2006 -- The year I own a Gun.

I have always eschewed the notion of gun ownership. I know myself. I know my temper. I know my neighbor's affinity for running power tools at 3 in the morning while his (now deceased dog) would bark as if invading vengeful Venezuelans were marching through Culver City. 

But this holiday season brought me not one but two guns. One from my daughters who know of my continuing battle with sciatica. And another, almost the exact same model, from the daughter and daughter-in-law of Ms. Muse, who were made aware of my periodic geriatric affliction.

If you or anyone you know has nagging nerve issues, you know what kind of relief these guns can provide. If I were to be using the gun on maximum pounding and vibration while penning this post, you might see something like thissssssssssssssssssss.

In any case, I thought my new gun deserved the same ode as the one written for the Marines upon receipt of their life-saving rifle.

To wit:

This is my gun. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

My gun is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life and my hunger for Gabapenton.

My gun is human, even as I am human, because it is my life and because going to the local Massage Envy store can be quite expensive.

I will learn my gun as a brother. I will learn its strength, its part, its accessories, including the large Dampener Nub attachment for sensitive areas.

I will guard my gun against the ravages of weather and damage and the possibility that my dog Lucy might be tempted to chew on the rubber tip.

I will keep my gun clean. We will become part of each other. And I will bring my gun into the car and keep it charged and jacked into the auxiliary port on my Mustang should I get stuck in traffic and the sciatica flares up while driving through the Yucaipa Pass.

This is my gun. 

And there can be no other.

A Tale of Three Ronnie Shirts

Somewhere in Arkansas, there's a man named Buford Wayne -- the names have been changed to protect the financially challenged. Seems old Buford had the luck to draw a winning ticket in the Razorback's State's 1987 Mega Marlboro Lottery and took home $8 million.

Not knowing how to spend the windfall, Buford went to the local Sears & Roebuck in Dumfuque and found a snowblower he liked. He bought 11 of them. He bought 18 pairs of Camo Crocs. And he bought two dozen of the exact same shirt.

I come by my multiple blue and white checkered Eddie Bauer long sleeve shirts by different means. And my daughters pressed me to tell the story of the Ronnie Shirt(s). And because they wanted to make sure I got it right, they even provided me with a point by point outline of the complete timeline.

When my uncle Ron/Ronnie/Ronald, the King of Cranky (only used posthumously) passed away we were tasked with cleaning out his room at the old Terazza Assisted Living Home in Cheviot Hills. I'm convinced my demanding uncle drove the staff crazy with his ceaseless demands for morphine and thus bankrupted the place.

We came across two soft cotton flannel shirts, one green and one blue. My daughters took the shirts, as this was 5 years and about 50 lbs. ago. Meaning they would not fit me.

Turns out the blue shirt didn't align with Abby's brand and her hipster friends in Williamsburg, so she gave the blue shirt to her college roommate and former BBDO Associate Creative Director, Hallie.

Years passed. Miles were swum. Thousands of pounds of weights were lifted. And massive quantities of salmon were consumed. I now had an outdated "wardrobe" of clothing that draped over my shrunken body. Seeking a keepsake as well as something I could wear, I offered to help Hallie in her vocational pursuits (as if I wouldn't have done that anyway) in exchange for the return of my uncle Ronnie's blue Eddie Bauer shirt.

My daughters were aghast. 

Hallie was willing to part with a piece of my uncle's past. But my daughters would NOT have it. They searched the interwebs and were able to buy a duplicate of the shirt from Etsy. 

In Lithuania. 

I was so happy to be in receipt of the shirt. Not so much for emotional reasons, but for sartorial ones..

Later that year, for Father's Day or Hanukkah or my birthday, the girls went on eBay and found another exact duplicate of the shirt. I opened the gift, ironically enough, while casually wearing Ronnie Shirt #1. I was flabbergasted.

I now had two Ronnie Shirts that feel and fit like no other shirt I've ever owned.

Leaving only one mystery: Where did the 3rd Ronnie Shirt in the photo above come from? 

Well, Hallie confessed to my daughter that the burden of holding onto the original Ronnie Shirt, the one actually worn by my uncle, as he gave good "What Fors" to loud neighbors or slow moving cashiers. She said it felt like a bad omen, think about Bobby's remnant that he picked up on the beach in Oahu. Hallie insisted that Abby and Rachel take the original Ronnie shirt and give it to your father on Hanukkah. Just three weeks ago.

Which they did. While I was again, unsuspectingly, wearing Ronnie Shirt #2.

I now have three shirts and an amusing, at least to myself and my daughters, anecdote about their journeys to my growing wardrobe.