Big Game Hunter

My cousin MB posted this picture on Facebook of this enormous deer and the guy who shot it. I have to admit, this is one big-ass deer and in spite of the fact that I'm not a hunting guy, I was impressed.
My idea of hunting is that every hunter should be given one state-issued knife, stripped naked and taken out into the woods in a helicopter on Friday afternoon. Whatever the hunter comes out of the woods with on Sunday, including anything he might kill plus whatever limbs, organs and blood that were his to begin with, he gets to keep. Now that's a sport. Of course, that isn't how it is. Hunters can use high-powered weapons and navigation tools while animals get to be whatever animal they are. Doesn't seem like much of a challenge and I just don't see the fun in that.
Still, that's a big-ass deer. But upon further investigation, MB found out that "he shot this at high fenced hunting where the deer bred and fed". Which, by the sound of it to me, is a petting zoo. He didn't even go out and sleep in the woods. He drove to a place, paid a dude some money, shot the deer and posed for this picture with that stupid grin on his face. "Look at me! I'm the shit!" He probably did it between lunch and dinner. How the hell is that hunting and why the hell does he look so pleased with himself? Was it on a rope, tied to a fence? Did it have its head in a bucket, munching away on food provided by the staff who run the place, treating the "game" like pets? Well sure, but it could have moved one way or another, if it had any reason whatsoever to think somebody might open fire while it was lined up for one of its' three squares a day, which, come to think of it, no wonder it's so big. None of that matters to Ralph here, though, He paid to shoot a deer and goddamnit, he shot a big-ass one.
Way to go, Ralph.
You know I'd like to do? I'd like to "hunt" Ralph. Lock him in an Olive Garden for a couple of weeks and keep the pasta and breadsticks comin'. Then one day, I show up with a shotgun. Ralph looks up with a chunk of chicken parm hanging out of his mouth and he knows something's up. But, HA HA, too late! My first shot hits him in the left thigh, just below his ass. Shit. I biffed that one. He falls down and crawls pathetically across the floor, terrified out of his mind, hoping to find cover behind the salad bar. But guess what? It's Olive Garden; there's no salad bar, bitch! They bring you all-you-can eat salad and breadsticks, feeding you as one might a pet. I catch up to him cowering under a table and... is he still chewing that piece of chicken, like this is just a temporary interruption of his dinner? Aw, now that's adorable, I think as, BLAM!, I finish him off.
I take it back. That would be fun!

Let the hunt begin!

You'd best get to runnin' boy!

This is from an ad that appeared on a web site called Huntme4sport.com from a gentleman named Mork Encino:

"I seek hearty gents who fancy themselves sportsmen and bored of the usual game. I am a new breed of prey with thick pelt and smooth hide. I’m faster than a wild turkey, smart as any GODDAMN wild boar and willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for the monetary health of my family...And knuckleheads or candy asses? Well, they need not apply. They can kick rocks and kiss grits and whatever else. I’m looking for a true goddamn Money Bags, okay? 10K is nothing to these boys. They leave tips on restaurant checks like that. They drop that type of scratch just because. They’ll pay that money just to rub it in my FACE and show me how meaningless it truly is to the likes of them."

Dear Mr. Encino,
I heed and accept your challenge, you magnificient bastard. When it comes to hunting, I have long been an advocate of level playing fields. What could be a more fair sporting contest than one man hunting another? Nothing, that's what. As for a reason, I don't need one beyond the natural aggression that comes from my born American-ness and born male-ness. I'm just wired that way. Hell, I'll hunt you just because your name is Mork.

Shazbot is right, motherf...

Also, because it would be pretty cool to have a human head mounted as a trophy on my living room wall. If it's okay with you, I'd kinda like to wire it up like one of those Big Mouth Billy Basses, because those things are hilarious. Don't worry, I'll keep it classy; your mouth will move and your eyes will light up with flashing red lightbulbs and I may or may not put a funny hat on you (probably different hats, depending on the season) but the song will be something good. I'm thinking AC/DC or Van Halen (with Roth, not Hagar).

