I have been known to do something similar in attics and basements and 
followed by discourses on mouse, bat and other critter droppings and 
behaviors.  I learned it from a fine entomologist...but when he puts on 
his hillbilly routine, its real convincing and to this day I'm not sure 
he doesn't actually have intimate knowledge of the taste the stuff.  
He's a fine story teller, and a fine entomologist.

Light bulb!  I'm trudging through an HSR, and sometimes its real hard 
going.  Sometimes it flows.  I think it flows when I'm just telling the 
damn story and not so concerned with academic grammar issues.  What I 
love about my entomologist friend's reports is that he always includes 
the rough transcript of his field note voice recordings in the 
appendix.  I go straight for that, 'cause its like being there, 
listening to the story.  Hmmm.  I could do that.  It probably wouldn't 
meet the official standard.

-jc




On Friday, June 27, 2003, at 07:34  PM, Gabriel Orgrease wrote:

> Chicken Bo in the Appalachia of upper PA, retired from head of 
> security at
> Corning Glass works, in his sporting leisure guides groups of city 
> dudes
> from Queens and the Bronx out for a few holiday days of wet feral field
> stomping and ear blasting, tromping around in an autumnal fuzz after a 
> night
> of too much Yuengling, Jack Daniels, cheep cigar smoke, hot sausages 
> and
> losing cash at poker -- looking for where the pheasant or chuckers not 
> hit
> by the dudes flew.
>
> Blam blam blam is heard from our hunter buddy Gus Nearcom when the old
> pointer finally deigns to flush a bird and the proud cock flies off to 
> the
> left. We duck, hit the ground. Or motionless in the walk-about, 
> standing
> there dazzled by the sun and the breeze and release from city noise of
> trucks and sirens, interrupted by the blasting in a high volley that 
> echoes
> off the dense valleys from the bunch gone shell crazy out over the East
> Ridge, a twelve-gauge chorus.
>
> Chicken Bo’s standard routine is to throw down a handful of chocolate
> goobers on the trail and he calls to the dudes, “You want to see some 
> real
> mountain lore, Gus?” Everybody is another Gus to Chicken Bo. “I’ll 
> show you
> some real hunting mountain wisdom.”
>
> He bends over in front of the dudes and picks up a few goobers and as 
> he
> goes to pop them in his mouth, “This is deer shit… fine vintage, it 
> has to
> be a 6 point. Hell of a rack on this one. You can tell from the size 
> and
> color.” Chicken Bo noticeably munches on the goobers, puffing out his
> cheeks, savoring the essence in their eyes, “And you know, I can tell 
> where
> this buck was eating last. It had to be up over that ridge there,” 
> pointing
> with his arm extended out over an area full up of red and yellow 
> leaves. “I
> can taste the alfalfa and lupine in this one. Had to be up over that 
> ridge
> he was eating. I know it for sure!”
>
> “You guys ever think about coming up here deer hunting you give me a 
> call.”
>
> XXX
>
> Postscript: Drinking non-alcoholic beer is like kissing your sister.
>
> --
> To terminate puerile preservation prattling among pals and the
> uncoffee-ed, or to change your settings, go to:
> <http://maelstrom.stjohns.edu/archives/bullamanka-pinheads.html>
>

--
To terminate puerile preservation prattling among pals and the
uncoffee-ed, or to change your settings, go to:
<http://maelstrom.stjohns.edu/archives/bullamanka-pinheads.html>