Kitchen Pass Chronicles--"Even the Losers" edition

Before we count down the top ten items that I (we) learned this past weekend,

it is important that I set the stage first by introducing the cast….

Clint Grant- He and I played little league together and we shared the same

love of airplanes- Proclaimed out loud one night while we listened to Lynyrd

Skynyrd on the Stereo "WHY'D they have to die??" Clint is a pilot, College

teacher, and now has spent more time in Texas than Georgia-no matter, he is

still ours and he knows it. Clint is our "A" player and leads discussions in

the ongoing conquest for golf greatness. He is the kind of guy who laughs at

you after you just wrecked your car. He finds the humor in everything,

especially my inability to swing a club. It was his idea to have this reunion

and make it an annual requirement.

Steve Sides- The epitome of cool-total athlete and still performs as same.

Was our star High School Baseball pitcher-bring the heat...he also brought

the heat at Godfathers Pizza back in the day working the stove and

administering to the "pies"--he still has the burn scars to prove it-- Had

beer caps on his stereo where the volume and station adjustment knobs were—a

visionary--and was instrumental in our first ever case of longneck Budweisers

when longnecks were the “deal”. Man knows his rock and roll like none other.

Grew up down the street from the BIG HOUSE, where the Allman Brothers lived

in Macon. He gave our fearless foursome the moniker of “THE CORE”. Looks like

Harrison Ford.

James Randy Hatcher- the 220 pound Swiss army knife-he is all of Popeils

inventions in one complete package-mechanical and culinary engineer that can

fix, rig, field dress, or cook anything. Only caveat is it takes a big pickup

truck for Randall and his basic load of survival gear. That MacGyver dude?

Don't even. If I'm shipwrecked on a desert island and want to get home I'm

taking Randy--(of course if I'm on a desert island and I don't want to leave,

well….. that's another story for another day) begins most sentences with

“Soooonnnnnn” and calls everyone “Hoss”, unless it’s a female, which usually

gets “Darlin” and a “I’m going to be in town a couple of days and……” (Well,

that part isn’t true, I just threw that in because….) Clint says Randy would

make the perfect wife if sex weren’t a consideration.

George Fisher-Inherently born smart ass. The little dog that starts the

fight. All mouth and “noassatall”-makes constant references to John Wayne.

Limps, takes meds, and the first one to call it a night. Destin was his pick,

though, so the others keep him around for laughs.

The Setting: Destin, Florida. It’s 30 years since our “Glory Days” and we

embark on a weekend to show ‘em all we still got it. Lodging and tee times

pre-arranged, and we all fall in by the close of business Thursday evening.

It is our charter to cram as much of the old days into the next 36 hours as

possible, as long as we get three square meals, maintain our regularity, and

get 8 hours uninterrupted sleep.

One thing that is sure to happen when we get together is a fun time-we laugh

until our sides ache busting on each other with the "stuff" we used to do—

SO, as we took inventory of our weekend, these are the things we learned….

10) Never ask a teenager where to get a good steak--(TGI Fridays ain’t the

answer)

9) Lubricate your joints with a Bloody Mary after breakfast. Take with 2

Aleve.

8) Always be on time and maintain the appropriate rate of play lest you get

placed on double secret probation by the marshal/time keeper.

Clint, Steve, Randy, George, (in unison): “ARE WE RUNNING BEHIND?”

Time Marshall: "VERY..."

7) If you groan in agony at the same time your clubface strikes the ball it

won't do any good-your ball is still bound for the twilight zone. All 4 of us

concur to this axiom. It is, therefore--a fact. (Core concurrence by a

majority vote automatically becomes fact—you can look it up in the Core

charter.)

6) Using “Body English” to get your putt in the hole will hurt you---it isn't

covered by most health providers, so buyer beware. For what it’s worth,

Profanity doesn’t help much, either.