Your face here

So come on. Let's both get naked and run around the woods with guns, knives or whatever (I'm thinking a crossbow with flaming arrows!) and do this thing. 
One thing though; the money? I don't have it. Sorry. Just like you, I'm a victim of shitty economic conditions and $10,000 for a sporting quest, while quite reasonable with all things considered, is currently well beyond my means. The other night, I met a waitress who claims to know Robert Kinoshita, who designed the B9 robot from the "Lost In Space" tv series and she says that for $10,000 he would build one for me. And as appealing as it would be to hunt The Ultimate Game (ie: man, ie: you), if the choice is blowing 10 grand on that or my very own robot, well, come on. That's no contest. I'm sure you understand.

BAD ASS!!!

So unless you're willing to come way, way down in price, I guess I'm out. Sorry to waste your time. 
Good luck!

Sincerely,
Clark

PS: If you survive one of these hunts and want a B9 robot, let me know and I'll put you in touch with that waitress. If it turns out that she's full of crap (which is entirely possible; it wouldn't be the first time a waitress has lied to me), you and I can team up and hunt her for sport.

Gator season starts tomorrow

No, not football.
Florida's annual alligator hunting season begins August 15th and runs through November 1st. 4,500 permits, which include the trapping license and hide validation tag were issued for the price of $1021.50 for out of state hunters and the hometown discount price of $271. 50 for Florida residents. This entitles each hunter to harvest two alligators. Hunters are allowed to use hand-held restraining lines and snares, harpoons, gigs, snatch hooks, manually operated spears, spear guns, crossbows and bows with projectiles attached to a restraining line. Alligators are allowed to defend themselves by being alligators.
At first glance, that makes it sound like hunters would certainly seem to have the advantage. Personally, I've always believed that hunters should go out into the wilderness completely naked and equipped with one (1) state-issued knife. Whatever they come back with is theirs to keep. This would include limbs, if applicable. The use of advanced weaponry removes the sporting aspect in my opinion.
But before we concede defeat on behalf of the alligator, there are some factors to consider:

1. Alligators get homefield advantage - Swamps and marshes are dark and murky, even more so at night when most hunting takes place because that's when alligators are active.
2. Human beings are kinda stupid - I'm not just picking on hunters. Being a hunter doesn't automatically make you stupid. Plenty of non-hunters are stupid too. Most of them don't willingly go out and pay for the privilege of messing with alligators, though. It doesn't comfort me that there are people out there who have been issued permits to handle weapons when in reality they probably shouldn't be allowed to operate a pair of shoes without supervision. But then, I'm not an alligator.
3. They're dinosaurs - Alligators have been around for over 200 million years. Consider the fearsome Tyrannosaurus Rex, the Velociraptor and the Pterodactyl. They're all gone but alligators are still here. During all this time, they have remained virtually unchanged, simply because that is just how badass they are. Way back when, some other dinosaur approached the alligators and said "Hey fellas? Listen, we were all just wondering if you wanted to go in with us on evolution. Most of us are seriously considering turning into birds. If that's not your thing, we hear there are some single cell organisms that have some pretty radical ideas about fur and what they're calling 'thumbs'. It sounds kind of far out and they're a long way from any kind of functional prototype but you might want to hear them out. You know, if you're not down with the whole bird thing I mentioned previously." To which the alligators said, "Nah. We're good." This probably aggravated the dinosaur who said "Fine, be that way. But when a massive comet strikes this still-unnamed-at-this-point planet and those of us who planned ahead are flying away to safety, don't come crying to me, okay?" Then the alligators ate that dinosaur because he was kind of being a dick about the whole thing and had already evolved to the point that he tasted like chicken.

