HOO GIVES A HOOT(ER)

Who would have thought such calamitous results would occur from entering Hooter's Wing Eating Championship. If I had known what was to transpire, I would have invited many more friends (and a few enemies), to watch in envy, and to realize that the pleasures of being so gifted at eating copious quantities of hot chicken wings can bestow unusual and great blessings upon a humble man. But alas, humility is not a trait found among many acquaintances, and so they must suffer in recompense.
I entered the contest on a dare, as a lark, and because I am known to many restaurants as one who could put them out of business by my eating prowess. I have been banned from many buffet tables, and have had to resort to disguises to indulge my appetite, and finally, when copious quantities of whatever was being served is gone, I laugh at their woe upon discovery of the ruse.
However, this day was slightly different, you see, I entered the contest under my nom de plume, Lorenzo Magnifico, and expected to be tossed at the door when I gave the monicker to a lovely young woman who carried a list of entries.
But much to my surprise, a carriage of Hooter Girls informed me they were my cheerleaders, and had heard so much about me. They said this in sexy voices that could be heard above the din of music and too many sports channels to count, and so I was puffed with pride, and looked with disdainful approval to the right and left as I was escorted to my seat. "Make way for Lorenzo," they shouted as we crossed the floor, shoving any who refused to move.
I was coddled and hugged, and the ladies in the photo were my personal attendents for the event.
The contest began, and friends who had come along with me were cast aside in favor of this new order of life. Finally, people who understood my talent and treated me in a manner deserving of royalty. I looked at my friends and scoffed. Pitiful peons.
And as plate after plate was served, the lovely ladies would wipe my mouth and fingers, massage my neck, and encourage me with adoration.
Within 15 minutes, there was only me and a gargantuan individual who was wearing a very bad Hawaiian shirt, left in the contest, and we were neck and neck, or should I say tooth and tooth. The contest was halted and Bad Hawaiian Shirt and I were reseated at the same table.
He asked for another plate, a triple serving, and I thought all was lost, as a double was my order. I was feeling great discomfort, for second place is still a loser. What was I to do?
I thought of my father, and my brother, also blessed with a similar talent, and wondered for a moment at what would cross their minds.
As my stomach rumbled, I knew divine inspiration.
I lifted my butt slightly off the chair and fired off a round of quick staccato bursts of gas, aimed directly at Bad Shirt Man. The roar of the crowd hid my iniquity.
I watched as he went to place two whole wings into his mouth just as the first scent of the pungent aroma hit his nostrils, and his eyes opened in shock.
It was then I let loose an SBD canon, a quiet, hidden explosion that I worked through all twenty-nine feet of intestine into one long, continuous wind, and as a gaseous cloud enveloped him, he gagged, but could not be heard. He fell to the floor.
I was declared the absolute winner.
And so, I found myself surrounded by every Hooter Girl, as Bad Shirt Man was dragged from the restaurant and tossed out back, as everyone thought the noxious fumes were his own, and his greed had done him in.
Haha! Triumph.
I was toasted and toasted by the lovely ladies, and all wanted to accompany me to my humble abode, and though I thought well of myself, I wondered why there was such adoration over being able to devour 113 wings.
And though things are sometimes great, they must always end, as nothing is permanent in this life, and only Heaven and Hell in the next.
Bridgette, (pronounced Bridge-ET-tay), one of the delightful buxom blondes in the photo, asked me what it was like to be in the Mafia, like Tony Soprano, and could I get her a role in a movie.
I replied I had no idea what she was speaking of, and all laughed, as if we were in on a huge joke together.
Finally, the award was to be given, and I was brought to the microphone. As people cheered, one of the women told the crowd, " Ladies(few ladies outside of Hooter's employees were in attendence)and gentlemen(I observed only tshirt slobs), the winner of Hooters Annual Wing King Award, Lorenzo Magnizzino."
And I knew.
They had mistaken me for the dean of the Los Angeles underworld, that Sicilian
devil, Lorenzo Magnizzino.
What the hell.
I raised my hand and shook it sideways at the audience, almost a papal blessing, and they called on me to say a few words.
I feigned reluctance, but took the mike.
"Thank you so much," I began, "but I just want you to know, those chickens were dead long before I got here, I had nothing to do with their demise." I winked at the audience and they cheered loudly, lifting glasses, which the girls hasitily refilled and added to their bills of fare.
"I am sorry what happened to my opponent," I said with a sinister snarl, "but you know how I feel about competition, and opponents get eliminated, one way or the other."
The crowd cheered again, and I stepped down and out the door with these three girls, to raucous applause, to hugs and kisses from every Hooter's Girl, and I left with a promise, like MacArthur, to return.
And so, I have labeled this escapade, The Godfather Caper, and more importantly, I have learned, that when you know you are full of gas, it can be a good thing.
A very good thing.

