Last Flight of the Red Baron?

Last night, my wife, a.k.a. "Winning Run," was in a car accident. Seems that someone wanted their car to occupy the same physical space as her car at the same time. Trust me, it doesn't work that well. She and Dylan were shaken up but, otherwise, no worse for the wear. Winning Run has the normal cuts and bruises that you'd see as a result of the violent deployment of an airbag and the restraint of a seat belt but that's about it. Dylan was thrown around a little but is his usual playful self this morning.

The great new is that after we put a good amount of money into fixing the air conditioner, the insurance company may simply decide to total the car. So, because some jackass doesn't look (or presumably signal) before leaping, we'll get to rid ourselves of the pain of not having a car payment and, most likely, receive a check for less than the value of our car! Sweet.

Never good when your hood has a "gangsta lean."

When in gear, the car won't go.
Instead, smoke billows from the engine.
Is that bad?

You can't see the floor but these were "hairbags."
Drivers are left bruised and itchy.

The important thing is that Winning Run and Dylan are unharmed.

That Old Familiar Feeling

So, I left a pound of flesh on the field at tonight's East Atlanta Pillage game. When at risk of being tagged out at second base, I decided (against my better judgement) to slide into the bag. I was safe. Unfortunately, we still lost the damned game.

On the bright side, I didn't get an ass-berry.

Cool points earned for a blood leg wound: +1000

Killa McD

Last Sunday, my sister-in-law had a baby. When my wife returned from a business trip, we drove up to Spartanburg to visit the newbie and his parents. FYI: I love the shell-shocked look worn by brand-new parents in the immediate chaos and ectasy of realizing that they are completely responsible for a brand new person, a blank slate, a life they created.

I'm not so naive that I think it won't happen to me; I'm fully aware that, one day, I'll have the same damned countenance on my ugly mug.

Here are a few photos of the new little man.

Killa McD

Killa practicing the gang signs of the Spartanburg Cribs.

Barely a week old and he's already mastered sing-alongs.

Welcome to the world, kiddo.

Fishing While Kayaking is Tough

Over the weekend, I migrated 30 miles south of the city to meet my pal, Randy, for some good old fishing. We dined on a Waffle House breakfast at 6am and them made our way over to the water. He provided me with a sit-on-top kayak and all the fishing gear I could possibly need. Immediately, an image popped into my head: me paddling under low-hanging branches with a gaudy fishing lure lodged in my cheek. I opted for the most basic reel that he had; it made the Snoopy Rod from my youth seem like an advanced contraption. I couldn't be too careful, you know?

We paddled for most of the morning, casting up and down the banks. Randy, the sage that he is, would give me the go-ahead to cast in the virgin water and point out exactly where I should put the lure and how I should bring it back. Hopefully, I didn't disappoint him with my poor casting and overall withered fishing skill. Honestly, it was fun just to get out and paddle. At one point, I was sure that we'd be ambushed by a heretofore unknown cannibal tribe. Hell, we'd paddled so far back into the wilderness, I was sure that we'd been sent to terminate Colonel Kurtz' command.

The boats that took us into the jungle: the Wilderness and the Cobra.

At the end of the day, I was pretty wiped out. I had managed to catch two trees, two submerged branches, and the crotch area of my pants. I did, however, make it out alive with all my digits and my ability to see. I considered it a victory.

Randy pulling boats out of the water.
I was busy making an ibuprofen sandwich.

Bigfoot Lives!

Last weekend, I spent the weekend in the north Georgia mountains with the "guys." My buddy Scott's son turned 13 and, to celebrate, Scott put together a hiking trip. We stayed in the cottages at Vogel State Park and hiked part of the Appalachian Trail toward Neels Gap.

On returning from the hike, we stumbled across an actual Sasquatch. The following photos are the definitive proof.

First sighting, note the lazy swing of the arms and crouched stance.

Evidently, the Bigfoot is into philosophy and jam bands.

Dogs were wary of the Sasquatch.

Naturally, we managed to shoot the thing and pack it in a fishing cooler full of ice. Soon, an independent team of scientists will authenticate it. I can't wait for the tons of money we're going to make!

Pour a Little Out for the Snowman

R.I.P. - Jerry Reed

On my drive home from the grocery a short while ago, I received a call from Dr. James Three Thousand.

"You got your black armband on?," he asked.

"What? Who died?," I asked.

"Jerry Reed," he confessed.

"Damn."