The Continuing Story Of The Real Bungalow Bill

"He's the all American bullet-headed Saxon mother's son"

As my friend J.B. Ball says about the 'sport' of hunting, "It's not a sport if one side doesn't know it's playing". That pretty much sums up how I feel about it. At least in the case of most hunters and fishermen who actually eat what they kill, there's a sense of purpose to it. I don't necessarily support that (there are lots of places to get something to eat without killing anything) but I can appreciate that it's not just a total waste. Not so in the case of big game, professional piece-of-cowardly-shit, trophy hunters like Walter Palmer. There's just no way for me to understand the mindset...

"Wow, I'm on safari in Africa! And there's a lion! This is incredible! I have been fortunate enough to find myself with the fairly unique opportunity to be in the presence of one of nature's most magnificent creatures, in its natural habitat. This is something most human beings will never experience in their lives. I guess there's nothing else I can do but to kill it. Of course! I need to end that creature's life for the sole purpose of being able to say I did. Look at it! Just walking around, going about the business of being a lion, all unarmed and stuff, with no idea whatsoever that I can end its existence from a distance, with every conceivable man-made advantage at my disposal and giving it exactly zero chance of defending itself. That's nature! That's sport! Yes, I need to kill it, hopefully giving it a slow and agonizing death, and then have my picture taken with its dead body. That way I'll have proof that I killed it. I should also chop its head off and mount it on a plaque for wall hanging. That's a good souvenir. I'm just a douchebag, low-life, bulb-headed dentist from Minnesota and there's no way I'll be able to prove I killed a lion if I can't show people pictures along with its actual chopped-off head. Goddamn, I'm awesome!" 

Hope it was worth the $50,000 out-of-pocket and being hated by everybody in the world, you massive tool.

Now, as much fun as it might be to find Walter Palmer, strip him naked and then chase him through an urban environment with rusty steak knives, letting him know nothing but fear and pain for what little time he would have remaining here on Earth, it's probably not a good idea. besides, come on, you know that isn't something that's going to happen. Enough with the rhetoric for once. Instead, it would be a more poetic gesture for lots of people to do something positive in response to one asshole doing something shitty.
To that end, here's a link where you can make a donation to the Univerity of Oxford's Wildlife Conservation Research Unit, the organization that was tracking Cecil and is "now recognised as the leading university-based institute for wildlife conservation research".

Please, please, please, let this be true!

In case my loathing for the New York Yankees wasn't enough of a clue, I'm a huge fan of underdogs. And on a global scale, who are bigger underdogs than, well, dogs, and their fellow members of the animal kingdom? Humans, the end of the line on the evolutionary scale of bullies, have been pushing animals around for centuries and it makes me sick. I'm not even going to try to act like I don't like animals more than human beings. Animals do what they do because it is their nature. They make no pretense about this and they offer no apologies. Human beings, on the other hand, lie, cheat, and cause mayhem, pain and strife for kicks.

"What I did is not such a great harm, with all these surplus women nowadays. Anyway, I had a good time." -- Rudolf Pleil

"It wasn't as dark and scary as it sounds. I had a lotta fun . . . Killing somebody's a funny experience" -- Albert De Salvo

"Gazelles are beautiful animals. However, I kill and eat them to sustain the survival of my species. What!" -- A lion

I hate bullies, so any time animals push back, I'm all for it. That's why I'm hoping this story about a mysterious giant sea creature living in a canal in Pinellas County is true.

Now, I'm not a PETA person, although I would kind of like to be. The problem is that too often the good things they do on behalf of animals are negated when they do something stupid and annoying. They'll go after the cosmetics industry for horrible experiments being conducted on animals in the name of research but then they'll turn around and hold a candlelight vigil for a slain mosquito. There should be a PETA Lite; all the ethical treatment of animals with only half the crazy.

