The Council of the Titans

We arrived at the Lost Draw Ranch at around 8 Wednesday night. Now, before you read any further, I want to think of every single Southern stereotype that you can. Remember all the Clint Eastwood/Robert Redford movies, all the Laura Ingalls-Wilder books, all the Marlboro commercials, etc. Keep those in the back of your mind.

We pull up to the ranch, which is essentially a group of tricked-out double-wides with a bevy of 4WD vehicles and enough ammo to take over the Union (more on that later...). As we drive up, we see a group of people shooting over at the skeet range. I mean, this is the story of our experience here. Opportunity after opportunity to humiliate ourselves. It is obvious that Griffin and I are going to shoot skeet, which neither of us have done, and it is also obvious that we are going to look like the last kid you would want to pick for a schoolyard football game. Imagine Shia LaBeouf in the first 30 minutes of any movie he's in. 

The shooter consist of Vaughn, the company CFO, Randy, the logistics/IT manager, and Sue, the president/founder's wife. After the "you've gotten so biiiiig!"s and "are you ready to work?"s, they asked the question that we knew was coming, but were hoping to avoid:

"You guys ever shot one of these before?"

 "Of course!" (Definitely not.)

The next hour and a half looked like an episode of MXC. Misfires, leaving the safety on, almost dropping the gun from the recoil, etc. After Griffin shot his first pair of shells, he opened the gun, which was an auto-eject. The shells popped out and hit him square between the eyes. I had gone through a few stations before I mentioned that my shoulder was starting to get sore, and that my gun felt pretty heavy. Vaughn looked at me, sort of intrigued, and says "Really? Thats Sue's gun..." 

That night was sort of a welcoming dinner for Griffin, my dad, and me, as well as a few members of the board. This dinner was absolutely outrageous. Keep those southern stereotypes in your mind, as I introduce to you the players at the party.

Greg Cooper: President/founder of Cooper Natural Resources. Marine Corps sniper in Vietnam, he served 9 months before being injured by shrapnel, for which he received a Purple Heart. Possibly one of the most interesting men I've ever met, he has more stories than you can possibly imagine, and if he were to run out of those, he has an even bigger collection of racist/sexist jokes.

Jack Clinton: A member of the CNR board, Jack has been a major player in the oil and chemical industry for the better part of the last 50 years. Served many years in the Air Force; my dad told me stories in which he bartered for drilling rights in Saudi Arabia with enormous amounts of livestock. A very nice heavier set man, I can't even begin to guess how much this guy is worth.

Jeff ?: Jeff was serving in the Air Force as an aircraft maintenance specialist when Clinton began to dismantle the military. His group got cut, so he formed a business that did the exact same thing he did in the military (same guys and all), got a few government contracts, and made tens of millions of dollars. 

Gunny: A rhodesian ridgeback, his ancestors were used to hunt lions in Africa. An incredibly athletic dog, he is considered to be one of the family and is allowed to beg, eat, and sit on the couch like a human. 

Grizz Bear: A yellow lab that I have known for over ten years, this dog has been Greg's right-hand man for almost 17 years. He has been slowing down the past few years, but he retains the legendary status and respect that he commanded in his younger days.

The stereotypes of the south are in full force here. Fox News is running 24/7, on mute, almost more like a badge of honor. I mean, there is no point in watching the news, because these guys know how things are and how things should be. The liquor is way expensive, and the beer is light and cheap. The conversations range from old war/business stories to Obama's recently outed Muslim heritage (the irony was intentional). Dinner is an 8-pound possum that Greg killed on the way to the ranch (I'm not even joking). Griffin and I are just about as out of place as possible. We were sitting on the couch near the end of the evening, when Greg walked up, vodka club in hand, and began to tell us a story about the unwritten rules of the cowboys, specifically the ones prohibiting spurs being worn in town and walking into a building while "covered." Obviously, we sat there wide-eyed, not understanding a word, for a good 7 minutes before someone yelled "He wants you to take off your damn hats!" We haven't even started working yet.