Deer Hunting with Rob and Vurl

Here's my "All Over the Map" for the 12.01.10 issue of Arkansas Weekly:

Some of you may remember my good friend from a previous column, Vurl “Buddy” Reeve. It had been a few months since I last had contact with him, so when I opened my front door in the middle of the night last week and saw Vurl standing there clad in hunter-orange coveralls, one of those fur hats with the floppy ears, a large rifle and his trademark scowl, I was obviously taken aback.

“Vurl,” I said, “it’s 4:30 in the morning. What…why are you here?”

“Get dressed,” he said. “I’m taking you to the deer woods.” He looked to my Bruce Springsteen t-shirt I was wearing.

“And get that Springstein shirt off before you go,” he told me. “Heard he supported Obana. I won’t allow any type of Obana supporters imagery on my land. Might jinx the hunt.”

“It’s Springsteen and Obama, and -- wait a minute,” I said as I was still trying to figure out why I was standing there having this particular conversation. “What’s going on? Why are you here? You know I don’t hunt.”

“I got the feeling you need to be schooled in how to be a real man, and huntin’ is the first step.”

“Real man?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Just don’t argue with yourself,” he said. “Get into some jeans, ‘nother shirt. Get on a Lee Greenwood shirt or something like that. That’d be better than that communist shirt. Anyways, meet me in the truck in two minutes. Gonna show you how real men operate.”

Lee Greenwood. Singer. Songwriter. Patriot. And damn handsome!

Reluctantly, I got dressed and headed out to Vurl’s truck. As I crawled into the passenger seat, I immediately started complaining.

“I really don’t understand why you’re dragging me out…” I stopped and looked to Vurl. He was sound asleep, but mumbling to himself.

“Gov…Gover…Governor…,” he groaned. Even in sleep, he wore the scowl. But, as I briefly watched him, he started to smile and then chuckle. “Tickles. It tickles. Gov. Palin, stop!”

“Vurl!” I shook his shoulder, and he jumped awake.

“Huh? Mommy!”

“Vurl, what are you doing?”

“Told you I was taking you huntin’,” he said with his scowl now back in place. “Something your daddy shoulda done a long time ago.”

“I’m 44, Vurl. And I’m all man, thank you very much. I certainly don’t know why you’d think different.”

“I read your WD-40 column last week, Rob. You really didn’t know about WD-40?”

I paused and looked at him.

“Do I get a rifle?” I asked.

“It’s in the backseat.”

Thirty minutes later, we were sitting on some rickety stools in his enclosed deer stand. A little propane heater was warming the space as the eastern sky turned purple.

“Ain’t this peaceful, Rob?” he asked. “Look how pretty. Makes you wonder how all these communist liberal atheists think there ain’t no God. Only God could create something this prettyful.”

“Well, yes, but just because one might be a bit liberal doesn’t mean they don’t believe in God.”

Vurl harrumphed. “Sure thing, Jethro. Next thing you’ll fall for is them liars who think pro-wrestling is fake. Here, hold my hand.”

“What?!?”

“Don’t be a sissy! Take my hand!”

Not knowing what to expect, I slowly held out my palm. Vurl snatched it and shut his eyes.

“Let us pray,” he said.

I closed my eyes, feeling a tad uncomfortable.

“Lord,” he began, “thank You so much for the prettyful morning here in my deer woods. Thank You for allowin’ me to take this sinner here who voted for Obana, this sinner here dear Lord with hands that are really soft and not rough and manly like mine and who doesn’t know what WD-40 is…Lord, thank You for allowin’ me to be a shinin’ example of what a man truly should be for this soft-handed, possibly Hell-bound individual.”

He stopped. I looked over to him. One of his eyes was open, looking at me. He shook his head slightly, closed his eye and started back.

