THE SADDLE

Having not prepared anything for this month's nonsense I was outside saddling the horse and mules in a last-ditch effort to get them into shape for a deer hunting pack trip into the Kern in a couple of weeks. As I saddled my horse I gave my old saddle the once over and couldn't help but comment to myself how well she's held up over the years. Then it dawned on me; when all else fails, send 'em a poem. So here's a poem I wrote a number of years ago about this very saddle. Hope you enjoy!

THE SADDLE

 

I bought myself a saddle back in nineteen sixty-nine,

It was new and figured to last a while

And it fit my fanny fine.

 

Constructed with care for detail, its craftsmanship superb,

It was made to stand the test of time

And it stood out from the herd.

 

I brought it home and oiled her up and just in case she squeaked

I rubbed her down with talcum powder,

Every flap and crease.

 

I wrapped the horn with rubber from a tire tube gone flat

And riveted a pouch on the billet

Where my fence pliers comfortably sat.

 

I put her to work immediately and she's never let me down.

We've shared a lot of miles together,

More than either of us could count.

 

From mountain meadows, rocky trails, and hills choked thick with brush,

To sun-baked summers packin' salt

To cows too tough to flush.

 

Over the years she's seen her share of cinches come and go.

A breast collar here, a britchen there,

And gallons of saddle soap.

 

Her bars have covered horses and mules of every type,

From ones as quiet as headstones

To the occasional unscheduled flight.

 

Enough ropes have burned around her horn to start a forest fire.

She's packed out deer and orphaned calves,

And stretched miles of downed barbwire.

 

She's held countless bawlin' baldys at the end of a tight-stretched rope,

And watched as calves got branded,

Doctored, notched, and groped.

 

She's sat and waited patiently out in back of the saloon,

And hauled me home not criticizing

My howling at the moon.

 

She's weathered sons and daughters through gymkhanas and the like.

Now she baby-sits the grandkids

When they come to visit overnight.

 

She's certainly been a dandy and unlike a bureaucrat,

She's been honest and hard working

There can be no doubt in that.

 

Yep, I bought myself a saddle back in nineteen sixty-nine.

It was new and figured to last awhile,

And it fit my fanny fine.

 

 

A PAIN IN THE A…

 

A PAIN IN THE A…

 

Wallowing in self-pity, I knew it was simply a matter of time before the gangrene set in. I could only pray that some sort of miracle might happen and someone would show up out of thin air and rescue me. It didn't seem likely.

The pain would change forms. Sometimes it would be dull, sometimes sharp and electric. At this particular moment my shoulder felt as if a rat were gnawing away at the bone. Heck, maybe it was; I couldn't see in the darkness? It was blacker than a stack of stove lids and I knew that in my predicament, if I moved in the slightest, I'd undoubtedly lose the arm entirely. Maybe death would come quickly, but the way things were panning out, slow and painful was the most likely scenario.

Why me, I wondered? What did I ever do to deserve this? Was it fate, was it karma, or was I just plain foolish? And how would I manage the rest of my life with but one arm? It's not like folks don't notice that kind of thing. Then again, what good would the arm be even if it could be saved? I'd never be able to ride a motorcycle, couldn't be a traffic cop, I'd never conduct the Boston Philharmonic, and I certainly wouldn't be competing in any Olympic swimming events, unless they came up with one where you swam around in circles.

This was no time to be funny, Firth, this was serious business and if I didn't find a way to free myself, I might certainly die. The ticking seconds seemed like minutes, the minutes seemed like hours; continual, never-ending hours. As it was, I wasn't entirely certain the arm could be saved anyway. Even if I were rescued and spared amputation, the limb would no doubt be useless. If I were lucky, it'd be nothing more than a dangling ornament to fill the other sleeve of some god-awful sweater at best. At least I'd have my arm, I suppose.

It had been nearly two hours and the blood flow to my right arm had long, since ceased. My arm was bluer than a Lenny Bruce nightclub act. For a long while there had been the excruciating pins and needles in my finger tips. Mercifully the stinging jabs gave way, disappearing, only to be replaced with the bone-piercing pain I was now suffering. I wondered how I had managed to get myself trapped in such a position. How could I have been so foolish as to allow this to happen to me? Me, Mister Macho Mountain man, Mister Outdoorsman, Mister look-out for número uno, Mister I don't need nobody; especially no dames? I could sure use some help right now.