PHILIP WEYLAND - ANGEL ON ASSIGNMENT

When I was in 4th grade, attending Kendall School, my best friend was Philip Weyland. He lived on Eagle Road, right behind Kendall, and was a class leader and class president. I felt lucky he was my pal, as everyone looked up to him, and he seemed to know everything about everything, from bugs, to frogs, to tying knots, to scouting, to girls.

Phil arranged my first date, a square dance, as part of a double - him and Mary Lou Williams, me with Pamela Martin. Pamela had long curly hair, kept in a huge ponytail that shook and bounced as we spun our partners. I fell in love as we shared a Coke. And all I could wonder, was how great Phil was for finding her for me.
After school one day I went over to Phil's house, and I thought we would surely play some board games, "Career" was a favorite, or explore a nearby swamp for frogs and snakes. But that day was different. I think it might have started raining, and we couldn't go out(though my memory is of a glorious day of sunlight). Phil said, "Let's read."

I thought maybe he had some Superman comics, but instead, he handed me a book. The Hardy Boys - The House on the Cliff. He was reading another Hardy Boy book, I don't remember which, and he asked me if I read the Hardy Boys. Read them? Who were they? He told me of their adventures as detectives and I was hooked.

We read for an hour, and when it was time to go home, I wanted that book, and he lent it to me. I believe I was up most of that night under my bed cover with a flashlight, reading the greatest adventure story ever written. Two boys, fighting crime, riding motorcycles, heroically battling for good and justice. And I was with them.

I did read every Hardy Boy, and own them, and recently bought most of the older ones again on ebay. But that day, when Phil handed me a book, he opened a door in my life that would never be closed, a door that has taken me around the world, into homes on every continent, and to other planets and beyond, to adventures and excitement I came to know through literature.

If it hadn't been for Phil handing me a book, I would never have discovered David Copperfield, which I read in 5th grade, along with so much more, and the list is a neverending one, with each adventure, from the classic to the sleazy, from cheap pulp to great words, being a portal away from this world and into another.

And even more, the book he handed me, realized within me a quest for excitement, for natural conquests, and I would probably never have joined Cub Scouts, and later, Boy Scouts, and I would have missed all the great adventures that fortunately took place in my life, without Phil's initial primature of what was good.
He was an athlete. He was a leader. He was intelligent. He was literary.

Phil sent me my first post card, from a vacation in Maine.
Phil moved to Missouri at the end of 4th grade, and we kept in touch through letters until high school was finished, but I lost track of him somewhere in Texas.
I have always wanted to tell him how much I owe him, I have always wanted to give him a lifetime of thanks. For Lord of the Rings, for Foundation, for Atlas Shrugged, for so many, many tales and novels, so many adventures, and also for my imagination, for my writing, for so many doors that open because of all that went before.

Who knew where he is or what he does.

Until.

Recently, I typed his name on the net, which I do about once or twice a year to see if I could find him, and lo and behold, up came this picture that you see above, of Phil with actor and football great, Jim Brown. He works in the same industry as I, motion pictures, has worked with a hero -William Shatner, and Phil has gone about on his own step in life, and he and his wife live only 15 miles away!

But.

What do I do? Call or not? What if he thought I was crazy.

Should some friends remain in the past?

I don't have the answer yet. I want to call. I just need to get up the courage.

Though I have died on an operating table, visited heaven, drove off a mountain cliff on a four-wheeler, been bitten by a rattler...

I am apprehesive.

Lord, give me strength. And will.
To share some of the amazing life experiences I have been blessed with, with the man who started me on my road to adventure.

Surely the Lord has had his hand in a desire of my heart, for how would Phil all of a sudden appear, after forty-five years, and be so close, and work in the same industry.

Okay, Lord, it is you, so all must be good, and I will call this week! Or next.

Peace.