Last week at this time, I was shooting skeet near the Texas coast. More accurately, I was attempting to shoot skeet. I hit very few. My excuse was that I'm not a bird hunter and I hadn't fired a shotgun in several years. Shooting flying discs takes practice, doesn't it?

I was at a big, fancy lodge near the town of Seadrift. A friend of mine in the ad biz had put together this excursion, including a bunch of outdoor types--hunters, photographers, writers, fishermen, magazine people, etc. He thought it would be good if we all got to know each other, and it was. I had a great time.

On Tuesday, we went fishing. My friend caught about seven or eight. His business partner caught about the same. I caught zero. My excuse was that I'm not a fisherman and I hadn't cast a line in several years. Catching fish takes practice, doesn't it?

But I redeemed myself Tuesday night, when my partner and I won the washer-pitching tournament. I got three ringers in the first game. My partner got three ringers in the second game. We were unbeatable, a power to be reckoned with in the fast-paced live-on-the-razor's-edge world of washer-pitching.

Overall, it was a nice couple of days off. Saw a lot of exotic game, including a beer-drinking Russian boar named Leroy. That alone made it worthwhile.

Now, however, it's time to get back to work. In just a minute. After one more slice of ham and another chocolate egg.