I couldn't help but wonder should I survive this nightmare how different my life would be. I was right-handed, after all. Now what was I to do about going to the bathroom? Unless you're a southpaw, ever try using your left hand to take care of the paperwork?

The pain in my trapped arm was agonizing, almost more than humanly tolerable. Several times, in fact, I nearly passed out. I knew, however, that I had to stay awake. Easy as it might be to drift off, I knew I couldn't let myself sleep. I also knew if I did; that would be the end.

Funny, the odd things that race through a person's mind when one is trapped and faced with meeting the grim reaper. One moment I was fighting back the pain, telling myself not to give up, struggling just to stay alive. The next moment I was wondering if my fifth-grade teacher, Ms Ridenhour, really rode around after school on a broom, accompanied by flying monkeys, or was it just an uncanny resemblance.

Damn this darkness. If I could only see, maybe I could do something to extricate myself. Maybe I could find a way to break free. Oh, how I wanted to see the light just one more time.

Then suddenly I thought I saw a light. Were my eyes simply playing tricks on me? Was it a mirage? It was faint, but I'm certain it was a light.

There it was again! Almost like a search light scanning back and forth. It was a light, and it was getting brighter. Someone was looking for me.

"Come on light," I said to myself. "Keep comin' this direction." Then the light went out. "No, No, over here, I'm here, HELP!" I wanted to scream, but I couldn't. Then, just as suddenly as it had disappeared, the light flickered on and started moving toward me again. Thank God, they're still looking for me!

The light grew brighter and brighter, bigger and bigger, and closer and closer until my eyes began to hurt when the light scanned past me. Then, as the beam flashed directly into my eyes, it froze, its position fixed on me like a train coming out of a tunnel. Finally, from behind the light I heard the faceless voice I'd so longed to hear.

"Get yer feet off the back of that chair and sit up," said the usher. I'd been rescued at last!

"Excuse me, I'll be right back," whispered Katie, as I abruptly dropped my feet and sat up. Katie glanced silently past me and every fifth- grade girl in the third row of Peasley's Movie Emporium stood and began shuffling toward the isle.

Katie Brusitchell was the prettiest girl at Misery Elementary School, and against better judgment, in a moment of weakness, had consented to go to the movies with me as long as twelve of her girlfriends were along to chaperone. I hadn't actually asked her to sit with me personally; it was more of a request on my behalf through a friend of a friend of a friend. And to set the record straight, I would have asked her myself had I the ability to get my tongue to work and string together a cognitive sentence whenever I was around her.

At any rate, as soon as Katie disappeared in the darkness toward the lobby I leaned forward in my seat just enough for my paralyzed arm to fall with a lifeless thump onto Katie's empty seat. It was as numb as a porch plank. A short moment later the sharp stinging sensation of pins and needles began returning. This was wonderful! This meant that the blood flow had returned and my arm and that my promising career as ace with the Dodgers pitching staff someday was once again on track. Heck, I could even be a traffic cop!

Placing my arms across my chest I slouched back into my seat with a sigh of relief, waiting for Katie to return. No sooner had my feet reached the top of the chair in front of me I felt my shirt tighten around my neck and a hand lifting me out of my seat. "I warned ya once, and once is all ya get," boomed a voice from behind me. "Yer outta here; let's go."

I recognized the voice as belonging to Mister Peasley's son, Vincent, heir apparent to the Peasley grocery store, plumbing supply, and movie house fortune. A junior over at Misery High School, and a no-necked, muscle-bound tackle on the varsity football team, Vincent had the I.Q. of an abalone, accompanied by the super human strength of a silver-back gorilla and wasn't one to be trifled with.

As Vincent bounced me by the collar out through the lobby, we met Katie and her platoon of girlfriends who were returning to their seats.

"Hi Katie," I said feebly, a sheepish grin on my kisser.

"Where are you going," she asked?

"Uh, I've gone to ggcramble and stoff-loff-a- namplifarm," I stammered, my tongue in its usual knot when around Katie.

"Unh," she answered?

I was pretty sure she knew that I meant, "Let's do this again sometime, dollface!"

THE GREATEST DISAPPOINTMENT

They have been dubbed The Me Generation, a moniker I'm not at all sure I'd agree with. In fact; I have long been a fan of this current generation, and every since 9/11 I have been adamant about my admiration for these youngsters.

