Native Sons of the Golden West

My alarm clock went off this morning at 6:30 a.m.

I’ve been recruited to help my step-father of 26 years set up for his Parlor’s annual “Crab Feed”. By “Parlor” I mean that it’s a group of emasculated old guys, milling around aimlessly, devouring dead animals and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon. They spend the evening regaling each other with stories from their glory days, trying to remind each other what it is to be MEN and reassuring each other that they still are…

The Crab Feed is a fundraiser for the organization…wait a minute, did I just say ORGANIZATION? This group of guys is anything but…

First of all, the youngest person there, besides myself, was at least 55 years old.

I’ve never been witness to such a massive collection of plaid flannel shirts in my entire life. The one guy NOT wearing plaid was wearing a T-shirt with a cartoon of a massively large-breasted girl draped over the hood of an “off-road” truck with the words “Tits Or Tires” emblazoned across the front.

As yet another 4X4 came roaring up the road we all headed outside to unload. It’s important to have a gas-guzzling off-road vehicle in the suburbs you know. One bumper sticker on the back of the car read “No Bama” and another was an endorsement for “Bush/Cheney”. As we unloaded, I noticed quite a few solid steel plates on the bed of the truck. They were at least an inch thick and weighed a ton. The driver smiled toothlessly at me and said that they were “perfect for stopping the buckshot from my 50-caliber shotgun“…never mind the ricochet.

Moving back inside, I see another plaid flannel shirt up near the stage trying to tune a guitar…badly. It’s going to be auctioned off later that evening. Strum…STRUM…S-T-R-U-M!!!

He’s a rock star don’t you know.

My ears are bleeding.

I stop by the table(s) of items to be auctioned off later that evening to take a look. One item catches my eye. It’s a small, round trashcan with the words “Cowboy Stuff” printed on the front.

Inside? The tag reads “Beers and Nuts”.

Another item? A giant wheelbarrow with a shovel and a hoe.

Just then, a commotion stirs outside the front of the building. I go out to investigate. There’s a large Alpaca…yes, a llama…near the entrance.

It is wearing a Rastafarian wig and hat. I glance at his nametag…“Van Gogh”.

Stepping back inside, I see a woman working to “straighten” the chairs I have already put down.

Ten feet behind her? A man un-straightening them.

Ten feet behind him? Another man un-un-straightening them.

Cutting across the back of the room, I happen upon my step-father. He is standing there regally, hands on his hips, surveying the scene. Taking a deep, satisfying breath he turns to me and says, “Now this is where the ACTION is!”.

When all the tables have been set up and all the chairs have been put in their places, every guy in the building grabs his cell phone and starts dialing. He’s important! Somebody must have been trying to reach him, right?

By this time, all the coffee that’s been keeping me going all morning is making me want to, well, go.

I scan the room. Nothing.

I go outside and survey the building. Nothing.

Back inside, as I’m standing in a corner of the room looking perplexed, a man approaches me and asks if I need some help. “I’m just looking for the bathroom”, I say. He looks at me blankly and points directly behind me.

I’m standing not 2 feet in front of the door.

Oh my god, I’m becoming one of them…