“Lord, I pray that You open his heart not only to Your word, but to the word of Glenn Beck and Fox News and, our next leader, Gov. Sarah Palin, who will take us out of this Obana-nation. Lord, we’re gonna be losin’ billions and trillions of dollars on Obanacare. Don’t know how we’re gonna pay for it. Lord, we’ve got Obana stormtroopers gropin’ our women’s privates in the airports and expensive scanners that can see through our underwears. Don’t know how we’re gonna pay for it. Lord, our country’s been given over to Obana and Joe Bider and Keith Olberbobermen and other communist socialist agnostic atheists, and all they want to do is spend and look through peoples’ underwears and build Muslim churches. Don’t know how we’re gonna pay for it. But Lord, You know how we’re gonna pay for it. You also know how You’re gonna allow me to show this girly individual how not to be girly. You’re gonna show him how to be a man like me. And Lord – OH SWEET MAMA MERCY IN A CAR WASH!”

My eyes sprang open. Vurl was stumbling off his stool toward the stand’s opening. He grabbed his rifle, looking out with a crazed face into the pasture below.

“IT’S A DAMN 12-POINT!” he screamed. And without even looking through the scope, Vurl started blasting shells. The enormous antlered animal bolted and sprinted toward the woods as bullets exploded all over the pasture. “STAY STILL! STAY STILL, YOU GOSH-DANGED DEER! STAY STILL!”

The shooting stopped, but Vurl kept squeezing the trigger of his now-empty rifle. “Stay still! Stay…no…please! No! Twelve point! No!”

I put my hand on his shoulder as he finally dropped the butt of the rifle to the floor. He turned and collapsed into my arms, sobbing

“Waaaaaahhhh!” he sobbed. And yes, it was actually Waaaaaahhhh – as if he was a little boy who had just lost his most prized baseball. “Waaaaaahhhh! Twelve-point!”

“Vurl,” I said. “It’s okay. You’ll have another chance for the big one someday.”

“Really?” he asked, sniffling now a bit.

“Really. And Obana won’t be our president forever.”

“Really?”

“Really. We’re a great country, and we can all come together and get out of any mess.”

Vurl wiped his eyes with his orange sleeves and composed himself. “You know, Rob. I, uh, wasn’t crying or anything. I now and then get a reaction to some medicine I been takin’ for my gout, and uh, it sorta causes a short circuit in my brain. Makes me do some crazy things sometimes. Heh.”

He looked at me and the scowl returned.

“Real men don’t cry,” he said. “You hear me Obana boy?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. Now that that’s straight, let’s go eat some breakfast. I know a place that serves quiche. That’s about your speed, I bet.”

Ninth Wonder of the World: WD-40

Here's my "All Over the Map" from the upcoming 11.24.10 issue of Arkansas Weekly:

This may come as an enormous shock to those that know me, but I’m actually not that handy with chores involving tools. What I mean is this: I’m not too adept at fixing things.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m fairly capable of handling some issues. For instance, if my television remote control stops working, I can usually change the batteries without breaking anything. I’m 90 percent sure I know the difference between a Phillips screwdriver and a regular screwdriver. And, I can change light bulbs with the best of them. (Although when the bulb industry started selling those twisty-looking environmentally friendly bulbs, I was thrown for a loop! It took me about four days before I realized they screw in the socket the same way as regular bulbs.)

Of course, I’m somewhat sensitive to my ignorance of normal tools and situations that involve fixing everyday items. Contrary to what some folks think – particularly my brother-in-law, I am a man. Just because I only recently realized that you could pry nails out of wood with the back end of the hammer doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate football, Johnny Cash, a cold beer, and the entire cinematic and pictorial oeuvre of one Carmen Electra.

I Want Candy starring Carmen Electra. Sadly, Oscar overlooked her gripping performance in this Merchant/Ivory film.

All of this is to say that about two months ago, my 12-year-old son spilled an entire Route 44 Dr Pepper from Sonic in my semi-new vehicle. The drink went all over my front seat, throughout the floor of the vehicle, and inside the seatbelt fastener. Because the interior was mainly stain-resistant and rugged, I wasn’t that upset. Accidents happen, and even though I wept in despair for about 30 minutes because my new baby had soda pop spilled all over her, I soon realized everything came right up without a problem.

Until I tried to buckle my seatbelt.

As much as I tried, the sucker wouldn’t latch. After about 10 frustrating tries, I slammed the buckle in the fastener and it clicked tight. And so it went for two months. Every time I hopped in my rig, I had to wrestle with my bloody seatbelt until it fastened.

One day at work, I was complaining about the stupid thing to some co-workers, wondering how I could fix it instead of sending it to the shop and forking over some cash for resolution of the problem.