5) When at McGuire’s Irish Pub in Destin don't engage in too much

conversation with the singer lest you end up "kissing the moose"- (A huge

taxidermed moose head that serves in lieu of a Blarney stone)-several others

did it because they were singled out for their birthdays-I was singled out

because of my big mouth (and perhaps because of my three pals)…

4) I never actually pulled any "G"s in a golf cart until Randy was at the

wheel-what surprises me is that that surprised me. Check with your flight

surgeon ahead of time. Driving with Hatch should come with the same standards

as if flying for the Thunderbirds.

3) Air guitar like no ones watching--We still got it--Friday night Steve

cranked his stereo and we ran the gamut of all the classics-singing along and

air guitaring all the while—it is of particular note that we all excelled

when Tom Petty’s Even the Losers and Here Comes my girl were played---the

biggest difference from this time and 30 years ago is we didn't jump around

(Someone could have gotten hurt) , and no one threw up.

.

2) When enjoying a post golf break at Fisherman’s Wharf, enjoy the boats-our

middle age kicked in as we all started saying what we would do if we won the

lottery and the boats we would have with said winnings. A Blood oath was

administered on site and it is now “binding”.

1) and the number one thing…….We learned that while each subtle degree of

variance in regards to the clubface and the strike of the ball will affect

your golf game ---a weekend getaway with your high school buddies will

reaffirm your beliefs in what is really important and unimportant on this

planet--family, friends, good times and making memories is what will keep our

batteries charged for years to come...or until we meet again.

EPILOGUE: We remain steadfast and ubiquitous (I just looked that up in the

Thesaurus, replacing “omnipresent”---ain’t that cool?) as we approach the

half century mark—we are comfortably and confidently nestled somewhere

between ‘hugging the porcelain queen” and the “Flomax” commercial- we are no

longer juveniles and not quite geriatric –alas, we are still rockin’.

That's how we roll. We are Confident. We are Content. We are Comfortable.

We are THE CORE.

Well Seated

I love Baseball. I love it more when my son , Joe Fisher, AKA Mans best friend, goes to games with me. He is my favorite ball player and the one person I am most likely to ask to pick out my nursing home when the time comes.

 At the Braves post season game, yes, the one that the Braves lost and what resulted in Manager Bobby Coxs LAST GAME, we found quite an entertaining aside from the intense baseball contest that netted the San Francisco Giants an opportunity to go kick some Philly Phillie buttocks.

if anyone has ever been to a sporting event this has HAD to happen to you....


I get to my seat at a Ball game and ALWAYS....ALWAYS...find my assigned seat and sit down. Then the latecomers show up, and their seat assignment tucked away in the deep recesses of their memory....they plop their butts down in any open seats and all is well...I know, the usher knows, and the Lord knows-- that they are eventually going to have to get up and move.

An inning or so later, these folks embark on a food run and return armed with

a cardboard tray full of nachos, foot longs, a beer in a souvenir cup.....only thing is while they were gone the rightful heirs to the seats have shown up and placed their behinds in same.

The debate ensues.


"Are these your seats?", the food and beverage laden ones ask.

"Yes", replies the paid for in full and we had a hard time parking occupants.

"OH", says the Souvenir cup holders, as they pass the trays of hot dogs to

the smallest of the group while they begin to dig into their pants pickets

for their ticket stubs.


Joe Fisher, AKA, Mans best friend, and I, sit one row removed and observe

nonchalantly. I know what seat to which my narrow rear end belongs. I got

here when I was supposed to and made sure I had the correct seat. I am 48

years old, and no novice to sporting events, the least of which is Baseball,and If i have never done anything else in my life the right way I have damn sure found the right seat at a ball game.

But I know what's coming.

I can see it. Ray Charles can see it. If the Jumbo tron were on us the entire nation would see it.

Souvenir cup, or "SC", as I call him, looks to me and the conversation that I knew was coming I am now thrust into....

SC: "I believe you're in my seat"

ME: "Fraid not, hoss" ( I already have my hand on my ticket stub and pulling


it from my pocket)

SC: "You sure?"

ME: (showing my ticket stub and pointing with my left index finger when I


really wanting to be using my middle finger to show him what I think of his


failure to execute the right seating arrangement)

"Section 136, Row 25,seat 106 and 107....."

SC: (long pause as he looks left, right, skyward, and then back to me)

SC: "You're in section 138...."