"Yeah. Guess the chances of him appearing in our remake of 'Smokey and the Bandit' are pretty slim."

"Guess so," I said.

"Pour some out for The Snowman," the good doctor advised.

"I will," I promised. "Why the hell couldn't it have been Winehouse?"

"Don't know, brother," he consoled.

As I sit here, banging this out on my laptop, listening to a compilation of Jerry Reed tunes, I'm reminded of the time a bunch of us saw him in concert a few years ago at the Georgia Mountain Festival. The concert was mediocre. Actually, it might've been okay but there was no way in hell that it would live up to our expectations; the only way we would've been satisfied was if it had been performed from a black '77 Trans-Am by a 1977 Jerry Reed AND Burt Reynolds. To his credit, Jerry didn't seem to be mailing it in; he gave it his all.

Unfortunately, during the show, a buddy thought it was a good idea to come out of the closet to Dr. J3K. (Really? In the middle of a Jerry Reed concert at a country fair in the north Georgia mountains? That's like 3/4 of the way toward a hate-crime.) Being that this buddy was married at the time, J3K thought it was a big, ill-timed joke. When he learned that it was, in fact, the truth, J3K's face had the most confused, stunned look that I've seen. Shortly thereafter, we all left and drank many beers.

And that, readers, is my favorite Jerry Reed concert story.

Sure Shot

We're at my wife's family's place in the north Georgia mountains for the holiday weekend. It's a fantastic, peaceful place. Generally, me and The Duke (our affectionate nickname for my father-in-law) are the early risers of the bunch. Often, we'll meet on the deck with coffee to watch the end of the sunrise and survey the valley as it greets the day.

This morning, I went with him for a ride to the back 40 to check out a tree that had fallen on a fence. Of course, Dylan went with us. It would be a great way for Dylan to get some exercise, chase some squirrels through the forest, and, perhaps, to secretly feast on a buffet of fresh cow shit.

After a long ride on "The Toad," we headed back to the house. Dylan, of course, led the charge on the trails, running full-speed ahead of us. On one particular stretch, he disappeared from view. As we rounded the corner, however, what we saw twenty yards ahead caused us to screech to a halt. For the next few moments, everything happened in slow motion. "Nooooooooooo!," I yelled. (For added effect, imagine this in the deep, slow-mo voice for added effect.) "Dyyyylllllaaaaannnnnnnn, commmmmme heeeeerrrrrrreeeee. Nowwwwwww."

The poop shoot.

As a pet owner, it's never a great thing to see your dog running full-speed, heading nose first into the ass end of a pissed-off skunk. We watch the dog stop, turn around and look at us. Meanwhile, the skunk quickly made its way into the woods; its hindquarters pointed squarely at the dog, its tail constantly jerking up into the air, spraying, spraying, spraying. Dylan trotted back to us with a confused look on the face. Then, he sneezed once or twice and immediately began rolling around in the leaves, rubbing his face in the dirt.

"Super. Time for a tomato juice bath, buddy," I said.

Luckily, he didn't get hit that bad. I think he was barely out of range. We waited a moment or two before hopping back in The Toad and continuing home. Bad idea. Evidently, when a skunk completely empties its scent gland, the fumes tend to hang in the air, concentrating into a noxious foul cloud that permeates anything that has the misfortune to pass through it. Although we drove through pretty quickly, it was tough to breathe thanks to the fetid air that hovered over the trail. Had we stopped, I probably would've easily donated my previously consumed coffee back to mother earth, circle-of-life style.

As you can tell from these molecular diagrams, the scent obviously stinks.

Minutes later, after we'd made it back to house, The Duke discovered that perhaps driving through the foul cloud was a poor choice.

"It's in my shirt," he said, pulling the cloth to his nose. "It got us; we should've driven the long way around."

Needless to say, we all got baths - normal ones, not in tomato juice - out of the deal. Personally, I think Dylan's pride was hurt the most. He's still a little shaken. Enjoy the post-bath photos.

"Seriously, what the hell happened?"

"Man, what was the deal with that cat?"

Stay Positive

Although I always suspected that the "alternate" route would not work out for getting into Mercer, I always held out a little hope. I think of it as my own Lloyd Christmas moment:

Anyway, turns out that my chances were really like "one in a million." I got the official email today that confirmed what I'd already known since the spring. Here's the message:

August 20, 2008

Good afternoon:

Classes have begun for Mercer University School of Medicine’s Class of 2012. I regret to inform you that we were unable to offer you a place in that class.

