For Sale: One Conversion Van

Last years Christmas adventure began with the van breaking down due to water in the fuel in the middle of a freezing rain storm. We were rescued by my Father-in-Law, who loaned us his mini-van. We celebrated our good fortune by slamming the car door on my hand. On our return trip, we rapped both of my shins with an ironing board.

This year, events in Arkansas dictated that we make a quick, unplanned trip there. The trip began most innocently enough on a beautiful day. We thought that we had successfully sat out the bad weather that had occurred south of us. We were wrong.

It began as snow 'flurries' and ended as a 'Winter Storm'. Not just any winter storm, a major winter storm that knocked power out all over souther Virginia.

We hung tough, and drove carefully past 25 wrecked cars. We saw cars in ditches. We saw cars in the median. We saw cars balanced on the guard rails. We saw 10 cars crashed on an icy bridge at mile marker 105. The van proved steady as we drove at 35-40 mph in the ruts in the snow.

There is a good bit of stress that goes along with driving 330 miles in a storm that is going from snow to ice. As we began to escape the snow, though tired, I thought "Dang...we're going to make it."

Ahhh.....ye of little faith. Just like Janet Leigh stepping into the shower in Psycho, just like the skipper and Gilligan, just like George Clooney sailing out of Gloucester harbour...when we got into the van on that beautiful morning in Jersey, we were doomed. She got slashed and stabbed, we were just screwed.

The Van farted...and farted again...and again. DAMN! Water in the damn fuel again. We limped to the rest area, poured STP gas treatement in, and the motor died.

We're screwed. Landi looked at me. I looked at her. We looked around at the ice covered trees, and the ice coated sidewalks. We were in a Rest Area on I-81 just north of Marion, Virginia in the middle of a horrible ice storm. We called the state police,and they said they would dispatch a trooper as soon as they could. We could hear the sleet hitting the van, and we could see the icicles growing longer.

Because we expected it to take hours for the trooper to arrive, we climbed into the back of the van. The huge captains chairs are much more comfortable than the driving compartment. Using ice from the storm, I fixed cocktails as Miss Landi prepared h'ordorves.

We were setting in relative comfort enjoying the storm when suddenly, there was a rapping on the window, and a flash light lit the interior of the van. It was the state trooper. It only took one hour for him to arrive.

Once he over came the initial shock of seeing people climb out of the back of an ice covered, stranded van clutching cocktails, the trooper was very helpful and called for a tow truck. We climbed back into the van for more cocktails and snacks.

Roughly 45 minutes later the tow truck arrived, and we were rescued. The truck operator dropped us at the only hotel in the area that still had power. We disembarked clutching all manner of crap. We had fur coats. We had computers. We had the port-a-bar.

When at last we entered our warm and dry hotel room, we deposited our gear and discovered something.

Make a note. When stranded for any reason, don't forget to get the luggage out of the car before they tow it to the garage.

I don't have to make a note. I'm sure Miss Landi will remind me.

You Gotta Start in the Morning

A very wise, but tragically, ugly man told me that if you are going to drink all day long, you have to start in the morning. While that may seem obvious to some (mostly blood Garners and the stray Pardew), it will have evaded the psyche of other, less prescient souls (damn near every one else on Earth except for a singlular Hawk and Sugg).

I have long maintained that the proper way to start to day is to bite the head off of a live toad, and chase it with a Bloodymary. This is for two reasons. One, with regards to the toad, you can be sure that nothing worse is going to happen to you all day long, and two, with regards to the Bloodymary,...well...damn...I just like Bloodymary's.

Wednesday, while yet another toad may have his head biten off, I'll have to skip the bloodymary. We begin a trek to Arkansas, so I'll need to be sober for most of the driving portion of the day. The very wise, but tragically ugly man is turning 50 years old. His bride, the afore mentioned Sugg, has seen fit to recognize this milestone with a festive event that is likely to be like no other any of us have ever attended.

Forty seven years ago, it was determined that this ugly man , who was an ugly child, could not fly. I tried then to explain it to him. He defied me, and learned for himself that he could not fly. For some inexplicable reason, I got my ass beat because he could not fly. I will be making sure he does not attempt to fly this weekend.

But I digress, back to the issue at hand, we've had memorable trips to Arkansas. Last year, my bride, the afore mentioned Hawk, slamed the car door on my hand. That was pleasant. Later, we rapped my shins with an ironing board. Ahh...memories.

A few years ago at Thanksgiving, we attempted and were a dismal failure at Turkey juggling. Perhaps my favorite trip home was for Ashley's wedding. Note to self...antique tapestries are VERY DAMN FLAMABLE and don't extinguish the fire using your hands. When calling for help, everyone in the room will just look at you and say things like "hey..is that on fire?". (The flames may have been a tip off.) And ....and, when you show up covered in soot from fighting the fire, with the arms torne off of your suit jacket, Aunt Dorthy will still be pissed because you took so long getting her dinner.

