Well gang, it's the lover's holiday again, and here's my son's latest addition to his writer's cramp!
(Shannon is his lady, and I THINK this letter is prophetic in a way. You tell me .... )

Airborne Infants

I had an interesting conversation recently. I remember it like it was yesterday… probably because it was in fact, yesterday. I was sitting on a moderately comfortable barstool at a quaint little Irish pub, located just off Rittenhouse Square. It was mid-afternoon, and I was just relaxing, minding my own business, letting my thoughts wander as I casually sipped an ice cold beverage. Every so often I’d glance up at the shimmering widescreen TV above the bar. There was a soccer game on. From the looks of things, it was Liverpool and some other European club. Liverpool had just scored and one of the players was running around the field – or “the pitch” as some of the more hardcore soccer fans prefer to refer to it – like a complete lunatic. He threw his jersey up over his head as he ran, weaving back and forth with his arms outstretched, as if he were impersonating an airplane. At this point, I remember thinking to myself, “Well sure, if I ran around with ten teammates for an hour and a half and we only managed to score one time, I’d lose my mind too.” But anyway, that’s not the point…


So there I was, sitting at the bar, when a cold breeze danced its way across my face. I noticed it was coming from the direction of the door, and I slowly turned to see who was entering the bar. Now, it’s safe to say that I do not in any way find it amazing when people open doors and then walk through them… what I do find amazing however, is when a door opens and a flying baby with tiny little wings and a quiver of arrows strapped to his back comes flittering through. Without question, there are some people in this world who just can’t handle a moment like that. But I on the other hand, found myself instead wondering whether or not the profession of ‘Cupid’ violated any child labor laws. I also pondered what kind of salary and medical benefits were offered with such an occupation. And more importantly, what sporting goods store is selling archery sets to diaper-clad, airborne infants? Seriously, what’s this world coming to? Mom was right… it’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.


So anyway, the little fellow flapped his way over to the bar, hovered there like a FOX news chopper for a moment, and then finally parked himself on an open barstool. He immediately looked over at me, which was not surprising because I was clearly staring, and in perfect English he said, “Some weather we’re having, eh?” Of course, I found this odd on several levels, but odder still was the thick Canadian accent the little guy was sporting. I was curious, so I asked, “What brings a Canadian arrow slinger like yourself to a fine Irish bar like this?” He informed me that with February 14th fast approaching, it was officially his “busy season”, and this was a business trip for him. He babbled on about work for awhile, complaining about “decreased arrow allotments” and “unrealistic bulls-eye quotas,” and also the negative impact that Internet dating services are having on the “romance industry.” After a moment or two, the bartender wandered over, and our small, winged friend confidently and calmly ordered a Sam Adams. …Excuse me???

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Sure, it’s weird for a baby to be ordering beer – especially a talking, flying baby – but it’s got to be even weirder for a Canadian to be seen ordering an American beer. I didn’t really know what to say, so I asked Cupid if he wanted to throw some darts. He agreed, and we made our way over to the dart board. Out of courtesy, I let him go first. He calmly drifted to the throwing line, and before I could finish another sip of my beer, “Pffft, Pffft, Pffft, Pffft, Bulls-eye, Bulls-eye, Bulls-eye, Bulls-eye.” ...In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t the best idea to play darts with an individual who shoots arrows for a living.

On a related note, don’t ever go bowling with a guy who operates a wrecking ball, or play ‘Whack-A-Mole’ with a judge – Seriously. You will lose… every… single… time.


OK, right – back to the story… As we finished our very lopsided game of darts, I asked, “Are all Cupids Canadian?” I guess he thought this was funny, because he laughed, finished his beer and said, “No, not at all, but with the weather being so frigid lately, the bigwigs at the corporate office decided that our Calgary branch was much better suited to handle the low temperatures – because as you can see, our uniforms weren’t exactly designed for warmth. So, they temporarily reassigned the Philly branch down south, and as a result, here I am.” I asked how long he was going to be in town, and with a smile, he said he had one more job and would be flying out that night.


He paid the bartender for his drink, collected his bow from a nearby coat hook, and slowly began making his way to the door. I told him to enjoy his stay, and wished him luck. He waved and gave me a wink. I got up from the bar to head for the restrooms, and as I strolled toward the back of the bar, it occurred to me that I still had not heard the bar door open yet. I found myself beginning to wonder why he was taking such a long time to actually leave the bar… and before I could turn around… “PFFFT…Owwwwww!”


Yup. That little jerk shot me in the rear with an arrow. Laughing hysterically, he flew out the door, giggling back at me, “Happy Valentine’s Day! …See you same time next year! –Give Shannon my best! …Woo Hoo!”

FAR OUT DUDE
Bebop

Ummm, just a moment. He threw FOUR darts at the board? I was believing every word up until then. Still, I suppose when you have an unlimited supply . . .

And, yes, it's truly weird for one of us Canucks to be ordering an American beer. Our friend Shboom would probably chime in on that one. :-)

How many darts ARE there?
Four sounds fair to me ...... but I've never played for real.

Three around here, Dave. But they're attached to a wooden pole. We use it to bale hay.

RR.
(redneck russ)