We have begun our admissions cycle for the Class of 2013, and because you were one of our alternate students for the Class of 2012, if you have not already done so, we would strongly encourage you to submit an application for the current cycle as soon as possible.

When completing your new application, please let us know what you have done over the past year to enhance your application. It is especially important to tell the Committee about additional activities that demonstrate your commitment to Mercer’s mission.

Remember that your application will be seen as a new application. Pay particular attention to your personal statement, and include additional information supporting your activities during this past year and your commitment to serve Georgia residents, especially those who live in underserved areas of the State.

We are pleased you have expressed an interest in Mercer University School of Medicine and look forward to reviewing your application during the current cycle.

Sincerely,

Maurice S. Clifton, M.D., M.S., E.d.
Associate Dean of Admissions & Student Affairs

When one door closes, another opens, doesn't it?

Osteopathic Medical Schools
Shortly after returning from New Heaven, I completed applications for osteopathic medical schools. Deep down, I think that this approach to medicine might be a better fit for me. The online application service is processing my application and will send it out to my selected schools in the near future. Keep your fingers crossed that I'll hear better news from these guys.

A Close One

Yesterday, Col. Blake and I went to see the Braves get demolished by the Cubs in the first game of the split double-header. As we were there on sweet free tix, we felt no guilt leaving before the game was over.

I dropped him off at his house and started the short drive back home. I made a right turn onto a street and started up the hill, several blocks away from my house. Because it was a nice day out, I had the windows down and drove slowly to look at a nice granite wall in a yard that I like. Noticing something in my peripheral vision, I looked up and saw a car a few blocks away hauling ass down the middle of the street.

"Wow. That guy's driving really fast," I thought, making sure to get well into my lane. On seeing the two police cars in pursuit, I thought "Huh. Those cops are driving pretty fast, too."

Then, it dawned on me that I was about to be on the wrong end of a high-speed chase through a residential neighborhood. Seriously, the fleeing car had to been going at least 60 and was headed directly at me. I slammed on the brakes and pulled over.

The fleeing car tried to make a left on a street two houses in front of me. In the middle of the turn, the car started sliding. (Had the driver never seen a movie with a high speed chase?) I threw my car into reverse and started backing up trying to avoid being hit by an out-of-control, thoroughly ghetto Caprice Classic. From 20 yards away, I watched the car jump a curb and slide into the middle of someone's front yard.

Before the car skidded to a stop, it was like someone blew the doors off of a clown car. Automatically, all the doors sprang open and four guys bailed out and started running. The cop cars successfully turned left and pursued a couple of the guys who ran. Another two, well, they ran toward me.

In the split second when I realized that they might be armed and that I really didn't want to get carjacked, I stomped on the gas and backed the hell away. Honestly, it was some precision stuntman driving shit I'm talking about. When I got far enough away to feel safe, I stopped and watched the guys. They had stopped also, seemingly unsure about what to do. Apparently, standing around and waiting for the cops was all they could come up with. Frankly, I was okay with that.

A few seconds later, another police car skids to a stop behind me. As the policeman ran past me with his weapon drawn and pointed at the guys up the street, I thought it might be a good time for me to pick another route home and get the hell out of there. Before I became more involved in the episode of "Cops" that was playing out in front of me, I slowly started home an a more scenic route.

Thanks to the surge of adrenaline, I arrived home and immediately performed several acts of strength and skill. I felled a large oak with a couple of right hooks, ripped a few phone books in half, picked up my car, and killed a squirrel with a well-thrown rock from 200 yards away prior to devouring it.

Home

If you're lucky, you have a few places on the planet that are spiritually nurturing. For me, one of those places is Rock Eagle 4-H Center in Eatonton, Georgia. Each time that I visit, the stresses of the world seem to effortlessly slough off. I am able to live in the moment without the worry or distractions of the world. It is as perfect a place as I've known.

Over the weekend, we went to a counselor alumni event there and were able to catch up with a bunch of old friends that we've not seen in a while. Man, is it good to catch up with good people. It's great to see folks raising their families, making positive changes in their lives, and getting back to their roots.

There is nothing quite like sharing cold beers around a campfire under the pines with people that really understand you.

What Did You Do Yesterday?

My pal Davey (a.k.a. Col. Blake) and I knocked over three banks, robbed a train, started a fight in a saloon, got into a shootout with the local sheriff, and fled a lynch mob. What did you do?