“Oh, just use WD-40,” the sales manager said. “That’ll fix it.”

WD-40, I thought. What is this mystery tool? And how do I use it without asking someone and embarrassing myself?

Thankfully, someone else chimed in and said: “Yeah, just spray a little inside the fastener, and it should fix it right away.”

So, off I went. Bought a can of the stuff, sprayed it in the fastener, and click! Problem solved.

I came back into the office with my WD-40, and the receptionist stopped me.

“Hey,” she said. “Would you spray some of that on my chair? It’s been squeaking like crazy.”

What?, I thought. This WD-40 could fix squeaks, as well? What is this miracle spray?

I crawled under her chair, sprayed a tad, and damn if the squeaks didn’t disappear.

Wow! Where has this WD-40 thing been all my life?

If it could fix these two nagging problems, what else could WD-40 do? Could it fix squeaky doors? Probably! Sluggish drawers? I bet! My creaky-sounding ceiling fan? Take it to the bank, homeboy! (I’m fist-bumping you here. Come on. Bring it to me. That’s it…yeah…BOOM!)

Wouldn’t it be great if WD-40 could fix other everyday issues? For instance, if I had a horrible headache, it’d be terrific if I could somehow squirt some WD-40 on my head and the pain would vanish. Sore throat? Push the button. WD-40’ed. Jock itch? BAM! WD-40’ed. Brother-in-law who mockingly laughs when I ask what exactly is a “12-point buck”? SHAZAM! Bro be WD-40’ed.

That nauseated feeling you get whenever you come across Keith Olbermann on TV? Snap! He’s WD-40’ed. Glenn Beck? Ditto! WD-40’ed. Joy Behar? Watch out! Need some extra WD-40 for that. The entire cast of Jersey Shore? Snooki -- watch out! We’re coming to WD-40 your orange Oompa Loompa self!

Snooki from Jersey Shore. I think.

Joy Behar. I think.

Let’s WD-40 the nation’s economic woes, and then sit back and watch the good times roll. Drop some WD-40 over in Afghanistan, Pakistan and other Middle Eastern countries, and WD-40 some terrorist mofos! And, please, let’s spray a massive amount of WD-40 on Congress and get some stuff done.

I’m telling you – I haven’t been this excited about a product since I discovered malt liquor! (Oh, wait. It’s not what you think. A 40 ounce of Colt 45 does wonders in removing the grime around your shower drain.)

So, if you don’t have any in the house, go pick up a can of WD-40 and thank me later.

(NOTE: Obviously, we here at Arkansas Weekly do not, in any way, promote the use of WD-40 on or in any part of your body or anyone else’s body. Although, we agree with Rob, it’d be nice to use it on Joy Behar in some form or another.)

Bieber Fever Strikes Again!

Here's my "All Over the Map" for the 11.17.10 issue of Arkansas Weekly:

Last August, I wrote about my experience taking my 14-year-old daughter, Hannah, and her friends to see teen heartthrob Justin Bieber in concert. It was a sugar coated, DayGlo-splattered evening with eardrum-shattering screams of frenzied delight from an arena full of teen queens and pre-pubescent girls, all accompanied by their dazed, shell-shocked parents.

A few days later, Hannah discovered Mr. Bieber would be taking his show to St. Louis in early November. Knowing her father is a pushover, tickets were purchased for her and her friend, and hotel reservations were made. And over the next month or two, I slowly girded myself for another bout of dealing with Bieber Fever.

Since the show was on a Monday, we decided to zip up I-55 a day early to enjoy St. Louis. Our medium-sized hotel sat a few blocks away from the arena where Bieber would be performing. I managed to get a good deal on rooms, so I wasn’t that surprised when we arrived to a quiet and almost empty lobby. We went upstairs, and in no time, Hannah and her pal Scarlett decided they wanted to explore the hotel before we headed to dinner. So while they explored, I hooked up my laptop and hopped online to pass the time.

About 30 minutes later, my phone buzzed. The caller ID popped up with Hannah’s picture.

“Hey, babe,” I said.

Immediately, I noticed she was out of breath and sounded as if she was in tears. My stomach dropped.