Next to that of my parents, "The Greatest Generation", who literally saved the world, the Me Generation has my thumbs-up vote as heroes, and they lead me to believe that maybe, just maybe, there is hope for our country after all. Not only are these fine, young men and women incredibly smart when it comes to technology and the likes, but in an era of an all-volunteer military, they are taking the fight to the bad guys and keeping the Bin Nasties out of our yard, as it were. There is no draft, and no one is twisting their arms and forcing them to put themselves in harm's way. I, for one, am forever grateful to these youngsters for their sacrifice and determination, and while I feel a great debt of gratitude to this current crop of young twenty and thirty-something's, there is one troubling item that has come to light recently. An oddity that disturbs me greatly, has me doubting, and I believe is cause for great alarm.

No, it's not these young folk's mind-numbing music. I've long maintained, "You can't spell crap without the rap," and while the Me Generation's music certainly isn't up to the quality of classics such as Bob Dylan, softly crooning Positively 4th Street in the key of R, each generation is, I suppose, entitled to their own music, even if it is, in my humble opinion, nothing more than some yokel grabbing his crotch and yelling at you. (Hey, you, get off of my cloud! Stones 1965.)

No, what bothers me most about the Me Generation is far more disturbing and even loathsome. Then again, maybe it's my generation's fault for not passing along our vast knowledge of what's important in life to these lost souls who have absolutely no clue as to the important things in life.

"No clue as to what," you ask?

Well brace yourself, folks, because it troubles me greatly to inform you that this current generation of techno-genius youngsters has no flaming clue as to how to make a SMORE!

"I knowwwww," he said, clasping his palms to his cheeks, and tilting his head in disbelief.

Just when I thought this group of kids was alright, I was recently forced to sit around a campfire one evening and observe a pair of America's finest attempt to construct a simple SMORE. I felt as if I was at a taping of the Jerry Springer Show. Not only was it heart-wrenching to watch marshmallows being systematically destroyed beyond any recognition, the two young chefs looked more like a pair of monkeys trying to make love to a football instead of a couple of intelligent young men creating a time-honored, culinary delight. In fact, I've seen fewer spontaneous bursts of combustion at a reservation fireworks show.

Now I have sat around enough campfires in my life to know that the perfect Smore requires but three ingredients; a Graham cracker, a marshmallow, and a small chunk from a Hersey's chocolate bar. In fact, the chocolate is so important that eight of us, on an outing in the Kings/Sequoia National Park, once rode fourteen miles round trip to liberate a chocolate bar from a backcountry ranger station at Roaring River to complement our planned evening Smores-fest.

At any rate, for the uninitiated, here it is; the simple process of creating the perfect Smore.

First, a slit or hole is poked into the marshmallow at which point a square, or piece of chocolate, is slipped into the hole. The marshmallow is then carefully positioned onto the roasting fork or stick. This must be accomplished with the greatest of care, lest ye spend the next half-hour watching one of nature's marvels burn like a torch at a Klan rally.

The marshmallow is then meticulously roasted to a golden brown over the coals of a fire, (not the flames). I cannot stress the importance of patience during this step. You are seeking a golden brown, people, not a marshmallow that resembles a Kingsford briquette.

And last, but not least, the perfectly roasted marshmallow is placed between two pieces of Graham cracker, then eaten slowly with gusto, to be savored and appreciated. Not worn on one's cheeks, chin, forehead, mustache, shirt, shorts and toes while the participants scream like the Taliban on a suicide run over their third-degree mallow burns.

There you have it, Grasshopper; I have done my duty to impart just a tiny bit of my vast knowledge of such wonders to the new kids on the block. Use this skill wisely.

So far, I am still a fan of the Me Generation, although come to think of it, maybe my generation was the smartest; after all, we did invent tie-die shirts, the pet rock, and the eight-track!

Next time we will discuss proper positioning and expression for The Captain's pose.

MOVIN’ ON

         The other day I decided to drive into town to the post office. I drove the six miles out to the highway, pulled up to the stop sign and waited to make my left turn toward town. I had to wait nearly half-a-minute for a string of cars to pass. First one car traveling eastbound would zip by, then, taking their sweet time, I'd have to wait for another coming westbound to pass. Eastbound, then westbound, then eastbound; I felt like I was watching a tennis match. When I returned home I informed my bride to get things in order; we were moving. 
         "Move where," she said? "What happened now, you finally make the FBI's most wanted list?"

         "I dunno, I haven't checked yet" I replied, "but we're packin' up and gettin' outta this place anyway. Too many people to suit me!"

         "The neighbor across the road is too many people for you," she said, I think with a bit of attitude.

