Facing The Prospect of Playing Paintball With Teens

I Like guns. I like blowing stuff up with them. I like knocking stuff over with them. I like holding finely crafted steel that was made years before I was even a glint in my daddy's eyes and making these weapons go bang!

But do I really want to be shot at by a bunch of young-uns with paintball guns? Do I really want to chase them around on two bad knees and shoot at them? Well, maybe.

I have the opportunity to take my teenage son out to the field of battle, but I'm having second thoughts.

For one thing, I like for my son to practice good gun safety, which really never involves the pointing of a gun at me: DAD! Now we're going to have to practice doing just that, and then shoot each other. And I've not shot somebody since high school when me and Marty Pope would take the BB guns into the woods, complete with swimming goggles for eye protection, and shoot each other.

The second thing is, I know for a fact they, paintballs, HURT! I drunkenly let my good friend Brain Casey take careful aim at me in his shop one day, and, even AFTER I had stuck three and half inches foam rubber under my tee-shirt, the impact of the "soft" projectile brought me to my knees and a tear to my eye. I won't mention the purple third nipple I had for a week...at least it was dead center.

The third, and maybe most important thing is, if I get shot in the neck (or some other soft part), and start crying, I'll immediately go berserk and wade through the sea of teen faces shooting them in a wild release of rage. Which is not a big deal I guess, except that all the dads'll be there to witness the foul humour. Indeed, some are actual customers of ours, and some may be at some point.

It is odd to want to shoot your fellow man, and I have actually shied away from this game, but I'm a firm believer in trying something once--even golf. And I have shot Marty Pope up a bunch of times so I think I can still get past that cultural check and balance.

I just hope that the teens can take a hit, and that they lay off my pretty face.

Texas Radio and the Big Beat

I want to tell you 'bout shot gun sports,
I want to tell you 'bout how what you see
Is what you shoot.

I want you to know,
When you sweat on the wood
With your cheek;
You watch the clay.
You watch it break.

I want you to know,
If you shut the fuck up,
You'll know what to do.
It's all in yourself,
It's all what you see.

I want you to know,
From shotgun to pistol,
It's all just the same;
You raise it eye high,
And you'll shoot what you see.

I want you to know,
The crisp acrid pop,
And the thrust to your hand,
Hot brass over shoulder;
What you see has gone down.

I want you to know,
We practice on clay,
On steel,
On paper,
And on deer,
And pray for no day.


I want you to know,
Some days are never
Meant to become,
And shots are never,
Meant to be done.
But there are things,
I hold close to my heart.


I want to tell you 'bout
How I have made ready,
For days not to come,
And clays not yet thrown.
For I will not blink,
For we shoot
What we see.

Two Points of View

I've seen some things, I have.

I've seen things that shock and surprise and befuddle and make me shake my head even though I should know better and shouldn't be phased by the happiness (as a jealous prick) or maliciousness (as an innocent bystander) of others.

I try to just bumble along my way.

I was eating lunch with a friend the other day, in a chicken place, and watched as two, very youngish patrons rose from their seats, gathered with their clique, and sauntered outside to the parking lot where they all walked away slowly while the two young men held hands.

As a child of the eighties I couldn't help but stare. Watching two young men enjoying the freedom of expression that in my day would have got them beat and ridiculed really just made me think how far we had come as a society...did I mention we were in Yanceyville, NC? Yanceyville!

Yes I stared...and smiled. I remembered a picture someone had posted on facebook of a bright red tee-shirt proclaiming, "Some people are gay, Get over it!" on a grinning Sir Ian McKellan. Yes I stared: here was freedom in a tiny hick town...

I was inordinately happy about the whole scene, like I am when I can order in a taqueria without any help, surrounded by black hair and brown skin...

Then I bumble on my way.

Now there are two horses I've seen that need someone's help. And of course, I've convinced myself that I can; that I can figure out a double-win for all involved.

When I see them on a half acre lot, with no shelter, just a parked stock trailer, I know that something isn't right. Driving by, I can see there's no grass left higher than a registered stubble because they've grazed it all off. I see they have hay, but it's the kind that's rolled up, for cattle, and it's dumped in the mud and left laying out for weeks.

I just don't get it. The horses are gaunt, ribs showing, hip bones jaunty, and I can't wrap my fucking brain around how this guy, whom I've met before, can just drive by them everyday, see them sucking wind like that, and not do more. So I will.

In a perfect world I could just walk up to the guy and ask if he needs some help. I bet I could get truckloads of people willing to lend a hand--whatever it would take to make the horses healthy, but crap like this never plays out like that. Instead, I'll be the asshole, the motherfucker who can't mind his own business.

We'll see.

So I bumble along trying get some happy and I see something that makes me smile and say the cliche, "We've come a long way, baby." then go to bed, wake up the next day and see how far we've yet to go.

Of course we can bumble along all day checking out the good and the bad (and the ugly I suppose)--Greensboro, NC getting MILLIONS of dollars for a Greenway (whatever the fuck that is) while food shelters beg on the same newscast for food donations because, if you'll remember, we're in the worst state of depression and unemployment since before, what, WWII, and their shelves are bare.

