I am 100% sure that you aren’t watching The Flintstones right now like I am.
White Trash Weekend
I never went hunting as a kid. It wasn’t something my father or grandfathers were into, and therefore wasn’t something I was into, either. As variously reported, however, I was in the Boy Scouts (insert maniacal laughter and finger pointing here) where I earned merit badges in both shotgun and rifle shooting. I liked shotgun shooting because it was loud, overtly manly, and totally satisfying to blow the crap out of little clay discs. I liked rifle shooting for nearly polar opposite reasons. I derived quite a bit of satisfaction by lying in stillness yards and yards away from a target, slowing my breathing and heart-rate, and slowly squeezing off shots in a tight pattern. In fact, I enjoyed target shooting so much that my dad convinced my over protective mom that I needed an air rifle.
It was a pump-powered affair, with a lever that swung down for you to pump it to the correct pressure. It accepted the requisite BB’s in quantities of 100’s, as well as the more accurate pellets one at a time. A particularly deadly weapon it was not, but after the right amount of pumping, it was reported to have a similar muzzle velocity as a .22, and could therefore due some respectable damage.
One day, my mom dropped me and my gun off at my friend Eric’s to go shootin’. Eric lived on a sizeable piece of land, used minimally by his house, and mostly by a large orange grove. Within the first hour of arriving, scores of little green army men, and more than a few 7-Up cans had met their untimely deaths…at which point we decided to seek out something more exciting. “Let’s go huntin’!” he said.
“Hunting”, in this case, meant walking through the grove, talking and laughing loudly, and challenging each other to near-impossible shots like skewering the petals of a 50-yard flower, or tagging the odd rotten orange thrown into the air. This continued for an hour or two until we rounded a bend and came upon a power line hanging heavy with a line of sparrows. They were about 40 yards away, and sitting quietly in the shade of a large tree.
“Dude, birds!” Eric said, “Time to do some real hunting…get one Dave!”
He didn’t have to tell me twice. I stealthily pumped my gun to maximum pressure, opted for a more-accurate pellet, and sighted in a black blob. As the cross-hairs centered on my target, I slowed my breathing, blinked twice slowly, and gingerly squeezed the trigger.
THWAP!
I heard the pellet slam into the chest of the bird, and a lump formed in my throat as it dropped out of the tunnel I was looking through. Lowering my gun, I saw what looked like a slightly aerodynamic stone fall in tight circles to the ground with a thump.
“Yeah! Bullseye!” he said. “yeah…” I replied quietly.
The rest of the day has faded into distant memory, but I do remember that night after my parents picked me up. I walked straight into my room and laid on my bed, visibly morose. I’d been quiet the whole ride home, and had said largely nothing. Mom came in, sat on the bed, and with her hand on my shoulder said, “What’s wrong honey?”
…
“David?”
“I…” and the tears started to flow, “I shot a bird! We went hunting in the orange grove and found some birds and I shot him and heard it himandkilledhimandhefellandwasdead!”
Obviously, I have not the killer spirit.
Clever Girl
It’s nice to know you’re missed. Owing to my unexplained absence, my Number One Fan composed a bit of verse in the depths of her despair:
Dave, O Dave,
where have you gone?
Has ADG killed you
and thrown you in a pond?
Have you gotten a job,
and are busy with that?
Have you abandoned your blog,
or gotten a cat?
Do tell what has happened,
because I really want to know,
Just where O Where did Dave go?
–AMS
I’m back.
Of course, I forgot to mention I was leaving. Actually, I think Blogger forgot to mention it and ate my post, instead. Anyway, I was in LA.
According to the information packet that came with my deodarant, I should also try Old Spice’s Cool Contact Refreshment Towels “because sometimes you sweat and can’t take a shower.” So, I should “get cool, clean and refreshed.”
I’m pretty sure mom can cry patent enfringement, ’cause that sounds an awful lot like the ol’ Wet Naps Road-Trip Shower of 1982.