Since there's no such organization, I just have to sit back and find amusement in things like hunting accidents, idiots in Pamplona getting trampled by bulls and giant sea monsters suddenly appearing in canals in residential neighborhoods. One of the witnesses says it could be between 15 and 20 feet long. That's big, but I'd like it to be so big that bubbles roil furiously to the surface every time it moves and its wake slams boats against their moorings. Also, a neighbor goes missing every now and then. I've begrudgingly accepted that I'm never going to look out my window and see a T-Rex grazing on my obnoxious neighbors. But this would be pretty fair consolation.

A history lesson!

I have become a big fan of our state park system in the last six months, which is easy to do because there's a lot to like about visiting our state parks. I recently had a chance to explore Honeymoon Island near Dunedin. Honeymoon Island is where some scenes were shot for "The Punisher", starring John Travolta and Thomas Jane, a few years ago. Specifically, the scenes where The Punisher's whole family (we're talking mom, dad, wife, kid, aunts, uncles and distant cousins) are massacred and The Punisher himself is shot, kicked, set on fire and left for dead.

What doesn't kill you, makes you...The Punisher!

 How romantic!

While I was there, I learned that "The Punisher" probably wasn't the first bloody mayhem to take place on what we palefaces now refer to whimsically as "Honeymoon Island":

Go ahead, make fun of his hair and man-thong. I dare you. 

Apparently, these guys were all over the place at one time, hunting with spears and being incredibly physically fit. I've never heard of them before and am fairly certain that there are no Tocobaga neighborhoods in Clearwater, Dunedin or even Tarpon Springs. Probably because this happened...

Funny how so few "visits" from people bearing huge crucifixes end well for the people who already live there.

Visit or conquer and wipe out an indigenous population? Eh. Tomato, tomahto. But wouldn't it be kind of cool if they found one last Tocobaga and he turned out to be a real life The Punisher? Running around Pinellas County and exacting revenge on those who killed his family...with a friggin' spear!
Well, I think it would be.

The World Series, so far Part Deux (or Trois)

After three games...

Why you should be happy if you're a Rays fan:

• The Phillies still need to win two of the next four games. A win tonight and it's a three game series, two of which would be played at the Trop.
• The Phillies are still terrible at driving in runners. The winning run was scored last night without a ball being hit out of the infield.
• Longo and Pena have to wake up eventually. Right?
• It ain't over...
  

Why you should be nervous if you're a Rays fan:

• The Rays need to win three out of four. We have to win at least one in Philadelphia to get the series back to the Trop at all.
• The Phillies are winning games despite being terrible at driving in runners. The winning run was scored last night without a ball being hit out of the infield.
• Rollins and Howard woke up.
• It will be dangerously close to over if we don't get something going tonight.

Random observations:

• Rain delays suck.
• A strong enough pejorative has not been invented to describe rain delays that precede games your team eventually loses at 1:30 in the morning when you have to be at work by 7.
• Good news for 'Zooks (among others); now that the bad weather has passed, one way or another, this series is over after October 30th at the very latest. And I don't care enough about football to blog about it.
• Playing the "Fishy Fishy Fishy" song during the Rays introductions was kind of tacky for a World Series game. Of course, this is Philadelphia, the place where Santa Claus was booed and where fans felt it appropriate to heckle Buccaneers receiver Joe Jurevicius about his newborn son's Sialidosis, a condition that eventually resulted in the baby's death a few weeks later (one of those stories is considered something of a myth, the other is 100% true; I'll leave it to you to figure out which is which and be suitably appalled).
• There was an awful lot of gratuitous pluggery for Fox's NFL games. A friend wondered if the World Series would get equal treatment during the NFL games the next day (answer: no).
• The goofy duck hunting hat worn by Joe Maddon is not feeding my man crush. I'm kind of glad about that, actually.
• More good news for 'Zooks (among others); a wholesome picture of some ballplayer in "Dude, Where's My Shirt?"

I am nothing if not attentive to the demands needs of my readers.