But I'm gonna stick to my TMZ, my thirty mile zone. I going to enjoy my view of freedom and young hand-holding "love." And I'm gonna save my starfish that're washed up and exposed at low tide and flick as many as I can back into the water before the sun kills 'em.

Vacation

What would make me lock up my best friend by the hands of strangers, and leave her behind for several days?

What would make me pack up a bunch of groceries before heading to the vast wilderness of Sugar Mountain, where the closest grocery store is, uh, 1.5 miles from the condo?

What would make me leave all my toys locked up in a safe, and all my TV's unplugged (awaiting an errant thunderstorm), and all our computers turned off and unlinked to the world wide web?

What would make me leave my bed, and comfy rumpled pillows and my shower that could blast and strip the paint off an old wooden fence?

What would make me hit the road in the heat of the day and streak past points of (my)interest to get to our destination?

Why would I leave my home? My place, where *I* hole up to forget the heat, and work, and taxes, and sore necks?

Oh yeah, to relax.

Verdad

I walked away from the boy. We'd found the book his sister wanted so I left him smiling and picking out a book for himself, but I had to get some coffee.

My Barnes and Noble Member card was expired of course, so after paying for another year (as a hapless sucker) and collecting my change and coffee, I see the boy, still smiling, walking up.

-26 bucks for a cup of coffee! Whaduya think of that?- I ask loudly, wadding my money up for safe storage.

He shakes his head so slyly -Well, how big is it?-

Me and the chick laugh. And before we can say anything else, we're shooed away by an Asian girl intent on stealing our spotlight. I saunter over to the cream and sugar counter to finish preparing my coffee. Now I'm an honorary employee I suppose.

An old lady beside me takes a huge handful of Splenda out of the holder. -Takin' some home?- I ask loudly. She ignores me, but not the boy.

-Dad.- he says, more head shaking.

-I'm just glad she left some for me.-

-Hey, I'm thirsty too. Can I get something?- He asks.

-Sure.- I say and we head back over to the chick. She's my buddy cause she broke a hundred for me. -We forgot the boy,- I say to her.

-Can I get you something?- She asks me, but I break her gaze and look at the boy.

-Oh, can I get an Iced tea?-

And before she can ask, I light up, -What kind? Brown, Red, Green, Asian?- in a staccato!

He laughs, -Green.-

-Hot, iced, shaken, stirred?- I keep on.

-Iced,- he says. He looks at the chick. I do too, and I see they have a connection. They have a need for me to stop.

-Unsweetened? Sweetened? Lemoned? Limed?- I fire away.

The boy laughs now, hands jammed into the hoodie pockets, the Northwest Middle School Track Hoodie that he wears on an eighty degree day because he just got it. -Sweet.- he says.

We both laugh, the chick does not. She looks at the boy, -What size?-

-D'oh!- I laugh. -She got us, boy!-

-Medium,- he says, still smiling.

The chick punches some keys, and like a navy officer, turns around and delegates the order in words and jargon that only another iced tea slash coffee server in a book store can understand...which I won't repeat.

I see our name on the back of his hoodie and now poke at him. -Mother's head?! Is that your real name?-

He cuts his eyes at me, or were they rolling? -Shut up, dad.-

We collect the drink, then a straw, and then he asks, -Dad, why are you so stupid?-

-I think it's my dad's fault.-

He starts to head for the check out area, and I say, -Hey, can I get something too?-

The boy stops. -What are you gonna get? Lemme guess.- He rolls his eyes. -Hemingway.-

-Maybe,- I say. I got swindled on the last two Hemingways, so I wasn't too awful keen, but I head to that aisle.

-Dad, if you were gay, you'd marry Hemingway.-

I'm so tired from lack of sleep, and the coffee hasn't kicked in, that I got nothing. -Son,- I say, touching a copy of "The Road", -If I were gay, then the trick would be to get Hemingway to marry me.-

All I Want Is More

I said I like it here.
I am not happy being a donor,
A lost strand in my daughter's genome.
I want to eat a steak!
I want to have sex!
I want to blow stuff up,
And smell honeysuckle...

I love it here, I said.
I am not satisfied being a pattern,
A loose affiliation of memories in brain tissue.
I want to yell at my kids!
I want to laugh with them too!
I want to hide their Wii,
And make them play catch...

I'll just stay here, I'm sure.
I don't have a secret Santa,
A martyred teacher to give me hope.
I'll just lean on into it.
I'll grit my teeth and go for it.
I'll smile when it's muddy,
And tell you all about it.

-rbm

Manual Labour Weight Loss Program

It has been pointed out to me that one of the reasons I might be a tad trimmer than most of my fellow forty-somethings is because I work for a living, and of course, that's probably true.

Also, we can thank the DNA donors who made me possible (and the belief back in the 60's that abortion is the killing of unborn people and therefore illegal) who probably weren't the biggest people in the land.

But a big debt goes to me, brett mothershead, for not stuffing my face full of bad stuff. Sure it took until my mid thirties to realize this. Having been blessed with a zealous metabolism and living a rather active lifestyle (some called it hyper back in the day) I never really worried about what I ate, But when my metabolism stopped watching my back, and gut, I had to do something.

