It's a "Life's Funny Like That" Party!

Debby's final chemo session will be tomorrow. Yee haw! I know you're looking forward to getting back to a more normal routine, Debby. Enjoy your new beginning, but . . .

Don't forget to give yourself some down time!

Our friend from across the planet, Bush Babe, came up with the idea of throwing a virtual party to celebrate the completion of Debby's chemo treatments. Since Bush Babe's blog is serving as party central for this shindig, please stop by and leave a comment. Thanks, BB.

I discovered Debby's blog early last year, and I quickly found myself drawn to her writing and her takes on life. She could be touching, and she could be howling funny. But then, things took a dramatic turn for Debby in September of last year: she learned she had breast cancer.

I was sticken by the news. I found myself hoping that Debby would prevail in her battle, and that someday we'd see her blogging regularly again. But a "funny" thing happened. Debby never stopped. She kept writing. She kept sharing her life. She shared her lows, she shared her hopes, and she managed to keep a grip on her sense of humor. She continued to show us that she's a remarkable writer. She shared her journey with us, and I for one feel the richer for it.

Thank you Debby, and God bless you.

Sky King

My Army flight school buddy Doug Johnson sent this YouTube video to me. The song was written and performed by PHI's most famous ex-employee ('cept Bob Barbanes), Kris Kristofferson.

I Got My Ass Kicked by a Woman

After a bit less than five years of service, I left the Army in 1979, and began my career as a civilian offshore helicopter pilot. For the first three years of my new civilian life, I lived in Texas.

I discovered a local watering hole with a great country-rock band. The place became my second home--in those days, I wasn't much into sitting in a living room reading a book. I became friends with the bouncer, a huge bear of a man by the name of Curty. There were a few times that I, along with a couple of other of the larger regulars, would back Curty up when he had to throw someone out. Not that he needed help. Curty had studied Aikido while living in Japan, and he moved his 280 pounds around like a gymnast. Most of the time, though, Curty simply talked people down before the situations turned volcanic.

After a couple of months, Curty started asking me to fill in for him at the door. He wanted to spend more time with his girlfriend. I'd become friends with the owner, too, and I refused to take money, instead working for a beer tab. To this day, I feel guilty about taking advantage of him that way.

I didn't think of myself as Billy Bob Bad Ass. That's never been one of my problems. But, when I left the Army, I also left a relationship with a woman who'd tired of the fact that I'd been a poster boy for fear of commitment. I'd become mildly self-destructive. I didn't care, and belligerent bar patrons would usually read that as, "he's a bad ass."

One night the owner told me to eject a woman tucked back in the corner. She was on a "I hate men" rant, and had just thrown her drink on a guy sitting at the next table. I couldn't see her from my station, and when I rounded the corner, I stopped dead in my tracks: hate just poured from the woman. She couldn't have weighed more than 110 pounds, but I was afraid.

I took a deep breath, and walked to the woman's table. "Ma'am, I'm afraid you'll have to leave." She gave me a look, a look I half-expected her to follow with the spewing of pea soup. "Go f*ck yourself, asshole." "That's not physically possible, ma'am, at least not for me." Another look that could melt stone. "GET THE F*CK AWAY FROM ME!" Oh boy. "Ma'am, I'm not going anywhere. You have to leave, now." She stood up, and I felt momentarily relieved. Until, that is, she grabbed a drink at the next table and threw it in my face. I think it was a bourbon and coke. I don't even like bourbon and coke. I grabbed her by the upper arm, and that's when things really went to hell.

In a flash, she kneed me in the family jewels, raked her fingernails across my face, and punched me in the nose. Oh man, was I ever in trouble. She started throwing punches, and not just wild roundhouse type stuff: no, she was throwing combinations. A straight right connected with my Adam's apple. Great. Not only were my nuts screaming at me, and not only could I not see because of the punch to the nose: now, I couldn't breathe either.

I was in serious danger of falling to the floor. The little 110 pound woman was thrashing my ass. I still couldn't hit her, though. If my dad had found out I'd hit a woman, no matter the circumstances, he would have driven from California to kick my ass again.

I could feel blood dribbling down my face from my right eyelid--thank God I'd managed to close that eye before her fingernail ripped across it--but as her punches started to slow, I could see somewhat out of my left eye. I lunged and grabbed her by the the hair, and twirled her around. With her back to me, I could have choked her out, but that would also mean my dad driving from California to kick my ass. Instead, I got her in a full-nelson hold. That didn't work. She started back-kicking the shit out of my shins. I placed her feet on the floor, and transitioned to an old-fashioned bear hug. I squeezed for all I was worth, and started hobbling toward the exit. "OPEN THE F*CKING DOOR," I bellowed to a customer. I half-shoved, half-threw her out the door, slamed it shut, and locked it. She stood outside, pounding on the door, screaming stuff like "LET ME BACK IN, YOU F*CKING BASTARDS!" The owner called the police, but by the time they got there, the she-devil had departed. After the owner and I gave our accounts to the officer, I started laughing. I was laughing so hard that I sank to the floor on my butt. A 110 pound woman had just kicked my ass.