3rd rehearsal

It's been almost two weeks since I posted on the upcoming production of "The Beverly Hillbillies" being presented by Plant City Entertainment and it's progress but there's virtually nothing of interest to report. I apologize that this ongoing series isn't more entertaining but honestly, there isn't much going on. As far as I know (being as I only show up once a week or so and when I'm there, I don't talk to or interact with anyone) the cast is all getting along and nobody is being difficult. That may or may not be a bad sign. In my admittedly limited acting experience, a bubbling pot is not necessarily a bad thing. A little backstage drama can keep people on their toes and engaged. On the other hand, it can also be a huge distraction and an unnecessary pain in the ass. I'm sure most directors would say they could happily live without it so what do I know? Kinda sucks to be reading this though. Although, if my 'brother' Rob continues to exert influence over me, I might very well become that combustible ingredient that's currently lacking.

A little background...

I met Rob Gander* in Sarasota about 15 years ago or so when he directed "Bleacher Bums" in Sarasota at a little theatre known as Theatre Works. I read for a part and was cast. The story I like to tell is that I asked if I could come back for the second night read-throughs and he rolled his eyes, sighed heavily and replied "Well, I don't know why but I guess it's a semi-public building and the fire code prohibits chaining the doors shut. So sure". Actually, what he said was "sure" but the story gets a little more harsh every time I tell it. Through the experience of that show and others that followed at Theatre Works and an unhealthy shared devotion to unhealthy obsessions like self-loathing and the bizarre and so-godawful-that-it's-brilliant David Lynch sitcom "On The Air", Rob and I became good friends and although we're not actually related, I consider him the closest thing to a brother I have living on this planet. He now lives way out west in Cowboyland where he's a drama professor at the University of Nevada, Reno. We still talk on the phone from time to time, complaining about the state of films, television and the hassles of life itself. The other day I was regaling him with my latest misadventures, including this play nonsense I've gotten myself into and he had a brilliant (ie: terrible) idea. He said since there are only four scheduled performances and I'm only in one scene, a good way to make the experience memorable (ie: a nightmare) for all involved is to do it completely different each time. The key component of this genius (ie: idiotic) plan is not telling anyone beforehand, especially the other actors or the director. One night, do it with the Oklahoma drawl I've been practicing but develop an uncontrollable stutter. The next, do it with a thick Cockney accent, complete with rhyming slang ("'Ere then, me company is prepared to pay you a lot of bees and honey for your Bodie and Doyle, Mr. Clampett!"). This could be great fun (ie: entirely inappropriate)! Even better (ie: worse), how about re-writing the entire scene? Imagine Hannibal Lector**, chief counsel for the Midland Oil Company paying a visit to Jed and his kin: "You know what you look like to me, with your hunting dog and your shotgun? You look like a rube. A dirty, befuddled rube with no taste whatsoever. Poor nutrition's given you no length of bone, but you're not more than zero generations from poor white trash, are you, Mr. Clampett? And that accent: pure Tennessee. What was your father, dear? Was he a moonshiner? Did he stink of grain alcohol? You know how quickly the revenuers found you... all those tedious sticky fumblings in the woods behind your outhouse... while you could only dream of getting out... getting anywhere... getting all the way to Beverly Hills."

I won't do that of course. Ah, but a boy can dream, can't he?

*Ha ha! on the "Hotness" factor of a big fat zero!

** I do a fantastic Hannibal Lector. Book me for your next wedding reception, corporate gathering or child's birthday party!

(They want you to) Be afraid! (Don't let them make you) Be very afraid!

If you're wondering whether someone might be trying to use fear to manipulate you, one of the first things you should look at is how much their message looks like it's actually from a monster movie.

Boo!

