre will fail miserably. The Vikings not only will fail to make the Super Bowl, they will fail to make the playoffs. Countless articles will be written detailing the tarnishing of Farvre's legacy, but most of us won't care, because -- if he wants to -- it's his legacy to tarnish.
The Raiders will be better. They may even make the playoffs, despite Al Davis and his dementia.
The Broncos will be a laughingstock. They may have the worst defense in league history, they have no quarterback, and their best wide receiver is a head case.
The Chargers are the biggest shoo-in for a divisional championship ever. If they don't make the playoffs, Norv Turner will get fired and be hung in effigy at Qualcom Stadium.
If Tom Brady stays healthy (and it pains me to write this), the Patriots are a lock to win the Super Bowl.
The Cardinals will repeat as NFC West champions. Kurt Warner is not a fluke; he's going to the Hall of Fame. Look it up: he's won two MVP's, and he's taken three teams to the Super Bowl. They may well go again this year. The Cardinal's defense is underrated, and Larry Fitzgerald is a freak of nature.
The Rams won't make the playoffs, but they will no longer be the weak sisters of the NFC. They have a revamped offensive line, a monster of a tailback, a serviceable defensive backfield, and a new coach who means business. Look for them to win seven or eight games, and become perennial playoff contenders by next season.
The Giants won't make the playoffs, either. Eli Manning winning the Super Bowl a couple of years ago was the biggest fluke in the history of the league.
Seven different punters will hit the scoreboard in Jerry Jones' new stadium, forcing the league to institute the "Jerry Jones rule," mandating a minimum height for Jumbotrons. The Cowboys will again fail to make the postseason, and Tony Romo will start dating Jessica Alba.
I will continue to despise the San Francisco 49'rs, despite the fact they are aweful, are of no consequence and mean nothing at all to the league.
Brett Favre will fail miserably. The Vikings not only will fail to make the Super Bowl, they will fail to make the playoffs. Countless articles will be written detailing the tarnishing of Farvre's legacy, but most of us won't care, because -- if he wants to -- it's his legacy to tarnish.
The Raiders will be better. They may even make the playoffs, despite Al Davis and his dementia.
The Broncos will be a laughingstock. They may have the worst defense in league history, they have no quarterback, and their best wide receiver is a head case.
The Chargers are the biggest shoo-in for a divisional championship ever. If they don't make the playoffs, Norv Turner will get fired and be hung in effigy at Qualcom Stadium.
If Tom Brady stays healthy (and it pains me to write this), the Patriots are a lock to win the Super Bowl.
The Cardinals will repeat as NFC West champions. Kurt Warner is not a fluke; he's going to the Hall of Fame. Look it up: he's won two MVP's, and he's taken three teams to the Super Bowl. They may well go again this year. The Cardinal's defense is underrated, and Larry Fitzgerald is a freak of nature.
The Rams won't make the playoffs, but they will no longer be the weak sisters of the NFC. They have a revamped offensive line, a monster of a tailback, a serviceable defensive backfield, and a new coach who means business. Look for them to win seven or eight games, and become perennial playoff contenders by next season.
The Giants won't make the playoffs, either. Eli Manning winning the Super Bowl a couple of years ago was the biggest fluke in the history of the league.
Seven different punters will hit the scoreboard in Jerry Jones' new stadium, forcing the league to institute the "Jerry Jones rule," mandating a minimum height for Jumbotrons. The Cowboys will again fail to make the postseason, and Tony Romo will start dating Jessica Alba.
I will continue to despise the San Francisco 49'rs, despite the fact they are aweful, are of no consequence and mean nothing at all to the league.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
The Great American Dove Hunt
It's that time of year, when all thoughts (for me) turn to hunting. Come Saturday afternoon I'll again be making the trek to beautiful Dateland Arizona for our annual dove hunt.
In a new twist, I'll be dragging my eight-year old along for his first experience at a hunting camp. He seems to be excited, and looking forward to finding out what this "hunting" thing is all about. Of course, he doesn't yet realize it entails waking at crazy-thirty and venturing out in the dark to reach the dove fields. He doesn't yet understand that, despite unseasonably "cool" weather, the low for this weekend's forecast is 80, and that we'll spend every waking moment we're not in the field in a swimming pool so warm it feels like a bath. He certainly doesn't yet comprehend his days could well be filled with interminable boredom. I don't care. I want to hunt, so I'm taking him anyway.
I'm guessing he'll find the actual hunt exciting. The staccato of the shotgun blasts, the dogs racing for the retrieves, my friend Chris swearing as he misses another crossing shot at the zig-zagging, dive-bombing doves. That part will be fine. It's the hours afterward about which I worry.
I'm bringing his bow and his BB gun, and we'll let him shoot Chris' Remington 1100 20 gauge (I sure hope my son's Mom hasn't found this blog), a sweet-shooting, forgiving gun. He'll have his video game to play, and I'm sure we'll have some spirited card games and some Yahtzee tournaments. I hope he likes the flavor of dove; some find it gamey after a life-long diet of the pablum most supermarkets pass off as meat.