The owner walked up, stuck out his hand, and helped me to my feet. "Sit at the bar for a while," he said. He went back behind the bar and up to me. "She got you in the nuts, didn't she?" "Oh yeah," I answered. He poured me a double shot of tequila. "That'll help," he said. Sure enough, a few minutes after downing that double shot, the boys below quit complaining so much.

I never saw her in that bar again, thank God. But, one day I was in the produce section, when I felt a tap on my elbow.

When I turned around, it was her. I jumped back. I was looking at zucchinis when she approached, and I held one on front of me. I can't recall what I was thinking, holding up that zucchini. I can only presume that I thought something with a phallic appearance would ward her off, akin to the way a cross keeps a vampire at bay.

She laughed. The bitch had kicked my ass with a retired cop, an ex-NFL player, and a former Golden Gloves boxer in the audience, and the the evil wench was laughing.

"Could I buy you a cup of coffee?" WHAT? If Jeffery Dahmer invited you to a freakin' barbecue, would you go? The woman had come damn near blinding me, while assaulting Mr. Happy's twin cousins, and she was asking me out for coffee.

Well, curiosity trumped fear, and I met her for coffee. (I already mentioned that I was mildly self-destructive in those days.) "I'm sorry about that night," she began. She told me the rest of the story. She'd gone home early from work, feeling sick. She walked in on her husband and her best friend, in bed. They were making so much noise that they didn't even hear her until she started screaming at them. She'd called in sick for the rest of the week, and embarked upon a drinking binge. Thus, our little encounter.

"Have you had martial arts training?" I asked, thinking about those combinations she'd thrown. "My dad was an amateur boxer," she answered, "and I was a tomboy." Thanks a lot, Dad.

We ended up stretching coffee into lunch, and we had a great time. The Evil Wench who'd kicked my ass was nowhere in evidence. Instead, a charming, funny, attractive woman sat before me.

We exchanged phone numbers, and touched bases a couple of times. A few months went by, and she called. "I have some news for you," she began. A guy she'd had a crush on through junior high and the beginning of high school had moved back into town. His family had moved away during their freshman year, leaving her heartbroken. He was divorced, and they started dating. After two months, they decided to get married. He had a young daughter from his marriage, and the Formerly Evil Wench loved her.

I've always kind of sucked at keeping in touch. (I've found that if I avoid getting attached to people, I don't miss them as much. Lame, but effective.) I only talked to her one more time, and they'd set a date. She told me that her soon-to-be stepdaughter was ecstatic about having a new mom. She invited me to the wedding, but I was to be away at work in the Gulf of Mexico. Being me, I never called her again.

I still think about her, though. So do the family jewels, and not in a good way.

Intruders

It was a lazy weekend day, and I was watching a movie with Dylan. Rhonda burst in: "Hal, two dogs have the llamas cornered!" I jumped into my shoes and grabbed a BB rifle to scare them away. I handed the BB rifle to Dylan, then unlocked a .22 rifle in case the BB rifle didn't work.

I thought about leaving Dylan in the house with Rhonda, but he's very protective of our animals, and besides, the day will come when he might have to deal with such a situation himself. We ran up to the barn and found the llamas huddled together. Looking across the brook to the far driveway, we could see the two dogs beating a retreat.

The llamas were agitated, and Felipe, the oldest, was actually trembling. We patrolled the area, Dylan gripping the BB gun with a fierce scowl on his face. No sign of the dogs.

We had trouble with predators during the first few years we lived here. Although we're only twenty-five minutes from town, we're in the foothills, living in nature. Raccoons have killed chickens, a pet turkey, and one of our cats. A black bear killed our two pygmy goats, and returned a few months later to attack one of our llamas. Mountain lions have been seen in our "neighborhood," and two or three times a week, we'll hear coyotes howling and yipping at night.

For the last few years, though, animal troubles have been few. More people have built houses, so there's more traffic, and I suppose the predators have made themselves more scarce. But with the visit by our dog intruders, I was reminded of something I learned soon after we brought our llamas home in '94: more llamas are killed in the United States by domestic dogs than any other animal.

I was relieved that I didn't have to shoot one or both of our canine intruders. I've never killed a dog, and I'll rather skip that experience.