This is the banner that appears at the top of a page on the National Association for Gun Rights (NAGR) with a petition that opposes Senator Dianne Feinstein's proposed legislation seeking a ban on assault weapons. Specifically:

Bans the sale, transfer, importation, or manufacturing of:

• 120 specifically-named firearms;
• Certain other semiautomatic rifles, handguns, shotguns that can accept a detachable magazine and have one or more military characteristics; and
• Semiautomatic rifles and handguns with a fixed magazine that can accept more than 10 rounds.

Strengthens the 1994 Assault Weapons Ban and various state bans by:

• Moving from a 2-characteristic test to a 1-characteristic test;
• Eliminating the easy-to-remove bayonet mounts and flash suppressors from the characteristics test; and
• Banning firearms with “thumbhole stocks” and “bullet buttons” to address attempts to “work around” prior bans.

Bans large-capacity ammunition feeding devices capable of accepting more than 10 rounds.

Protects legitimate hunters and the rights of existing gun owners by:

• Grandfathering weapons legally possessed on the date of enactment;
• Exempting over 900 specifically-named weapons used for hunting or sporting purposes; and
• Exempting antique, manually-operated, and permanently disabled weapons.

Requires that grandfathered weapons be registered under the National Firearms Act, to include:

• Background check of owner and any transferee;
• Type and serial number of the firearm;
• Positive identification, including photograph and fingerprint;
• Certification from local law enforcement of identity and that possession would not violate State or local law; and
• Dedicated funding for ATF to implement registration.

Or, in the words of NAGR (those being words that don't actually appear in the legislation), "it will be the effective END of the Second Amendment in America" and "She's targeting EVERYTHING".

Granted, if you're one of those people who frequently masturbates while thinking about "blowing away" somebody who comes to your home and threatens to try to take away some of your stuff, that's pretty scary.

"Rawr! I'm Dianne Feinstein and I'm here to take away your freed...EWWWWW!!"

But if real horror is your thing, as in, if you really want to be horrified by something, then you should check THIS out.

Further flea market observations

This is the last I'll mention it but here's some more stuff from yesterday's adventure at the Oldsmar Flea Market:

* There’s a stall there called “The Florida Survivalist”. If that in itself isn’t enough to make you shudder, consider that they were advertising that they carried a full line of ammunition and accessories for 50 caliber guns. Now, when I was in the Army, I remember we had rigging installed on some of our five ton trucks to mount 50 caliber machine guns, which was an exercise in futility according to a sergeant who had combat experience because he said the recoil generated by the firing of a gun that large would probably knock the truck over. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but one of the few things I did learn while in the service was that it was always a bad idea to challenge guys with combat experience.
* One store selling mailbox covers had over 200 designs. I think the only thing sadder than the fact that a market for mailbox covers exists in the first place is not being able to decide which design to use because there’s just so darn many to choose from.
* Another stall was named “Novelty Fishing and Hunting”. This conjured images of a stuffed dear head mounted on the wall with one of those wacky Steve Martin-style arrows through the head.
* Seeing that other people had given their stalls names like a regular store made me wish I had thought of doing that. I think I would have called mine “Here, YOU Throw It Away” in honor of the late Mitch Hedberg.
* A stall that sold socks (“Nothin’ But Socks”) had a sign that said “yes, we have socks for little people”. Now, I know they probably meant children, not midgets, but it made me think of midgets anyway and how lame a description ‘Little People’ is. Is that the best anybody could come up with? If you’re trying to update your image and be taken seriously by distancing yourself from a term that was basically a slur, does ‘Little People’ do the trick? I’m pretty sure if it were me, I wouldn’t want to be called ‘Little Person’ any more than I want to be called ‘Great Big Fat Ass’ now.

Hunting for the homeless

Last night, via a connection through Brand Tampa, I volunteered to participate in the Homeless Coalition of Hillsborough County's 2009 Homeless Point In Time Count. The Point In Time Count is a national effort, done every two years and is defined as "the number of people who are homeless at a single point in time, usually one day or one night". Hillsborough County was divided into four sections and teams of volunteers combed the areas between 4:00AM and 11:00PM. I had to work during the day (plus I thought it would be more interesting to do this at night) so I signed up for a late shift, 7:00PM until 11:00PM. Here's what happened.