“Dad,” she said. “I can’t…we were…uh, in the…uh, oh my gosh…Dad…Scarlett and I were…in the lobby…”

I pictured a horrible situation. Perhaps some thug mugged them. Maybe Scarlett tripped and her head shattered a glass coffee table. Or a large man with the physique of Louie Anderson possibly walked through the lobby topless.

“What’s wrong?” I said as I interrupted her.

“He’s here!” she finally said. “He’s staying at our hotel! Justin Bieber is staying at our hotel! Kenny is here! And we got our picture with Kenny! And he’s here!”

“Who’s Kenny?”

“Justin’s bodyguard!”

“Well, how do you know he’s Justin’s bodyguard?”

“Hello! We know who Justin’s bodyguard is, Dad!”

And on this point, I had no doubt. Arguing Justin Bieber trivia with my daughter would be an exercise in futility.

I had figured Bieber and his crew would be staying at a fancier place such as the Ritz-Carlton or Four Seasons, but nope, they were all here in a quiet, unassuming hotel.

And now, unbeknownst to them, they were about to be constantly tailed by two eager Bieber fanatics from a small Arkansas town.

Hannah Grace and Kenny Hamilton, Bieber's personal bodyguard

Fortunately for the girls and unfortunately for Team Bieber, there was only one main entrance to the hotel. Obviously, Bieber could enter and exit the building through a private entrance, but most of his crew would probably use the main one. And it was there where Hannah and Scarlett decided to stay – ready for any type of Bieber-fueled ambush.

I journeyed downstairs and planted myself at the bar. There, I had full view of the girls as well as a football game. A few minutes later, I saw a man approach them. They nodded excitedly at something he said and bopped up and down a bit. I thought it might be best I walk over.

“Dad,” Hannah said as I walked over.

“What are you guys doing?” I asked. I turned to the man. “Are they bothering you?”

“No, Dad,” Hannah said with a huff. “This is Justin Bieber’s uncle!”

Scarlett Bentley (center) with (supposedly) Justin Bieber's uncle (right) and his unnamed pal.

First, the bodyguard. Now, the uncle. Before we left St. Louis, they would have also met Justin Bieber’s uncle’s friend, Justin Bieber’s tutor, and an assistant of the superstar himself. And, needless to say, they were hell bent on meeting on the Chosen One.

So, there they stood by the entrance, gathering as much Bieber intel from hotel employees and Bieber entourage members alike. Not wanting to be part of the stakeout, I went back up to my room.

About an hour later, I ventured back down to assess things and to make sure they had not been apprehended by hotel security. I walked to the entrance, and they were nowhere to be found. A hotel bellman spotted me.

“You looking for the two girls?” he asked.

Uh-oh. I knew it. I was now expecting a trip to the security office to bail them out.

“Yes,” I said.

“Oh, they’re outside talking to Justin Bieber,” he said.

What!!??!! I thought.

Immediately, I panicked: They’ve cornered him, I thought. I bolted out the exit, and I found them around the corner – Hannah and Scarlett standing with Bieber and his pal.

“Hannah,” I said. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, just hanging out with Justin Bieber,” she said, cool as a cucumber.

And there he was.

“Oh,” I stammered as I looked to him. “Uh, are they…”

“It’s all good,” he said.

Goofball Dad walking up on my daughter and pal as they talked to Bieber and pal. In a rush, I recorded the vid upside down. As I walked up, I thought, "Oops. Probably not to wise to video the superstar." I didn't want to seem like a creepy middle-aged guy stalking a teen heartthrob with a video camera (even though it was an iPhone). Turn up the volume tohear Hannah's nonchalant answer to my question as to what they're up to?

Mission accomplished. He talked with the girls for 10 to 20 minutes. I took their pictures with him. And then off he went with his friend, back into the hotel.

It was nice to see a guy with such fame be patient, polite and gracious. I might not appreciate his music as much as I do The Stones’ or Springsteen’s, but he’s a cool kid for his reaction to my Bieber-mad daughter and her friend.

Hannah and Justin Bieber

Scarlett, Bieber and Hannah
Mission accomplished.

***

The next day, the girls’ detective work resulted in the revelation of Bieber’s hotel room number.

“Dad,” Hannah asked, “which would be best: sticking a note under the door or a phone call?”

