What did I ever do to Bambi?

I didn’t play the role of “Man.”

759 miles later, I have returned to the YAB Desk ready to pull at least something from my frenzied weekend into a reasonably funny column. Last time I wrote, I had yet to have my first Public Policy class of the semester, to have driven extensively through four states (and less extensively through Delaware), to have played Frisbee in the mountains of Pennsylvania, to have started a food fight where the only ammo is “bagel”, to have perfected the related game of “Throw the knife across the room into the Cream Cheese”, and eaten enough graduation cake to, well, feel guilty about eating so much graduation cake.

But as stated, it took me 759 miles to pull off all of these activities in 48 hours. But while a bagel whizzing by your ear at the speed of Lou is a surefire wake-up call, nothing threatened my life more than my latest encounter with the animal kingdom. I mean, I’m friendly to animals, despite the controversial scandal Puppykick, which I assure you, is entirely fictional. Heck, I even spare animal crackers if there is a non-creature-inspired cracker alternative nearby.

But do the deer care? Hecccccckkkk, no.

Apparently, deer are very egotistical forest dwellers. Ignoring a deer could cost you your life. I don’t know what I did to deserve their ire, but I’ve traced it down to two events in my life. The first occurred on the way home from recording One Accord’s first CD. After a long day of recording and performing, the caravan was heading to a group member’s No. Va. home for a well-deserved home-cooked meal. I totally expected to be exhausted while driving there in John Stephens’ van. I totally did not expect to watch Michael Morrison hit a deer (with his car, not his fist) at 65 mph. If the deer survived the impact, not to mention the 40 yard airborne joyride, he’d probably have told his friends about how cruelly he was treated. Word would spread that I was at the scene of the crime, and then I’d be blacklisted by deer everywhere (Would my mug shot be at the local Elk Clubs?).

Hmm…that was in VA, and this life-threatening event happened PA. Now since only reindeer can fly, I doubt word traveled that far. I therefore conclude that my weekend run-in had nothing to do with this event.Which leaves me Cause #2 to ponder. It makes a helluva lot more sense, since it took place the very night at the very neighborhood of the woodland confrontation. You see, as the men of Shawnee Group spent the weekend playing paintball in the Poconos in honor of James Maugham’s fast approaching wedding, we took some time after dinner to locate a local field to toss the disc. In the name of economy, we took 6 of us in one car to and from the designated clearing. There’s a problem with this scenario. If you didn’t catch it, let me repeat it. WE PUT 6 GUYS IN A CAR. And in some sort of crazy coup, I was not automatically granted shotgun.

With a diminished freedom of movement, I was pretty much forced to look straight ahead for the entire car ride. Turning my shoulders to look out the window very well could have knocked Rob Harford out cold. And while I stared at the back of the seat in front of me, the rest of the group gawked at the many deer that casually lounge around the front yards of the neighborhood cabins. Had to have been at least three deer per yard. Not that I would know. But this is what I’m told.

So what does this all mean?

When I left Sunday morning to make the trek over to Jersey, I thought I had accounted for everything. I remembered to pack all of my things. I had already targeted the Wawa I would stop at for fuel. I even charged my Dell DJ for hours of uninterrupted mp3 goodness. Careful planning should ensure a quick trip.

Nobody told the deer.

As I made my first right turn off of Pine Knoll, I was greeted with overcast skies, a threat of rain, and 5 deer grazing in the middle of the road. I assume this is the equivalent of teenagers hanging out in parking lots of stores that have closed for the evening. There’s no real benefit of selecting the location, therefore giving off the aura that they’re there just to be cool. Anyways, after finding out that honking, yelling, flailing, and slowly rolling towards were insufficient methods of deer disbanding, I was forced to do exactly what would have worked on me if I were in their position. Sunroof and windows opened. Radio turned on. Channels scanned. Song found. Volume blasted. Cover my ears.Turns out deer hate the Celine Dion song “I Drove All Night.” I guess that makes two (or six) of us. They scattered before Celine made it to the first chorus.

Am I proud of what I did? No.
Did I treat myself to a donut at Wawa for my ingenuity? You bet.