Looting and pillaging brought to you
by Jack Daniel's Tennessee Whiskey.

Seriously, Col. Blake and I staged Operation: Day Off, a covert operation in which we made it our mission to hit a local theme park and ride all available roller coasters. We'd intentionally planned our operation to coincide with the start of school to maximize ride time.

The new roller coasters at the Atlanta Six Flags are pretty stinking cool. Goliath is ridiculous. The classic Mindbender is still one of my favorites. The wooden coasters have been removed from my list, however. The Great American Scream Machine should be immediately renamed "Rickety Death Trap" or "Get To Know Your Medical Copay." I'm sure that I was a few inches shorter when I got off of it. It has been moved onto my "Do Not Ride" list along with the Georgia Cyclone and the Ninja.

By 4pm, we'd been on all of the major coasters. Operation: Day Off was an unabashed success. We'd quickly demonstrated our tactical prowess via unsuppressed "shock and awesome." Mission Accomplished!

I'm The Scholar and I approved this message.

Proof

Last night, I dreamed that Dr. James Three Thousand and I were in some swanky hotel restaurant, having an urgent conversation because we were being followed. In the middle of the conversation, I noticed that a long-haired and bearded Johnny Damon was seated a few tables away from us. On seeing him, we knew that the time machine had worked! Then, the spies who'd been tracking us burst into the room, prompting us to fight and flee.

Proof of successful time travel.

Baseball Weekend 2008!

I Have Left the Building
I wrapped up my on-site biz in "New Heaven" and officially left the client site. After a week that left me shell-shocked, I finally found the best view of the building: the view from the train getting the hell out of town.

The view from the train: my favorite view of the building.

Rather than head into the office on Friday morning, I opted for a raucous Thursday night on the town in New Haven with my buddy, The Rogue. Evidently, downtown New Haven is quite the party scene late at night with people everywhere and cops blocking every intersection.

Providence with Dr. J3K
Friday afternoon, I hopped a train to Providence for "Baseball Weekend 2008" with Jimmy Three Thousand. Shortly after arriving, we headed to the theater to check out "The Dark Knight." Holy crap, what a movie. Seriously, Tim Burton should be ashamed of the 1989 film. How good was Ledger? Not only was it a far superior film to "Batman Begins," I think I'd rank it as one of the better films I've seen this year.

After the movie, we purposely avoided Captain Seaweed's for fear that we'd end up like Uncle Walter. We were certain that we'd end up in the hurt bucket if we chanced a visit. Next time, my friends, next time. We ended up at a little place for a few beers and some catching up. Ultimately, we decided to get our monthly intake of greasy food. This would prove to be a poor decision as I would be in a perpetual state of gastro-intestinal distress for the next 48 hours.

Seemed like a good idea at the time.

Yankee Stadium
The first stop for Baseball Weekend 208! was Yankee Stadium. I'd never been to Yankee Stadium for a game and wanted to get there before the season and the stadium ended.

The view from our seats.

After an endless Amtrak ride, we hopped the subway and headed to the stadium. We found our seats in the Loge near the right-field foul pole and lamented the fact that they could comfortably accommodate someone only about 4 1/2 feet tall. Couple being cramped into the seat with the facts that it was sweltering and my stomach was percolating the entire time and you've the recipe for bliss. Still, it was great to be at the game.

I could use an ibuprofen & Pepto sandwich.

Unfortunately, it went extra innings. We had to leave to make our return train. Alas, we didn't see the Yankees win it but we had a great time.

Leaving the city by train.

Another skyline shot from the train.

Accidental patriotic photo.

Pawtucket Red Sox
Sunday, feeling much better, we headed up to Pawtucket for a Red Sox game.

Outside the stadium, a statue of the lady "Paws" mascot.

Until we arrived at the McCoy Stadium, we were certain that we'd get to see David Ortiz who was on his AAA rehab assignment. The night before, he hit a homer in the tiny, tiny stadium. To our dismay, he wasn't in the lineup and had been moved to the AA club, the Portland Seadogs. It was a good game fueled in part by our blind hatred of the Toledo Mudhens.

The press box completely blocks the view of some of the seats.

Not only is the stadium normal sized, the concession prices are much more realistic than their professional counterparts. Two beers for $9.00! I felt like a king ... a king who only drank two beers during the game, but still. My point is that it was affordable.

Fishing for autographs before the game.