         "Lilburn Merriwether is a menace to society," I pointed out. "He's always callin' to complain about my mules. He fly casts like he's fighting off a swarm of killer bees, doesn't like to listen to music, and he's always over here goin' through our barn and takin' stuff. No wonder I can never get anything done around here; Lillybuns is always takin' my stuff!""

        "In all fairness, dear, sometimes the mules do sound off pretty early in the morning, not everyone has your appreciation for Ernest Tubb, and the things he takes from the barn are items that belong to him that you borrowed and didn't return."

        "I don't care, he's a menace, and we're movin'. How's Idaho sound? Let's go to Idaho; nobody lives there."

        "Well I'm staying put. By the way, Lilburn called while you were in town and wants his fly-tying vice back."

        Someone once said, "the grass is always greener…yada, yada, yazoo." I'm not sure what they meant by that statement and I don't know what it has to do with people moving, but I think most folks have it in the back of their minds that somewhere down the road is better than where they're presently living.

        Up in the canyon east of town, above the Electric Co-op, there is an old, vacant house. At one time, that old house was no doubt someone's utopia; someone's perfect little piece of paradise. Today, the old house is crumbling and beyond repair; a sad reminder of a better time for someone. What caused that family to move? What brought them to pack up all they owned and seek out greener pastures? Maybe they joined the herd of Californians that moved to Oregon. Then maybe they joined the throngs of Oregonians who fled to Colorado to get away from the Californians, or maybe they became snowbirds who flew to Arizona looking for something better there?

        At any rate, ever thumb through one of those magazines with the article in it, "Best Places in the U.S.to Live"? Pretty soon those places aren't anymore. Everyone seems to want to live where the sun is always shinning, everybody is smiling and friendly, there's no smog, and the fishing is terrific. The problem is; when they get here, these same folks want to bring along much of their old life with them. The no trespassing signs, paved roads, stop lights, and they gotta have a Wal-Mart. That life they were so desperately trying to escape somehow ended up following them. They just can't live without it.

        I suppose we're all looking for something; but what, exactly? As long as we keep looking for that perfect place that really doesn't exist, we'll all just keep on moving to a new home until even the family dog won't know where home is. There are more movie stars in Montana now than grizzly bears, and more celebrities with homes in Idaho than wolves. Even the Hollywood elite are attempting to escape that world they created. I think instead of moving and searching for that perfect place to live, possibly if folks really looked hard enough, maybe, just maybe we could find it right here where we're at. Maybe life really isn't so bad after all, living in a place where you can have a tab at the feed store, folks wave at you even if you don't know who they are, and where folks still gather to support the high school football team on Friday nights, even if they don't have any kids.

       Come to think of it, it's kinda nice to be able to go to the local cafe and say, "I'll have the usual", and I suppose the view of the mountains out my front door really is pretty special. I guess it's also kind of unique these days to have neighbors who keep an eye on your place when you're away, and reside in a place where the winters really aren't all that bad, and you don't need three forms of ID to cash a check. On second thought, maybe I'll tell Cathy to hold off on that packing, not that she listens to me anyway. Maybe I'll just stay put.

       I guess maybe I understand that greener pasture thing a little better now, and it's green enough for me right here where I'm at. But the traffic? Now that's another issue!

San Jacinto Mountains Centennial Survey

 

SAN JACINTO MOUNTAINS CENTENNIAL SURVEY

 

In May of 1908, Joesph Grinnell and Harry Swarth, sponsored by the University of Southern California led an expedition into the San Jacinto Mountains of Riverside County to study its biology. There, they would stay, exploring the area until September, studying the flora and fauna of this unique mountain range.

Traveling throughout the area, from the valley floor of the desert to the mountains' summit, the team collected mammals, plants, insects and birds, taking copious notes and photographs, and ultimately publishing their results (Grinnell and Swarth 1913). This expedition is one of the cornerstones of understanding for Southern California's biology and because this group did such a thorough job, it is considered the gold standard. This was also the only intensive study done of the area, thus, the expedition of 1908 stands as a unique benchmark, giving us the longest historic perspective possible on how the wildlife of southern California is responding to environmental change.

One hundred years later, Phillip Unitt, from the San Diego Natural History Museum, led a similar expedition into the San Jacinto Mountains in an effort to replicate Grinnell's 1908 effort and thereby establish a comparison. As Grinnell himself wrote, concerning the benefit of his work: "This value will not, however, be realized until the lapse of many years, possibly a century, assuming that our material is safely preserved. And this is that the student of the future will have access to the original record of faunal conditions in California and the West, wherever we now work."