So what I did was easy. It's called the Atkins Diet. And before you poo poo it as unhealthy and dangerous, just "hear" me out.

Okay, it IS dangerous probably for the first two weeks. If you're like I was, sucking down sodas and white bread and white rice and french fries like I was back then, and then stop, you'll get shakier than Charlie Sheen in rehab. I mean, for two weeks, you stop all carb consumption and you live life like an Eskimo!

I'd have dreams about Cheerios and milk sludged up with table sugar! I'd be so weak that all I wanted to do was watch TV and eat sticks of butter and eggs... And yes, this part of the effort was the worst, and for some, can trigger metabolic changes that can be detrimental...but if your body can take the rigors, it works.

Drink your liquids, take your multi vitamin, and you start to shrink. Why? You're fooling your body into thinking it's winter, and the fields have browned up, and all you have to eat is the meat you dried in the summer, and the game you're going to kill tomorrow. Your machinery is forced to recall those stored up carbs that had been converted to fat just to make ends meet. It's exactly what we were designed to do.

To a dumbass carpenter like me, it makes perfect sense.

So you lose the excess weight, and while you're doing so, you add back carbohydrates. But you do so wisely. You add real food. You add food you already know is good for you because you've been told it was since you were a little kid. You eat spinach, and broccoli, and romaine lettuce, and squash and okra and any fruit used as a vegetable.

BUT! You avoid human engineered crap like seedless grapes, apples, oranges, and bananas, etc. And, sadly, you avoid the obvious: enriched wheat flour, corn meal, potatoes, polished rice, and sugar, and the ultimate crime against humanity: High Fructose Corn Syrup.

I call it The Whole Food Diet because folks seem to get that knee-jerk reaction against Atkins. I'd say read the book. I read just the one before he, Dr. Atkins, bonked his head and died, and haven't seen any updates since then. So I MAY not be an authority, but even I know the crap in boxes in the grocery store are going to make you fatter. And I don't care how "low fat" or "all natural" it is.

Now as far as manual labour goes, yes, I work my ass off, literally. As a man of action, I chose a path out of doors and made me a leader of men, and before the collapse of the western economy in august 2008, was making a damn good living at it. But I digress...

So what can you, the I.T. guy or gal that's stuck inside an office or cubicle do besides eat the right foods and drink the right drinks and create the illusion that you're working your ass off? The answer, which you already know, is get off your ass.

1. Walk. Park your car as far away as possible from the building. Hell, park at the next building and walk from there. Park across the street at the Texaco, get you a big (diet) orange and leave your car over there all day. When you get to the building, forget the elevator. By god, yes your knees'll hurt, but that's because you're fat and you haven't used your knees in a coon's age.

2.Raise your desk up 14 to 16 inches and work standing up all day. I mean it. Burn your chair or chunk it down the hall. Stay on your feet for four hours, then sit down for your egg-salad-wrapped-in-big-sheets-of-Romaine-lettuce lunch for thirty minutes, then get back on your feet! If you need to call someone two cubicles down, don't, walk down there and scare the shit out of them. Answer phones all day? Stand up!

3.Get a tool belt for all your most used desk/office items. Your three-hole hole puncher, your red stapler, and your cell phone will fit easily. Add some heavier stuff as needed. The weight of the tool belt will make you work harder! And it'll simulate how much weight you're gonna lose and how that will feel when you take it off at the end of the day.

Well, for the office bound, that's all I got that I haven't already heard on Oprah.

All I can add is, being hungry isn't lethal, nor dangerous. Just because you're hungry (or think you are) doesn't mean you have to eat something. Know what? If you wait an hour or so, the pangs'll fade. On the weekends, or when (thanks to the aforementioned economy) we ain't working, sometimes I only eat once a day.

Your body is a machine for replicating and spreading around DNA that knows how to store glucose, as fat, for a cold and rainy winter. That's the alimentary system's biggest job--that and getting the materials to repair the damage done to our bodies during the course of a normal day. You stuff it with quick and easy carbs/sugars and it thinks it's mardi gras! It doesn't know that after you're finished with this box of Nip-Chees, you're going to wash them down with a 20 oz. Mountain Dew, followed by a bowl of ice cream and tater tots! All it knows is, "Wow! I got it made here, better pack it away!"

Lastly of course is portion control, duh. Eat more and you'll weigh more. I won't say much about that because it's common sense.

In addition, if you stay on your feet all day, you might just see improvement in other areas of your fitness as well, like a good night's sleep. Most of time I just nod and smile empathetically when people tell me how they can't sleep at night because I know, and they know, that all day, they don't really DO anything to make themselves tired. And on top of that, they have two drinks when they get home or they had caffeine after lunch...when I was in college I used to have to get out of bed and pace the dorm in the middle of the night because I had what they call now, restless leg, arm, neck syndrome. I just wasn't tired because I sat on my ass all day and read books and wrote other peoples' papers and I'd have to climb them stairs to stop that weird itch to move!

All right, I'm done.