Strange musings from the bakery: A turkey without a flock and other fowl jokes

By David Baker

March 13, 2008 | At 6:15 a.m. on a Thursday, out the window of the plane, Atlanta -- -- the capital of the South -- -- was a motherboard extending infinitely in every direction. Millions of little points of orange, yellow and red lights spread across a dark silicone canvas in a mix of bending and linear patterns -- some of the red ones, car taillights, flickered as if to signal the bigger computer of the city was working.

How did I get from that sleepy-eyed optimism to this state of worry as I'm walking swiftly away from the camo backdrop and the din of turkey calls that fill the exhibit hall at the National Wild Turkey Federation National Convention?

Could it have something to do with my strange dress? Glasses. Blue jeans. A brown sweater over a Carolina blue button-up shirt -- collar and shirt tails spilling out fashionably over the crew neck and out of the sweater's bottom. It's my hip grad student teacher outfit, and it's out of place in the ocean of browns, greens, tree bark and fake leaves.

It's unlikely my anxiety at this moment has anything to do with my dress. My behavior in the last five minutes provides a better explanation.

As I walked around the great exhibit hall of the Georgia Congress Center in downtown Atlanta, past the jerky sellers hawking their samples, past the turkey call makers, the camo clothing companies -- even one bold enough to put leafy print camouflage patterns on an assortment of different panties, bikinis, thongs, boyshorts, etc. -- and finally to the wooden booths of the hunting guides, who are in Atlanta to sell private hunts to camo-drunk sportsmen, I realized I needed to make the most of this opportunity.

I ducked into a wooden-cabin-esque booth and asked the round gentlemen sitting on his stool behind the counter about my hunting fantasy.

"Do you think you guys could make it possible for me to kill a deer with my bare hands, just chase it down and break its neck? I've always wanted to do that." I almost said, "break its neck like Steven Segal," but I refrained, because I figured he probably hadn't seen "Under Siege."

He looked at me with an equal measure of irritation and disbelief.v "Well, I'm just such a piss-poor shot, I figured I'd have a better chance of running one down, I'm kind of fast," I said, trying to right the ship.

"Oh, yeah. A lot of people get buck fever and can't shoot..." the guide responded, finally having something to grasp onto. He went on to say something about the percentage of people who miss big deer on his hunts. I didn't pay any attention to the details.

"Could I maybe try to kill one with an atalatl?" I asked.

"Well ..." he's visibly nervous, now.

"Are these booklets for anyone? Anyone can take one?"

"Yes."

"OK, thank you for the information," I said as a started to high tail it out of there. If there was a security force, I was sure he'd have them on my ass in a matter of minutes.

Now on the escalator, somewhat hidden in a crowd of middle-aged couples, I'm heading for the big banquet hall for the last hurrah of this convention -- an awards banquet and a show by aged country vixen Lorrie Morgan. I think I'm just being overly paranoid.

These people don't care much about my outfit or my dream of killing things with my bare hands. They're all here because they like to hunt and want to see America's turkey population continue to grow. Others may be here for the country-fried entertainment at the big dinners every night -- it couldn't be the food that brought people here, because the last two nights have been sub par.

Maybe some came for the chance to bid on once-in-a-lifetime hunts at the huge, bore-me-to-tears auction they had last night, which I believe was Friday night, but it's all ran together. Some people were bidding five and six grand to go kill pheasants or turkeys. Bigger, more dangerous game, like moose and elk, were going for seven or eight thousand.

Perhaps the raffle/auction girls had something to do with the large sums. The use of beautiful women is just good marketing. Girls isn't an accurate description, really. These were ladies -- beautiful faces, fake chests, long legs and elegant black or red gowns. I could tell they'd been making money off of their looks for a while, and by the looks of some of them, that'd been their profession for at least 15 years.

"Sir would you like to buy a raffle ticket," a tall blond in her mid-30s asked me as I walked back to my table with a $2 Wild Turkey whiskey sour.

"Um, well," I stammered to come up with something to say. "I would love to give you all my money, I really would, but I'm afraid I only have like 20 bucks. Sorry."

"We take credit cards." Her persistence was impressive, but her judge of income wasn't -- it was obvious I was a poor college student, at least I thought it was.

"Sorry, I'm all maxed out."

I assume the blond, 20-something Miller High-Life chicks in their short denim skirts, frayed at the bottom, and their tight brown tank tops that I'd met earlier in the day would probably, in 15 years, be ladies in similar gowns -- twice-divorced, with a house and fake boobs as collateral -- selling raffle tickets by rubbing up against middle-aged men in camo suit jackets and carrying auction prizes around a filled banquet hall.