On November 16^th, 2008, my wife, Cathy, and I along with a number of other packers from the Back Country Horsemen of California were honored to be asked to help with our animals to pack this historic expedition into one of the original 1908 camp sites located in a remote area of Palm Canyon called Little Paradise. The eight biologists, each specializing in a different area of expertise were loaded for bear, as it were, with traps, cameras, specimen containers and a myriad of other scientific equipment they would need for their week-long stay in the canyon.

Our group of packers managed to guide the expedition into the canyon and on to the group's intended campsite at Little Paradise where, believe it or not, we were able to get all their equipment transported safe, sound, and mostly intact.

We returned a week later to pack the group and their gear back out and they were obviously looking forward to getting back to civilization and a hot shower. This was a great adventure shared with a terrific group of people.

After the snows melted on Mount San Jacinto, in June and July of 2008, we again packed this same group and their gear up into the high country to Taquitz Meadow and then a week later on up to Round Valley to complete their expedition.

We have since packed this same group of biologists and researchers into Palm Canyon again to continue their study of the area. The interesting thing for me is that this is an ongoing study, and we, (the packers) are fortunate to share in the biologist's studies and successes by continuing to pack them into some the more remote areas.

Over this one-hundred year period since 1908, some things have changed, and while time doesn't permit me to list the findings and differences in the two studies you can discover them for yourself on the museum's website at http://www.sdnhm.org/research/sanjacinto/index.php Some of the area's changes are attributed to the difference in time of year the two groups visited the same site. One group visited the area in the spring, the other did their studies in the fall. Some of the differences are no doubt due to the proximity of man and nearby Palm Springs as it pertains to evasive species in the area. And some of the changes may be attributed to climatic changes.

Whether you believe Al Gore's prophecies of doom and gloom and feel the need to rush out and purchase your carbon credits to save the planet, or maybe you side with those scientists who maintain these changes are simply part of the earth's natural cycle, you'll certainly find the San Diego Natural History Museum a fascinating, educational, and entertaining glimpse into our region's past, present, and possibly even our future.

For my part, these have been enjoyable pack trips into a rugged area that is seldom visited. This canyon has its own unique beauty and I highly recommend the trip to hikers and horsemen alike.

THINGS THAT GUYS JUST DON’T DO!

A while back I marched into Bader Aagie's Western Wear & Hat Emporium with the sole purpose of becoming the proud owner of a brand new hat. The reason for the new lid was to replace the slightly-worn one resting atop my head; the one my wife claims, "Isn't fit to wear to a hog scaldin'." This clever nugget of wisdom coming from a woman, who back in the sixties, donned a headband, moccasins, and a tie-dye shirt sporting a hand-painted peace sign on the front, and whose entire vocabulary was usually accompanied by profound pearls such as, "Groovy," Far out," and "Peace."

At any rate, I spotted the back of Bader's bald noggin over against the far wall performing inventory on a shipment of new jeans that had just arrived.

"Hey, Bader," I said, making a beeline for the hat section.

"Hey yerself, Tom," drawled Bader, continuing his inventory.

Bader had more hats on his wall than pimples at a prom. As I scanned the wall I was immediately able to discount three-quarters of the seventeen-gazillion hats. That would be the ones that were, brown, blue, fuchsia, yellow, green, or any of the other colors that weren't either silver belly, or black.

I stared at the hat display Bader had handsomely arranged on the wall and upon a fair amount of serious studying it became apparent to me that something was terribly wrong.

"Bader," I hollered. "Got a minute?"

"Whatcha need, Tom, somethin' off that top rack," he asked, parking his pencil behind his ear and grabbing the hat pole?

"Not exactly, Bader." I said, unsure how to broach the subject. You see, Bader is proud as a rooster in a hen house of his huge inventory of western hats. In fact, Bader's motto is, "If we ain't got it, you don't need it!"

"Need somethin' in a different size, do ya," he asked?

"No… no, not exactly," I said.

"Well, what then?"

"Where's all your hats, Bader? This can't be all of 'em, is it?"

Bader's eyeballs momentarily resembled the wheels on a slot machine, and when they stopped rolling, they went straight to the wall. Bader's neck slowly craned as he followed the wall of hats fifty-feet to the left, and then his eyes drifted fifty-feet to the right. Peeking over the top of his Ben Franklin cheaters, Bader then looked back at me like I was nuttier than a port-a-potty at a peanut festival.

