fill yer tag yet?

God, the lake bar is great fun. I don't know why, but that stupid lake townie bar is always a hoot. This time of year it's filled with hunters (you can tell by the hathead and that they leave drunk and early) and stinky late season fishermen guys with T-shirts that say: "This is a drinking town with a fishing problem."

Had a conversation with a hunter (couldn't throw a rock without hittin' one, after all.) I didn't ask him what he shoots. If it had been bow season I might have been interested (though all the guys go in for compound instead of recurve - pussies!) but I haven't studied up on hunting rifles all that much. I'm more into the military stuff (you know, HK MSG 90 and Barrett M99 - now that's a beautiful rifle) I did know enough (after long-ago careful coaching by The Man whose dad and stepdad are both avid deer-murderers) to ask the only pertinent question one can ask during deer season:

"Fill your tag yet?"

I'm not even sure what that means, but it seems to be the friendly thing to say.

He had, and now he was after elk.

"How do you stand it? Sitting in a blind from five am, freezing your ass off, and just waiting around for a fucking deer to stroll by. I mean, do you at least bring a Gameboy to pass the time?"

"No," he answered. "I stalk all my kills."

He seemed way cooler after that. Especially since my friend and I had just been admiring (ok, sort of laughing, too) at his sweatshirt, on which he had sewn a bunch of band patches. Some old stuff, like The Who and Doors, of course, but Godsmack too and, well, shit, I can't remember what all. There were like thirty of them.

I told my friend I'd buy her a kami - you know, to loosen up first - if she'd ask him if what we thought was probably true: "Did your mommy (who you still live with, by the way) sew those on for you?"

No shots required, she just leaned over and asked him. She's so cool, she can talk to anybody and not come off looking like a loser or an asshole, which seems to be my problem (loser when not drunk, asshole when drunk). He was a nice enough guy and told us of all the bands he'd seen and stuff. Of course I'd been drinking since noon and he was sitting right there so I didn't have to get up. He also was not a heavy hitter, which is always a relief. Unlike Pete, who rubbed his groin on my friend's knee. Yuuuk.

**Note to my dude-type readership: That won't make a good impression in any circumstance. Nobody's that cute.

"Kinda quiet in here tonight," he said, and then he looked at me. "You're not from around here, huh?"

"Boulder."

I love to say that and gauge the reaction. Boulder is... well, it's Boulder. The town that liked the early 70s and decided to stay. People either love to live here or love to only visit. This guy seemed neither, he was from the other college town which is a close second to cool: Fort Collins. He said he came up to the lake every weekend to hunt and he sat in this bar every Saturday night for four months. He's got a trailer up there on one of the other lakes. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be impressed or not. Truth be told, I was a little jealous, actually.

He said, "I could tell. Chicks come in here all the time and laugh at the locals."

At first I was a little offended, but I figured I had it coming; and besides one astute observation deserves another, right? So I said, "Well, it is easy pickins. That is, if we were in the market, which we aren't."

He didn't get offended, he just grinned like he caught on and asked me what I did. I told him I write violent fantasy novels. He didn't seem to know what to make of that (He lives in a college town - guess he doesn't go there.)

Then he said, "I'm trying to decide if I want to go out again tomorrow or not."

He disappeared pretty soon after that, so I guess that's Hunter for "Later."