I do know I've never looked forward to a dove camp so much. I hope my son has a good time, and a good remembrance. I hope he doesn't tell his Mom his Dad drinks too much beer. And I hope he doesn't melt in the heat.
In a new twist, I'll be dragging my eight-year old along for his first experience at a hunting camp. He seems to be excited, and looking forward to finding out what this "hunting" thing is all about. Of course, he doesn't yet realize it entails waking at crazy-thirty and venturing out in the dark to reach the dove fields. He doesn't yet understand that, despite unseasonably "cool" weather, the low for this weekend's forecast is 80, and that we'll spend every waking moment we're not in the field in a swimming pool so warm it feels like a bath. He certainly doesn't yet comprehend his days could well be filled with interminable boredom. I don't care. I want to hunt, so I'm taking him anyway.
I'm guessing he'll find the actual hunt exciting. The staccato of the shotgun blasts, the dogs racing for the retrieves, my friend Chris swearing as he misses another crossing shot at the zig-zagging, dive-bombing doves. That part will be fine. It's the hours afterward about which I worry.
I'm bringing his bow and his BB gun, and we'll let him shoot Chris' Remington 1100 20 gauge (I sure hope my son's Mom hasn't found this blog), a sweet-shooting, forgiving gun. He'll have his video game to play, and I'm sure we'll have some spirited card games and some Yahtzee tournaments. I hope he likes the flavor of dove; some find it gamey after a life-long diet of the pablum most supermarkets pass off as meat.
I do know I've never looked forward to a dove camp so much. I hope my son has a good time, and a good remembrance. I hope he doesn't tell his Mom his Dad drinks too much beer. And I hope he doesn't melt in the heat.
More Random Thoughts
Well, turns out Michael Jackson may have been murdered, but the knuckleheads at LAPD may have butchered the prosecution because they failed to secure the crime scene. Why am I not surprised? And for the love of God, will they please plant this guy in the ground.
I don't know if the rest of the world realizes this, but Southern California is on fire again. The so-called "Station Fire" has burned over 120,000 acres and fifty structures. That's almost 200 square miles. There are fires burning in Azusa Canyon, Yucaipa and in the San Jacinto Mountains. And it's not even fire season yet; the notorious Santa Ana winds haven't yet reared their ugly head. I fear things are going to get even nastier than usual this year. This is supposed to be an El Nino year -- mudslides are sure to follow. And we're over-due for a quake on the San Andreas. The four horsemen are at our door.
Why are hot dogs sold in packs of ten, but hot dog buns in packs of eight? You have to buy four packs of hot dogs and five packs of buns to make it work. And then some eight-year old eats a hot dog without a bun and ruins the whole dichotomy.
Why do people feel they have to come to a complete stop to make a right turn? And why do they have to do it from the middle of the street? Why can't any one figure out how a four-way stop works? Driving is not rocket science, people.
Orange County just spent six months putting in a right turn lane at the intersection of Rose and Imperial Highway. A month later they've torn up Imperial to resurface. Couldn't they have done all this at once? Our taxpayer dollars at work.
While I'm at it, the City of La Habra spent eight months putting in a bus stop and fancy crosswalks at the intersection of La Habra and Harbor. The fancy crosswalks are about six inches above the roadway -- they "improved" things by putting speed bumps in a perfectly good intersection. If I'm ever elected God I'll immediately put an end to such "civic improvements."
Former beauty queen Carrie Prejean has sued Miss California officials for libel. Seems she won't be able to testify at the trial because her foot is so firmly planted in her mouth. Will somebody please make this woman go away?
I don't know if the rest of the world realizes this, but Southern California is on fire again. The so-called "Station Fire" has burned over 120,000 acres and fifty structures. That's almost 200 square miles. There are fires burning in Azusa Canyon, Yucaipa and in the San Jacinto Mountains. And it's not even fire season yet; the notorious Santa Ana winds haven't yet reared their ugly head. I fear things are going to get even nastier than usual this year. This is supposed to be an El Nino year -- mudslides are sure to follow. And we're over-due for a quake on the San Andreas. The four horsemen are at our door.
Why are hot dogs sold in packs of ten, but hot dog buns in packs of eight? You have to buy four packs of hot dogs and five packs of buns to make it work. And then some eight-year old eats a hot dog without a bun and ruins the whole dichotomy.
Why do people feel they have to come to a complete stop to make a right turn? And why do they have to do it from the middle of the street? Why can't any one figure out how a four-way stop works? Driving is not rocket science, people.
Orange County just spent six months putting in a right turn lane at the intersection of Rose and Imperial Highway. A month later they've torn up Imperial to resurface. Couldn't they have done all this at once? Our taxpayer dollars at work.
While I'm at it, the City of La Habra spent eight months putting in a bus stop and fancy crosswalks at the intersection of La Habra and Harbor. The fancy crosswalks are about six inches above the roadway -- they "improved" things by putting speed bumps in a perfectly good intersection. If I'm ever elected God I'll immediately put an end to such "civic improvements."
Former beauty queen Carrie Prejean has sued Miss California officials for libel. Seems she won't be able to testify at the trial because her foot is so firmly planted in her mouth. Will somebody please make this woman go away?
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