"Bader," I said, matter-of-factly. "I'm not goin' to a rock concert or a love-in. No self- respecting cowboy in the world would be caught dead wearin' one of those monstrosities."

Bader bowed up a bit and you could see his hackles rise. "Just whatta ya mean, Tom? What's wrong with my hats?"

"What I mean, Bader, is that I think there's a whole community of peacocks runnin' around naked somewhere. Some of those hats up there got more feathers on 'em than a Chinese pillow factory, and I've seen fewer buckles at a straight-jacket convention. Except for the Pilgrams, who puts a buckle on a hat anyway? I just want a hat with a ribbon on it, Bader. Just a plain, old, simple, unassuming ribbon!"

"Well Tom, this is all they send me now-a-days," Bader said, scratching his head. "I reckon nobody wears a hat with a plain, old ribbon on it anymore? It's just not the fashion."

"Well I do, Bader. Just a plain, old-fashioned ribbon is all that needs to be on a hat. I don't need feathers, I don't need snake skins, and I don't need conchos, glitter or sparkling buckles. I don't want to look like Elton John, John Travolta, or Waylon Jennings, and I'm not auditioning for American Idol. I don't need to grab the attention of incoming aircraft in a fog, I don't need to stop traffic, and I'm not planning on visiting San Francisco any time soon. Bader; some of those hats up there have more conchos on 'em than a Mexican parade saddle. Ain't no self respecting cowboy in the world would wear one of those hats up there, Bader. Can ya order me one without all the jingle-bobs, or not?"

Bader said that he would, but that it might cost me a bit more due to the fact it would be a special order. I then confided to Bader that while I wasn't exactly Donald Trump, I really didn't care what it cost, and that I'd shave my fanny, paint a happy face on it and walk backwards before I'd wear one of those fancy-Nancy-hats up there on his wall.

"Okay, I'll get one ordered for you, Tom," said Bader. "Can I interest ya in a pair of jeans? They just come in, all the way from France?"

On the drive back home I couldn't help but wonder what was happening in this world? I was noticing a disturbing trend around me that didn't stop with cowboy hats. As I walked into the house I was as bothered as a penned-up mule when his buddies ride out.

"Honey," I hollered, storming into the house.

"Yes, dear, what is it," she said, meeting me at the door on her way out?

"What the heck is happening to men these days? Are they all getting female hormone injections, or something," I said?

"Oh heavens; you didn't know," she said?

"Know what," I asked?

"It's a government mandate. I take it you haven't received yours yet?"

"Very funny, smart-pants. It's just that guys these days seem to be turning into Nancys, they're getting soft, fu-fu'd, and feminized. A fella can't even buy a cowboy hat now-a-days without it lookin' like some country singer who wouldn't know snot from superglue wore it on his east coast tour."

"Oh dear; I'll alert the media. What's the matter, can't find anyone to go fishing with you today?" she said, as I thought I detected a slight note of sarcasm.

"You don't understand, do you," I said? "Guys these days seem to be turning into… I dunno, soft I guess. You know, sissy types, all girlied-up."

"Hmmm, too bad. Okay, well I'm going to run into town; want anything?" Cathy said.

"You just don't get it, do ya, dear? Twenty years from now there won't be any real guys left; they'll all be wearin' make-up and knitting doilies," I explained.

"Oh, by the way," said Cathy, opening the door and stepping outside. "Lecil called and wanted to know if you wished to go with him to wrestle a mountain lion with your bare hands? He says it's been spotted near his cows."

"Really, he did," I said?

"No, just kidding. I'll be back later; bye!"

As my indifferent bride drove out of the gate, I began thinking that something must be done. Somebody should stand up and make a last ditch effort to save manly-mankind from fading away and disappearing with the Umbrella tent, single-shot .22, and the Popeil Pocket Fisherman. I decided right then and there that it was up to me to do something to save manlyism. I had to get the word out to save manly-men worldwide from falling into the trap, so I came up with a partial list of things guys just don't do. I call it: Things guys just don't do!

To begin with, aside from the cowboy hat stuff, guys don't wear jeans with swirly-curdles on the back pockets, or some Frenchman's name embroidered across the fanny. Wranglers, Levi's and the like are fine manly-man jeans. So are Dickies, but they really should change their name to Dick's, Bob's, Cliff's or something!