A few patrons of the convention also may have showed to hob knob with their favorite celebrities.

In this case, celebrity must be very loosely defined. The most famous person at the convention was probably Jimmy Russell, master distiller of Wild Turkey Bourbon -- an NWTF sponsor. Jimmy tests every batch of Wild Turkey and is living the wet world's dream. At the Wild Turkey Bourbon party Friday night, Jimmy plugged along -- a squat man with a round face, hunched over on his cane, a drink in one hand -- stopping to take pictures or shake hands. My dad, who works for the NWTF and was the whole reason I got to take part in this adventure, said Jimmy may not be the most famous person here, but he sure was the most well liked -- especially when they're selling Turkey for $2 a drink.

After Jimmy Russell, the celeb factor really went downhill. For avid outdoor TV watchers -- a group I couldn't claim membership in -- some of the hunting show personalities were probably a big deal. The most famous one, I only say that because I've actually heard of him, was Michael Waddell. I couldn't tell you much more than the facts about him: he has a goatee and is over six feet tall. Other than that, I think he just hunts for a living -- the dream job of 95 percent of the convention goers.

Then there was the little-known-athletes segment of the convention's celebrity population. Some were washed up Major Leaguers like Ryan Klesko and John Rocker. Truth be told, Rocker is more of an icon of intolerance than he is a washed-up closer -- he said some racist, homophobic things about people on the subway in New York. I was standing in line to get my $2 drink and my flashing Wild Turkey Bourbon ice cube -- it was a light inside of a drink coolant device, but fascinating, nonetheless -- and just happened to see Rocker signing autographs. I started laughing.

The only working professional athlete was Atlanta Falcons linebacker Keith Brooking. I'd seen him up close at Thursday night's welcome party and told my dad I was going to go talk to him.

"I'm just going to go over there and tell him I'm a member of the national sporting press and demand an audience with the bastard."

"He could kick your ass," my dad said.

"He won't. He's not even that big. I'll challenge him to an arm wrestling match," I said, my whiskey must have been betraying me.

It wouldn't be until the next night, after my laughter about John Rocker stopped, that I actually went up to talk to Brooking. He was signing autographs at a high table in front of a Wild Turkey banner.

"Hi. I'm a fan of yours, not necessarily the Falcons, but I like the way you play," I said, buttering him up a little.

He said something about how a lot of people don't like the Falcons anymore. It took all I had to not mention dog fighting.

"Do you want to arm wrestle?" I sprung the question on him. "I've been telling people I could beat you."

He must have been challenged in this manner before, because he acted very blase, totally ignoring me. Brooking continued signing the xeroxed photo of him, handed it to me and turned to talk to some crony off to his left. I don't know whether he was scared or just thought I was drunk. I'm going with scared, because I hadn't even had a drink at that point.

I'm sure all that stuff was tangential to the main purpose of the convention, which was to promote and further the efforts of the NWTF to increase and secure wild turkey habitat for the future. Not a bad cause. A bunch of conservationists getting together to drink a little, be entertained and put some of their money into an organization that will put their money to good use.

In the convention hall for the last time -- we fly out at 10:30 a.m. -- I get the sense there are a lot of Huckabee votes in the room. I tell my dad this, and he tells me Mike Huckabee has been a fixture at this convention for several years. Makes sense to me.

With every award, the crowd stands. I sit in my folding chair, hunched over my notebook, writing, "My philosophy: If you don't stand for anything, you can sit through everything." And, "I just look like I'm writing so I don't have to stand up. If anyone gives me guff, I'll tell them I'm a working journalist, which is at least half true."

On my way back from the bathroom, I catch a comment from Mrs. Jeanette Rudy -- a white-haired southern belle of more than 70 years, who just happens to own all the land Nashville, Tenn., attraction, Opryland, sits on. She's also the chair of the 2009 NWTF National Convention in the capital of American country music. Mrs. Rudy is talking about the enormous ring she's wearing on her finger, and how much it costs.

"In the South, we don't tell how much it cost, but I can say that it cost me two times a week for 30 years."

The whole place goes up in laughter. I'm practically rolling on the ground at this point. The whole trip has been worth it. The packed red-eye flight, the tough steak they served us for dinner, all of it worth it just to be in the room for that comment. It was worth the price of admission. Just like the $12 I paid to go on a tour of CNN's main news operation -- which was located in the same complex as our hotel -- was a pittance for this precious little nugget of info: CNN, the worldwide leader in news, has it's headquarters in a place that used to be an H.R. PufnStuf theme park. It just doesn't get anymore perfect than that.

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