Man-- sweaty, hairy man-- is on the hunt.

He comes down to a glen and glimpses. . . . . beautiful deer grazing. Sleek of limb, fine spots, a comely pelt that is truly a gift of nature.

The man crouches down and watches. . . . . and then, AND THEN, he walks out into the open, holds out his hand, AND MAKES FRIENDS WITH THE DEER?!

Huh? No clubbing? No carcass dragged through the woods?

But wait-- WAIT--  hear me out. . . . .

If he comes back from time to time, strokes it gently on the head with soothing words and a touch of playfulness, eventually the deer will be eating out of his hand. And perhaps one day, the deer will follow him home and become part of his family-- woodland creatures fluttering and tweeting and dancing around in a fairy circle like the Walt Disney cartoon, "Snow White".

By now, you should know damn well what I'm talking about-- finding a woman.

Like a hunter, man must walk through the woods. Like a charmer, he must "play nice" with the deer and mingle like the great guy he knows he can be.

But things can get needlessly complicated if:

1) you're too loud-- like a brute crashing out of the woods. . . . . the deer look up startled.

2) you're too hesitant-- your hands are shaking and your voice is wobbling as you reach out. . . . . deer can smell fear and don't like it.

3) you quite literally rub the deer the wrong way. . . . . they toss you off and go back to grazing.


In my life, any number of these things have made me look singularly ridiculous in a glen teeming with beautiful does, lost in "a land o' plenty". I have come home with a heavy heart, muttering curses in self-rapprochement and questioning my destiny all the way up to the stars-- the fates that made me so consummately unskilled in "wildlife management"-- and just about hung up my flap-eared, checkered "Holden Caulfield" hunter's hat and retired to a dark, lonely cave of semi-permanent defeat. All because I couldn't bring home a deer to cherish.

(And fuck, incidentally)

Was it a trick of our evil age-- had the forests been clear-cut, the cool waters dried up forever, toxic waste slopped everywhere like entrails, stranding us out in the remorseless desert of the 21st century to shuffle about like stooped-over, cancerous, internet-addicted mutants-- grasping for rotten flesh like digital scavengers of the posted jpeg? Or did we just have "poopy attitudes"?

(Ask not this celebrity that question!)

Think back. . . . . and ponder.

*******************

In every glen, it becomes immediately clear that some deer stand apart as "the best of their breed". Haughty, proud-- the consummate principle of "hell-takes-the-hindmost" Darwinian logic that is just as cruel to the shivering underdog as nature allows, shrugging like Axl Rose in a "who-me?" gesture as some get to go backstage and kiss Stephanie Seymour and most do not.

If you're someone like me who even writes these words, hand them not the snow-globe of your heart-- for they will toss their head thoughtlessly and let it smash to the stones in order to file a nail and outstretch their fingers admiringly. If you don't know how to approach these strait-laced creatures and happen to get under their oh-so-fine skin, they're likely to kick you in the face with a "hot & bothered" hind hoof and leave you to stroke your jaw perplexed, shocked, and not just a little bit humiliated. As a boy, I once sent a girl like this a note from "your secret admirer" on Valentine's Day and got kicked pretty hard. I did not have the strong, knobby skull of a man but the soft, half-grown head of a boy who didn't know any better but to get broken by that sort of "fawn", who turned mean pretty damn quick. My jaw was "cracked", so to speak, and I ran off to hide in the bog like "Swamp Thing" and soak up the rot where the whispering Spanish moss sang to my troubles-- my torn self-esteem of ruin-- and backed up those sorrowful textures 100% with the grotesque croaking of bullfrogs.

Then many years later I came stumbling out of the woods with my arms over my head, covered in reeking peat just like "Swamp Thing" and hollered/burbled at the same deer-- "Look what you did to me, you bitch! You killhled the boy and threw him in the swamp!"

Well, she didn't understand and galloped off. To her, I might as well have been "The Turd-Monster from Outer-Space". A massive man-hunt went on for this "refugee from a Slasher-Film" until they found me back in my familiar, lonely home in the bog with the bullfrogs. They asked me some questions, told me not to come back to the glen, and let me be. But not before sloshing around in the bog and looking for a body. They scratched their heads and departed, talking into their radios like literal-minded park rangers. If I'm not mistaken, there was even a helicopter whompin' overhead, looking for evidence of this "Turd-Monster from Outer Space" and the missing boy.

If I had ever felt bad as a putrescent boy/mutant, now I felt even worse!

On a "Serious Note". . . . .

5

-- Be a "Kla(a)ss-act" and do your share!!

****************

Well, years passed and maybe I got smarter about these things. For instance, don't go for the most conventionally exalted deer who will perhaps never quite know the scratchy, twisted underbrush of less-than-triumphant complication that dogs at the heels of man and beast alike (-- & Swamp-Thing jr.). At least not for very long. Women who are not conventionally beautiful, or have higher intelligence, an artistic temperament, a greater sensitivity, a streak of pathos in their constitution, or any number of quirks or combination of anything like that are your best bet.

I could spy that breed of deer, and were drawn to them like a child to "Bambi". No longer was I so horrid-seeming to my inner gaze, but forgot my troubles as I walked up to the special deer. I felt so good around them, that I'd pet them and talk gently like the way a teenager strokes a cat.

But I had not mastered the powers of persuasion and my enthusiasm sometimes got the better of me. . . . .  You must understand, that a deer, like your favorite cat you see lounging around the neighborhood, does not respond well to pressure. Do not pat an animal too hard on the head. It will not like it, and will take a step backward. Do not attempt to drag an animal into your loving, syrupy clutches-- the cat will spring away from your chest. And when it comes to the forest glen, a pathetic scene will be played out when you're awkwardly putting a bridle over a deer and trying to tug it home with you with jerks. It spreads out all four of its legs to lock itself in the ground, and dips its head down stubbornly as you pull.

A Forest Park ranger, an outside observer, or anyone who wants to put a stop to this wrong-headed situation comes over and says, "Hey, quit messin' with the deer!". He doesn't understand what the problem is, and leaves you out in the open, shamed for your lack of skill. Maybe you get into a quarrel with the ranger, too embarrassed to admit that you made a very obvious, very deep-seated mistake, and pretty soon the two of you are rolling on the ground like monkeys biting and scratching as the deer gallops off.

In a worst case situation, you can find yourself in the clink.

A deputy leans back in a chair, picking his nose. "What are you in for?"

"I just wanted to pet the deer!"

"Yeah", as he rubs his thumb and forefinger together with a particularly interesting booger. "And you probably fuck bear cubs too".

*******************

I've made my share of mistakes, probably not as wild as the picture I've sketched (-- "I'll never tell!"). But at least I have the mental health and resourcefulness not to fall into the same god-damned rut. Though coming home empty-handed is frustrating, ultimately I think it is a choice-- a calculus of little choices like a river of life. The hunt is on!

"BAMBI VS. GODZILLA"

(. . . . . "DOMESTIC DISPUTE")

     -- This piece is dedicated to Rachel at "Borders Books", or "the one who got away" because I was an oaf swinging from the branches in enthusiasm and doing "cartwheels" until I fell at the feet of a nonplussed manager who told me to "to get the fuck out". I think of all that foolishness with a hint of a sly, secret smile and know now that experience is the name we give to our mistakes.

Now seriously. . . . . you wonder "what piqued forces" may have BEEN TRYING TO IMPLY with this insinuating lil' article found right here to the knowing, snickering laughter of your good ole' pals, "Bill & Ted". . . . .

5

"DEATH TO THE LIBERAL INSECT!!!!"