Guys don't wear their ball caps with the bill pointing east/west, trying to look like one of The Little Rascals or Snoop Doggie-Doo. And unless you're a major league catcher, guys turn the bill of their caps in the direction they're going in life, not where they've been.

Guys don't text. Cheese and rice; if you've got time to finger type all that schtuff, why not just call me and tell me. Guys don't Twitter, either. Let's face it; Twittering is just texting that sounds gay.

Guys don't use lol in a sentence; EVER! They don't use emoticons and they certainly don't do Farmville, Mafia Wars, or any of those other silly games people with no life do. Guys hunt, we fish, we climb mountains, we hike, we drink beer, and we do a hundred other manly-man things our wives don't approve of, but we do them anyway because we're manly-men!

Guys don't tote around man bags, fanny packs, shoulder bags, satchels, or murses. No matter what you call them; they're still purses, you foolio, and that's your wife's job and a long established tradition that identifies you from your spouse or girlfriend. If ya can't carry it in your pocket, your hand, or the case it came in; leave it at home.

Guys don't gather around the water jug at work to discuss last night's episode of Dancing with the Stars, American Idol, or any program where the main character is a vampire. Football, hunting, or vasectomies, however, are appropriate subjects as long as there is a certain amount of blood or personal injury involved.

Guys don't get manicures or pedicures. Our paws are supposed to look like dry-cured hams because we're outside doing manly-man stuff, and our feet look like chunks of locker meat because we're clumsy. If a guy's feet look nice, he's probably a ballet dancer.

You should have at least one visible scar someplace on your body, and another, preferably located in an area where you need to roll up a sleeve, pant leg, or whip off your shirt to show it off and brag about the gruesome details of how you acquired it. "Yep, got this baby when a chainsaw snagged and kicked back on me."

Guys don't use mousse, frost their tips, or pay twenty dollars for a haircut either, unless you live in San Francisco. And unless you're six, guys don't wear Mohawks, mullets, color their hair, or do comb-overs. If you're going bald and it bothers you, get over it, that's what ball caps are for. It happens to all of us unless you're Dick Clark, Paul McCartney, or Ronald Reagan. Deal with it or shave it off.

Guys don't drink lattes, peppermint mocha
frapachooties, or diet sodas. Guys don't drink Cosmopolitans, fuzzy navels, or drinks they can't pronounce, have fruit in them, or anything else that requires a blender or has a paper parasol in it. "Do you think these Wranglers make my butt look fat?" will probably not be a statement heard by a group of guys mounting up to go out and look for strays.

Rabbits, horses and tree sloths are vegetarians. Guys don't eat quiche, tofu, or anything with the name soy in it. Soy milk? HELLO; its soy bean juice, you numbskull. We are hunters and gatherers and we eat meat! Hamburgers, steaks, ribs, and pork chops are the order of the day, with lots of gravy on those potatoes, please! Turkey is eaten on Thanksgiving, and not in the form of turkey burger.

Guys don't wear earrings or get piercings. Unless you are employed as a sideshow attraction at a circus, or are a pirate, piercings are for women's earrings and a small group of natives stuck on a remote island near Borneo somewhere who are simply amazed when they see a tourist pull a Bic from his trousers and torch off a cigarette.

Well, that's about it for now, I guess. Hopefully there's still a chance for manly-mankind to save itself, and the Oprahs of the world won't get us all. I know I'll go down fighting!

Whew, I'm tired; that took a lot out of me. Guess I need to wind down a bit and relax before I blow a gasket. Gee, I wonder where Cathy keeps that electric, hot-wax foot massager of hers.

 

Doctor Doogie; patients waiting in room 2, 3, 4, and 5!

Despite evidence to the contrary, in an effort to verify to my employer that I am indeed still alive, I am required to have a yearly physical. My boss claims he doesn't really know just what my job title is, and on those rare occasions I don't stay out of his sight, he claims he doesn't actually observe me doing anything. Apparently he has astute observation skills. Apparently there is some sort of rule somewhere that requires that I actually do something.

"You're...whatshisname, uh, uh...?" he said one day, fumbling for a name?
"Yep, that's me," I said.
"Well, uh, uh, uh... do something," he said, flicking his finger at nothing in particular and starting to walk away.
"I am doing something," I told him, "I'm pacing myself."
"Pacing yourself," he said, "for what?"
"I have to conserve energy so I can stay up past eight tonight for the season finale of Desperate Housewives!"