• We all met at Project Return's headquarters and got our briefing. The coordinator asked if we all had flashlights and everybody said yes. Except one guy who waited until after everyone else answered so he could say "I have my government issued flashlight." If someone was looking at me at that exact moment, no doubt they saw my shoulders sag and an expression of pain on my face. Every single time I do some kind of volunteer gig, I run into one person who didn't get enough attention as a child and sees this as their opportunity to perform for a captive audience. There's always just one of them. I wish I knew why that was.
• Three of us were assigned to an area in north Tampa near interstate I-275, kind of close to the University of South Florida. It was me, a woman named Pam and a college student named Lee. I was put in charge.
• For whatever reason, flashlight discussion continued after the briefing and as a result, we missed the distribution of meals by another volunteer organization behind a grocery store. We got there just as they were wrapping up. They said there had been about 150 people there. Although, they also said that most were not actually homeless, just needy. For the purpose of this particular survey, those people wouldn't count.
• We did encounter a group of six men. We had brought along some toiletries and pairs of new socks as incentives to get people to participate and four of these guys passed these things up when they told us they had participated in the survey earlier that day. I don't know that I necessarily expected these guys to lie or connive, although, being honest, I guess I probably did. I'm pretty sure if I were in similar circumstances, I would have lied.
• One guy said he receives a $935 pension from his service in the military, but that every dollar he earned counted against that pension. He said that with his poor health, the only jobs he was able to get were low end, menial labor jobs with no prospects for advancement. In which case, it made better financial sense to collect the $935 for doing nothing than to go get some dead-end, back-breaker of a job that resulted in basically the same amount of money in the pot at the end of the month.
• We stopped at a convenience store for gas and Lee ate two gas station microwave burritos. There was a time when I could eat that kind of thing but I think those days are gone forever. Maybe it's because I'm still not 100% healthy but the smell of those bombers hit me in a bad way and stayed with me all night.
• We headed to a wooded area behind a Perkins restaurant. We roamed around for a while and there were some thickets of brush and trees where I'm pretty sure there were people hiding but they didn't come out. We were instructed not to be aggressive so we left without talking to anyone. The guys we encountered at the first place had told us that if we went into the woods and nobody wanted to be found or talked to, they wouldn't be. And they were right.
• We found four people living near the railroad tracks next to Skipper's Smokehouse. They said the same thing about not finding people who didn't want to be found. One guy got fairly aggressive in asking for money but we had found so few people that we were able to be a little more liberal in our distribution of the incentives and that bought us out of there without incident.
• We drove up and down Fowler Avenue and went behind the long row of fast food joints on the south side of the street but didn't see anybody. There was a long line of cars at Taco Bell and Lee commented that he didn't know how anybody could eat there. I said, "I think you surrendered your gourmet critiquing credentials twice back at the RaceTrac".
• We didn't find anybody else the rest of the night but saw a whole bunch of law enforcement out and about. One of the people we had talked to by the railroad tracks said the cops had been hassling them earlier in the day. I'd hate to think that the police were out trying to enforce a lower a profile from the homeless, with the knowledge that the count was taking place that day. I'd prefer tor think that was a coincidence but I guess you never know.
• The youngest person we met was 41 and I was kind of glad. I'm not sure how I would have handled encountering homeless children.
• Of the six people we did interview, five were men, two were war veterans (one Vietnam, one Gulf War), one had just been released from prison in November and two said they worked regular jobs.
• We headed back, kind of discouraged, but our coordinator said not to worry about it. "There's no telling; you might have gotten five or you might have gotten 50". A friend who did an earlier shift downtown mentioned that she thought we'd find many more people at night then they did and she was amazed when I told her our results.