“Neither,” I said. “They’re both equally creepy. Leave the poor kid alone.”

“But, Dad,” she said, “he knows us now.”

Needless to say, they didn’t slip a note under the door or call.

They did, however, take a picture of his room service tray.*


*After writing this column, I was sad to discover that the girls somehow managed to delete the pic of the tray. I know, I know. You're likely as disappointed as I am that we don't have a visual record of Bieber's table scraps and empty Sierra Mist can, but to compensate here are other pics of their Bieber adventure and those they met along the way.

Hannah with a guy who ID'ed himself to her as Bieber's tutor -- although the web says his tutor is a woman named Jenny. That said, the guy was with the entourage and hopped on the bus with Bieber and crew as they left for the show on Monday afternoon.

Apparently, the Chosen One's luggage -- according to the girls. Hannah was gently scolded by the front desk attendant after taking this pic.

Bieber's tutor by Bieber's bus -- which, according to one Bieber's crew, once belonged to Kid Rock. Isn't amazing all of the stuff you learn by reading Suburban Voodoo?

Finally, this apparently was Bieber's suite at the St. Louis hotel. It was on our floor, and by camping out by the elevator, the girls found this was where Bieber was staying. They even claimed they heard him blow-drying his hair Monday morning. Wow. I don't I was ever this obsessed over a pop star when I was 15. Oh wait, I did stalk The Jets one time in Memphis.
Kidding.

One Word: Wow.

Here's my "All Over the Map" from the Nov. 10, 2010 issue of Arkansas Weekly:

Look at that stud.

Just look at him.

I mean, you can tell that even at a young age, I had it going on.

Seriously, check out the hair. I should bring back that hairstyle. It would be all the rage. At the time, it certainly was very hip – in a John Denver or Oliver from The Brady Bunch kind of way.

Oliver from The Brady Bunch. John Denver's bastard child? Your call.

Although I must say that I carried off the look much better than those two.

Now, let’s move down to the suit. One word: Wow.

Armani? Hugo Boss? I can’t remember. I simply know it oozed style.

I particularly like the dark stitching against the stark white. That’s something that says, “This man is a rebel, but he’s a rebel with a tender touch for the ladies.” The white clip-on tie against the red shirt also screams, in a subtle way: dangerous, yet emotionally vulnerable. And let’s face it, chicks dig that kind of man.

Of course, the look would not be complete without the accessories on my fingers. Some people, particularly male troglodytes, would say that a man with such jewelry must also have too much femininity to be a true man. I beg to differ. I say a man not afraid to accessorize is a true man. He’s secure enough to know that he can express himself in such a manner. Women admire such self-confidence. They know that same confident man wouldn’t be afraid to wrestle a bear with his bare hands -- or go to brunch with the girls on a bright Sunday morning.

Plus that man also knows that slugging a person in the mouth with a set of rings like his will result in a bunch of bloody teeth bouncing off the floor.

So, take a look at that picture. Soon, after a few skipped barbershop appointments, a visit to a vintage clothing store and some trips to the jewelry store, I will have the look back and on the streets of Batesville.

Women will swoon. Men will question their masculinity, wondering if they have the cajones to look so damn spectacular and confident. And before you know it, my look will have spread to the fashion runways of Paris, Milan and Manhattan, and you’ll begin seeing celebrities like Brad Pitt, Justin Timberlake and Bill O’Reilly copying the style of your humble scribe.

***

I’m not afraid to admit that I have failed in some previous attempts at trendsetting.

My hope of bringing back the large afro permanent hit a brick wall in late 2003, but it was noticed by the producers of the film Napoleon Dynamite. Unfortunately, they utilized the permed fro look for comic effect on the title character of that film. I wasn’t happy.

For a few weeks in the summer of 2007, I wore nothing but a red mesh t-shirt, short blue jean cut-offs, black knee-high socks and white dress shoes. Yet for some odd and mysterious reason, that did not catch on with the fashion world.

Finally, in 2009, I attempted to make the zebra-print thong an acceptable fashion style for men, but after I was arrested in a Little Rock mall, I knew America wasn’t ready for such a bold statement.

Oh, and the fact that I was severely beaten in a Thida quick mart while wearing the same thong didn’t help matters.