In a message dated 10/11/99 4:31:48 PM Eastern Daylight Time,
[log in to unmask] writes:

> are these planted live birds or are they fake targets?

Live planted, heartless, they don't all know to fly and sometimes you have to
kick them up into the air. If you are lucky they get far enough away you
don't end up blowinge their arse off. The dog is the dumb one and runs around
in circles sniffing ground apples. It makes for a nice walk on a clear autumn
day, not so cool in the rain, and you have to try not to shoot your partner
when he pokes his head out of a bush. A bit more complicated than simply
whacking the bird's heads off w/ a hatchet, but not much more of an exertion.
The idea of hanging out & hunt bonding is the fun part, an American pastime.
That is, if you can get into heavy topics like boot waterproofing and garlic
belching. My interest comes from Tolstoy... in Resurection he wrote about
pheasant hunting. Only thing I remember about the book is the pheasant
hunting. I'm going partly to keep the lurker Raydome company. I usually find
myself a bit less stressed out afterwards, but also feeling sorry for the
doomed pheasants. It has something to do with getting over doing something
not so friggin complicated to be real trouble but that does not feel quite
right with the local universe just the same.

Had to watch 8MM this last weekend, Nicholas Cage, because Kathy picked it
out (she left me behind part way through). That kind of mixed feeling Mr.
Cage's character has after killing off the snuff/porn movie producers. You
get yourself to a place where you feel like shit but realize underneath it
all that it is not going to get you landed in jail. Difficult karma drama in
Theme Park PA. Then forty-million hours of long commutes alone in car bound
solitude to think about it between NPR snippets.

The local skeet range in Suffolk County is right where they say the UFO
crashed.

][<en