At any rate, today was my scheduled physical. Getting a yearly physical is traditionally a day that young men dread. They tremble in fear and angst over the getting to know you stuff; the turn your head and cough, the snap of a latex glove and the fickle finger exam, you know, the fun stuff. It is also traditionally a day that young doctors develop facial ticks and tremors of their own when old farts like me come in.

I arrived at my doctor's office at eight o'clock sharp, having requested the first appointment of the morning. Now I'm sure you've noticed that no matter what time your appointment is scheduled for, you never actually get in to see the doctor for at least an hour and forty-five minutes; usually longer. Glaciers have melted in less time.

First, there is the signing in, the co-pay ritual, and the ever enjoying search for the most isolated chair in a crowded waiting room to avoid contacting the disease of the week from one of the coughers, hackers, wheezers, or sneezers. I figure if I schedule my appointments for first thing in the morning, then all I have to really wait for is the doctor to show up for work on time. He arrived at 8:55 a.m.

"What kept ya, there Doogie, you're late; your Big Wheel get a flat?" I asked him, as he frowned and searched each of his twelve pockets for a pen.

I have nicknamed my physician Doogie Howser and he hates it. I call him Doogie Howser because I have hemorrhoids older than him. Doogie is youthful and barely out of puberty, I think, and wears one of those scruffy beards so popular with the young crowd. It only makes him appear like he's got the lead in the school play as Abraham Lincoln.

"Well, let's get to fun stuff," I said, unbuckling my pants, turning around and bending over. "Make sure ya wear protection," I added, peeking between my legs and smiling.

Doogie's slight facial tick began twitching; the one he develops when he's under stress. The one he acquires when I show up.

"I think we can skip this part," he mumbled, searching for his elusive pen.

"Darn, I was looking forward to that cigarette afterward," I said, buckling my belt and reaching over plucking his pen out of his top pocket and handing it to him. Doogie's facial tick began to quicken.

"Dare I ask," he groaned, "So what complaints do you have for me?"

"You mean aside from illegal immigration, the deficit, enviromeddlers, Diane Feinstein, my hens not laying, the...?"

"Yeah, aside from the obvious," he mumbled, his tick quickening a bit.

I rattled off my list of annoyances that each year, as I grow older, seem to multiply. I concluded with stating that I needed a re-fill of Vicodin and muscle relaxers.

"And what do you take those for," he asked?

I explained that I wasn't yet willing to give up those passions of mine that I pursue. The trail work projects, packing, hiking,fishing, and hunting, and that I was willing to tolerate the arthritis, bone spurs, and everyday aches and pains that go along with those endeavors, but, that from time to time, especially during hunting season, there are times when I need a Vicodin to keep from being hauled out by a search and rescue team. I then went on to explain that the muscle relaxers were used at night, mostly during hunting season to keep my sudden vaulting out of bed in the middle of the night when my leg cramps up and begins playing pranks on me as my heel attempts to touch the back of my head. "My screaming annoys my wife," I explained. "It interrupts her sleep," she says.

"You hunt," he asked, peeking up at me from his lap top?

"Yes, I hunt a lot," I answered.

"What do you hunt,"He asked," picking up his pen and setting it on his prescription pamplet?

"Mostly deer", I said, "I'm a deer nut."

""Really?" he said, "I hunt deer as well; I'm a bow hunter."

"I use a bow myself," I said. "I rifle hunt too, but I bow hunt mostly."

For the next forty-five minutes Doogie rattled on about deer hunting. His facial tick subsided and he was in the moment, talking about his passion to the point I began to think I might be spending the day there. He asked where I hunted, what broadheads I like best, and how I hunted. It was at this point it suddenly hit me; this is the reason why the waiting room is always so crowded. This is why the folks in the other three patient's rooms had by now read at least two People Magazines, the last six months of Better Housekeeping, a three month old issue of Journal of Medicine Today, and a Jehovah's Witness pamphlet.

Doogie finally filled out my prescriptions and presented me with a list of referrals to other doctors to address my various other complaints and promised me he would like to come out next season and spend some time at my deer camp. This, after I pointed out to him he probably had another patient or four waiting in one of the other rooms.

So it looks now as if next deer season I'm going to have some new company. Guess I'm gonna have to stock up on Snapple. Somehow I think I'd feel guilty contributing to the delinquency of a young genius by sharing my beer with him.

























, despite little to no movement to the contrary on my part at work,