ME: "No I ain't..."

SC: "Isn’t this section 138?!?"

ME: (and entire row behind me who have joined my crusade in unison)

"SECTION 136!!!!!"



Joe Fisher, AKA mans best Friend: "I BELIEEVVEEE there's a sign back there

that tells you the section....." (Kudos to my buddy for the 18 year old


sarcasm.....it was the twist of the knife--)



SC: "Oops...my Bad...Sorry"



And with that, he and his other three buddies leave to the throngs of those

in section 138...maybe they could get him where he needed to be. Maybe all

who wander are not lost, but this fellow was. And it’s a good thing, because he had sat directly in front of me, his bald head reflecting all 331,000 lights of Turner Fields scoreboard. Had he stayed I would have been forced to get a black magic marker and color underneath my eyes like the players do to cut out the glare.....

Baseball. Fathers and sons. and those that cannot find their seat. At the end of one, its no runs, no hits, on one error.

This is AMERICAs Pastime.... Amen. (Dad and Joe shown above in their CORRECT seats)

BYE, Booger

Dear Boogs--

Sorry I got something caught in my throat when I was talking to you on the phone...it must have been the chicken biscuit....


I will call you later because I know you are busy on MOVING DAY......

When you were born they threw your goo-covered butt in the warmer thing at the hospital--you were squawling to beat all getout. I went over to where you were and held your tiny little hand--you latched onto my pinky finger and held on--in just a few seconds you stopped crying and the new parents had a daughter....

I was hooked from that moment on---proud as I have ever been---as was your Mom---and as a result you "might" have been a little bit spoiled...

So for the last 20 years or so you have been right there with us, thru thick and thin..good times, bad times, and lots of just regular times.

The Boogs was there.

Along came Joe, then Winnie..... The tank of tropical fish, the cats, and everything else---and the Boogs was still there...

Then there was the Pottamus--not exactly the best timing in the world, but inasmuch you do things your own way, it all worked out--Mom and God both knew this and as usual I was the last one to figure it out-- but I did. (I'm not as big a heathen as folks think, Boograh...)


And Boogs, like the Flag, like the mortgage, and like the everlasting pile of laundry--- was still there.

And you were there with our Pottamus, who is just as much ours as any of you kids, even if he is a GRAND.... And there's a reason they are called a Grandchild I guess because he has been just that...he has a window into my soul and I'm powerless in his clutch.


Your Mom loves her babies---all of them--unconditionally. That means no matter what. (I do too, but you kids aren't supposed to know it)...


AND That means---while no matter that her babies are 20 years old and has babies of her own, and moving away, and regardless that there are still two other kids , three dogs, and yet another round of trips to the orthodontist and teenaged drivers pending to break our butts and our bank account---but that is our Boogs and our Pottamus won't be there.....and that, Dear Boogs, is what makes things get caught in ones throat.


And that's why Mom and I wish we had a pinky finger to latch on to right now.


Love,
Daddy

The Greatest Monument I know of...Almost...

It had to be done.
Its been a long week, and my energy was diminishing rapidly. And it's been a long time coming...

Frederic Bartholdi can keep his Statue of Liberty--Imhotep can keep his Pyramids--and Henry Bacon can keep the Lincoln Monument. How about Gustav and his Eiffel tower? Nah, don't even go there with me.

BEHOLD........the Banana Sandwich!

It is my everlasting monument to Me. To my childhood. To my Grandma, who made them with her secret ingredient of love. To my Dad, who knew just like the Lord does, that no sandwich worth its salt shall be cut  any other way but diagonally. To Colonial Bread, now on the endangered species list. To Miracle Whip-and Hellman's, Blue Plate--insert your favorite here, I'm not going to debate it)--

It is the ultimate comfort food. You can eat this when your happy, sad, healthy, or sick in bed. It is universally delicious. One day when I'm long gone my tombstone will surely read:

                                            Here Lies George Fisher-
                                                       1962- 20--
                                         Rapscallion, Scoundrel, Soldier,
                                       master of the Four letter word, and
                                      connoisseur of the Banana Sandwich.