You know, that below post just serves as an example of what I’m talking about…which is why I’m trying to make it slowly disappear. But, still, as mentioned, it’s not something I would change about myself, so I’ll leave it for now, if only in a less-distinct way.
In other news, after first seeing Fight Club back in ’99, I had to get Tyler’s wardrobe. I was all about the vintage leather jacket and cheezy Hawaiian shirt. I scoured second-hand stores, thrift stores, Salvation Army stores, etc, and always came up largely empty-handed.
Granted, I did end up with a few sufficiently horrid shirts that were just right for the blackjack tables in Vegas (baby, yeah!); but as far as the awesome jacket went, it was a rarity not easily found. Well, a few days ago, I rented Fight Club, and was motivated again to go on my search. I drove all over the Silicon Valley, angling my beater truck between the dichotomy-inducing Lexus SUV’s and BMW Z3’s in sundry low-rent (an oxymoron in this area) neighborhood parking lots, pushing aside blue-haired old ladies when they asked if they could help me, deftly fingering past failed dot-com logo shirts for the meatier vintage clothes, and…
This, normally, would be the point where the music would swell and I would reveal that my long quest had finally ended. Alas, this is real life, and although I’ll have a theme song-playing orchestra to follow me around someday, today I am without; and, therefore, I lack the the ability to pull off the Hollywood ending.
I did, however, find this shirt, and I think you’ll agree it’s rad (at least the nice blue-haired lady that rung it up for me thought so). It’s hard to tell, but you will be delighted to see upon closer inspection that it has not one, not two, but four pockets, as well as some pretty sharp pimp-striping. The full ensemble remains elusive, but I’m getting some success going my own way, too.
Oh, and it was $3.00
As I trip up and down this mortal plane, I have discovered a few things about myself. They aren’t disturbing things, though those do crop up from time to time, they’re just things, for better or for worse. Most recently, one fact about me has been reinforced: I am a romantic.
Unfortunately, I am also dramatic…which would be great if I were an actor or artist, but proves to be as equally destructive as constructive in real life. Bleh. No matter, I wouldn’t change those things about me, if given the chance: I’d like to think they make me unique.
radio ad snippet heard whilst driving nowhere:
Have you or a loved one suffered a death from the following prescription medications…?
sigh. Well, my loved ones are safe, but I’ve recently lost my life. Upon reincarnation, I intend to sue.
For various reasons, I never had a gamma, nana, gam-gam, or whatever else you people call your grandmothers (There’s an interesting poll, what do you call your grandma? Comment below). At any rate, this post has nothing to do with any childhood trauma, real or imagined, that I may or may not have suffered. Instead, this post has to do with how much I loved E.T.
I was lucky. I had a stuffed E.T., and not the one you’re thinking of with the fake leathery skin. Mine was soft, like any other stuffed animal, only better. My E.T. had big, beautiful eyes, aforementioend soft skin, and stood at least two feet high. It was amazing and I’ve never seen another one before or since. I don’t know where the Easter Bunny got it that year, but I’m sure glad he did.
E.T. was my favorite. I wasn’t really one to take stuffed-animals with me everywhere, but I did like to sleep with them. It was, however, a selective process. At that age, I had a hand-me-down bunk bed from an older cousin. The bottom bunk typically contained me, while the top bunk typically contained further hand-me-downs in the form of stuffed animals, as well as a considerable amount of new ones attributed to my being an only child. I don’t think it would be an exaggeration to say that I had at least 50 stuffed animals. Every night, I would choose one or two to make the honored journey to the lower bunk. When E.T. showed up, his brilliance out-shining the chocolate bunny and Cadbury Cream Eggs, he made the first string rotation immediately.
He was perfect for the job. His long neck and large, soft head made him ideal for clutching close to me while using his cranium for a pillow. Oh, and he loved me, too. Did I mention that?
Anyway, grandmothers. If I had one like this, I’d be much more tweaked than I already am…shudder the thought.