Elvis Presley works as a photographer for the Toledo Mudhens.

10,500 people were at the game.

Afterward, we headed back to Providence, cooled by a Del's Frozen Lemonade. Then, we headed out to a local haunt to sip a margarita and watch the RedSox game on TV.

I Can Make Seconds Feel Hours

It seems that my song was playing and Lady Destiny was calling me out onto the floor to dance the "New Haven Bullshit Two-Step." I've been busting my ass all week long to get drafts of materials out for review prior to leaving the project. Today, I had a meeting with the C.O.O. (to whom I directly report) and the departmental Vice Presidents. Honestly, I've been dreading this damned thing since the meeting invitation hit my inbox. I had a sneaking suspicion of how it would go and, boy, was I ever right. Here's the summary of what the VPs said (I paraphrase, of course):

The materials look great; they're so much better than what we have. (Queue foreboding music.) But, we just don't have the time to update the materials; it's too much work for us to review it, plan our exercises, and use this stuff. Oh sure, we'll use it in the future but right now, we just don't have the time to do it.

Okay, thanks very much (for your company's money, you bunch of whiney-assed sissies). I love, love, love to hear sob stories about how hard people work, about how much time they spend on bullshit, about how they're too stinking busy to use the very thing that will help remove some of the unbearable burden of time-consuming work. I find it hard to take that with a looming implementation date they're unwilling to step up to the plate and do what it takes to make it successful. If that's their attitude, I'm done with killing myself to make a golden egg out of the turd they gave me. Instead, I'll just pick out the corn and give it back to them.

I took the afternoon off and went to a movie.

My Latest Existential Crisis

Ah, that old familiar territory. It seems like only yesterday that my friend Scott and I would regularly experience these types of crises during work at the start-up software company for which we worked. Flash forward eight years and I still seem to be circling the drain.

So, my client here in New Haven has an insurance business for which I'm developing training materials to support a software implementation. Yesterday of all things, I was creating a training module that taught readers how to update an insurance policy for a "deceased" owner. Frak, I thought, someday some jackass at an insurance company who doesn't know dick about anything will be changing my status to "Deceased" in some damned software system.

One minute, I'm writing a boring training manual. The next minute, I'm struggling to deal with my own mortality, attempting to reconcile the time I've spent on this planet with the time I hope I have left. Thinking, once again, how much I really detest so many things about the corporate world.

I couldn't help but think of how, lately, everyone has seemed a little more brittle. Several weeks ago, I had to leave New Heaven to get home as a result of a family medical emergency. My mom was suddenly hospital with what the doctors thought were heart problems. At the time, they scheduled a heart catheterization, certain that she had some sort of blockage. (Turns out, the docs weren't right; her problem wasn't cardiac in nature but was a reaction to some medication that presented like heart problems.) I threw all my shit in a bag, sped to the airport, and bought my way onto the next flight home. It was a freaky few days but, in the end, everything turned out OK. Nonetheless, it was one of those situations that sort of belly-punch you into an awareness that life is fragile and time together is fleeting.

"Don't waste it. Don't waste it." These are the words that keep surfacing from the depths of my mind. When I emerged from the fog of thought, I grabbed my iPod and, magically, stumbled onto "Theory of the Crows" by The National which was in my queue. The lyrics seemed to fit and I felt a little less desperate, a little more a part of the world, a little less alone.

where crybabies cry

in the united states

bright white on both sides

like a plate

nobody listens

nobody should

it'd be a waste of attention

not enough money

to buy a PC

so i come in this weekend

asleep on my feet

and if i forget you

i'll have nobody left to forget

i guess that's what assholes get

traded my day light

for a career

but i need you to disprove

my theory of the crows

pouring my fingers across the keys

will someone review my salary please?

i'm selling my time to the man who sells style

that time should be mine to waste on you

i'll suck off investors

i'll suck off VCs

i'm losing my posture from time on my knees

they treat me so well

cause i'll do anything

it's in my nature of service

but i'll need you to disprove

my theory of the crows

kids of the wealthy are raised by the poor

you send daughters to los angeles and new york

i need mine to see me when i wake up

i need mine to know

that i'm what they come to

when they come home

I Love Baseball

Maybe I'm simply in the middle of an existential crisis brought on by a looming deadling and a mounting stress level but I just cried at seeing Yogi Berra throw out the first pitch at the All Star game. Shut up, Joe Buck, people with half a brain know it's a special moment; let me weep with joy. Shit, I love this game.

Home Run Derby

Not too much to do in the old hotel except for watch TV. Naturally, I watched the home run derby last night. I was as awed by Josh Hamilton's shots into the stratosphere as I was annoyed by Chris Berman's self-serving yapping.

(Sigh.)

My Time in New Heaven Nears The End

I've been unable to write much in the last month or two because I've been, well, what's the word for it? Oh yes, gainfully employed. As much as I hate to leave the title, "Man of Leisure," I need to start helping to pay the mortgage, you know? The point is that my consulting assignment has keep me ridiculously busy and, frequently, out-of-town at my client's site.

During my time as a road warrior, here are a few things I've noticed, learned, discovered:

• Inexperienced travellers in the airport annoy me. How about this: instead of complaining for 5 minutes to the TSA worker about how "gross" it is to walk across a floor in your bare feet, just suck it up and walk the twelve feet to get through the security checkpoint. Everybody has to take off their shoes, everybody. Deal with it.
• Working in a cubicle with no phone is bliss.
• Some older middle age men just can't wait to get home from the office before rubbing one out. Seriously, if you're going to punch the munchkin at work (and I don't think you should), at least thoroughly clean up. Seriously, they don't pay me enough to walk into a restroom and discover this sort of shit. Needless to say, I've stayed the hell away from the toilets.
• Frank Pepe really does make the best pizza I've ever tasted. Tomato pie!
• I've developed a new nerd crush (me, not her) on Sarah Vowell. If you haven't picked up Assassination Vacation, The Partly Cloudy Patriot, Take the Cannoli, or The Wordy Shipmates, go get them. She's smart, funny, and down-to-earth.
• If you're the only person on the Hertz rental car shuttle from the airport, the driver will make announcements as though the bus is completely full. This will be the case even if the driver recognizes you from previous visits and even if the two of you chat on the ride to the lot.

I could go on and on and on. Instead, I'm going to go to sleep. This week is my last week on-site here in New Heaven. After that, I'll be back at home with slightly more time on my hands to do things like, I don't know, write blog entries, take photos, sleep in my own bed. You know, the good stuff. More later.

Second Best News I've Heard Recently...

... is that Verne Troyer's sex tape will be barred from distribution. Thank God in heaven.

I Am an Elitist

Sorry that I've been away but it's been tough to find time to write from the yacht or from the luxurious casinos of Monaco. My ascension into the upper tier of society began with a polo lesson a few weeks back, courtesy of my dear compatriot, Crazy Greg. Turns out that he won the lessons in exchange for a substantial donation at a charity auction. He is a miracle of benevolence!

We drove north of Atlanta to learn from a master horseman and polo aficionado, Mr. Jack Cashin at his farm. It is quite an exhilarating and difficult sport to master. To be on the safe side, I'll probably need to complete another lesson or two even though I am, quite obviously, a natural rider and sportsman.

We began in Mr. Cashin's den by watching a well-played VHS tape about the sport. Afterward, we were quite anxious to begin the game. I couldn't wait to be on top of a steed in a full run, leaning over to strike a small ball with a mallet. Thirty-five miles an hour? Rubbish!

We began with a lesson in the hitting cage where we mounted a wooden horse, took up a mallet, and worked on perfecting a forehand shot without killing ourselves (or the horse). I'll be the first to admit that there is a lot going on in the game of polo. It went pretty well. After being observed by a few scouts, Dr. J3K has fielded several offers from semi-professional teams.

Dr. J3K working his magic in the cage.

After quickly demonstrating our athletic prowess and equine knowledge, Mr. Cashin decided to waste no additional time before putting us atop one of his most trustworthy mounts and turning us out into the ring so that we could experience the thrill of polo in real time and at full speed.

Prior to the lesson, we didn't know horses could be milked.
Evidently, it makes them run better before during the polo match.

Dr. James 3000 takes his time (really) to make a shot.

Crazy Greg approach his shot at full-speed.
(Approx. 40 m.p.h.)

Crazy Greg demonstrating his mastery of the forehand cross shot.

Here's a short video of the action. Be forewarned that the action is so fast-paced that viewers may experience nausea or motion sickness. It is, however, very enjoyable. And fast.

Dr. J3K on the polo field.

Oh, Mr. Cashin repeatedly told us that telling people you're polo player is a fantastic way to meet women. Score!

Ahhh, the life we lead.