So, Wednesday we will embark into winter storms to visit family, graves, and memories. There are challenges beyond the ice covered hills. We're doomed to slip and slide through the emotional wreckage of this year, but in the end blood is thicker than water. Just like when we last gathered in Memphis, you gotta start in the morning.

Just bite the head off the toad, and have a BloodyMary and everything will be allright.

Tips for Frying a Turkey

A fried turkey is a wonderful thing. It is moist. It is flavorful, and it's not hard to do. There are some things that only experience can teach you, and toward this end, I have some advice to offer.

First, brine the bird. A brined bird is a juicy bird. Google Alton Brown's Turkey brine and use it. It has some 'interesting' ingredients. What the hell is Candied Ginger anyway? Make the brine just like he says, and sink the bird in it overnight.

Second, check you liquor situation. Though we generally start the day with a couple of rounds of Bloodymarys, I have found that a nice glass of wine is a wonderful thing to enjoy while the turkey is frying. We buy only the best of the box wines. I recommend the Merlot. Also, be sure you have ice and enough bourbon because after cooking this dinner, you'll be ready for a couple of strong cocktails.

Thirdly, it takes a while to get the oil hot, so I go out three or four hours before I plan on cooking, and heat the oil up to 340 degress, then shut the heat off and let it cool. The main reason for this is to give me a good idea of how long it takes to get the oil hot. You want to cook the bird at 340 degrees, so if the oil has cooled to 200 degrees, and it took 90 minutes to go from 70 degrees to 340 degrees, all you have to do is find a 5th grader to figure out how long it will take to heat from 200 degrees back up to 340 degrees, and then most of us can figure out when we need to begin reheating the oil.

Fourth, it should go without saying that you should not fry the bird on a wooden deck, or indoors. The reason for this is simple. Since you've been drinking Bloodymary's all day, and you read the label of the turkey without your glasses, you believed you were cooking a 12lb turkey, not a 15lb turkey. This is important because you filled the pot up with oil to the line for a 10 to 14 lb turkey. That is a very important line. If you sink a 15 lb turkey into a pot fill to the 10 to 14lb line with boiling oil, the bird will displace enough oil so that when it breaks into a violent boil, some of the oil will splash over the side of the pot and make it's way to the open flame below igniting a fairly impressive fire, which interestingly enough, causes the oil to boil even more violently splashing more oil out....and you can see where this is going.

Fifth, when extinguishing an oil and propane fire, the first thing you should do is turn off the propane at the tank. In theory, this will cause the fire beneath the pot of flaming oil to go out. You just have to trust me on this point because at this time half the deck is on fire. There appears to be a volcano spewing napalm on your deck and the propane flames are the smallest flame in the whole conflagration. You can't see them because of the big fire. It's important to get that little fire out first, because if you don't it will keep reigniting the big fire when you put it out.

Sixth, be very careful when using the fire extinguisher. I recommend setting your wine glass down so that you don't spill it when you pull the ring thing out so you can use the extinguisher. Keep in mind that you'll want to aim the extinguisher at the base of the flames.

Now you see why the bourbon is so important. I told you you's want a cocktail.

A Learning Experience

Every parent want's the very best for their children. We want them to be better prepared for the shifting opportunities that our 'post-modern' world presents. In many ways, this means that the better they become at learning, the brighter their future will be. And while the academic side of their life can be addressed by schools and travel, the richness of their cultural heritage is sometimes more difficult to explore.

In our New Jersey existance, Gameboys, DVDs and gaming consoles are much more likely to be the afternoon distraction than hunting and fishing are. When I was in high school, I used to go duck hunting before school. Stump and I had a duck blind in a rice field that, in addition to being on the country line, was only 10 minutes from school. We'd hunt until about 8:10, and then we'd slog our way across the rice field to his truck or my car, and we'd run 90mph to school. We'd leave our guns, ammo, and boots locked in the truck, and after school, we'd usually head back out to the blind. Daily hunting and daily practice is how you learn to call ducks, and together, Stump and I were among the best duck callers in North East Arkansas.

One time, Stump and I were hunting before school, and we hadn't seen a duck. Not a one. At about 8:00, a lone suzy buzzed our blind, and we started calling. She started working in wide loops around our blind, higher at first, but getting lower and closer with each loop. Time slid by, and the Suzy settled in circling and kept her distance. No chatter could brind her down. No contented call brought her in. Nothing would bring her in, and she continued to circle just out of gun range. We tried highball calls to 'blow her up', but no change. I glanced at my watch. ... 9:20 HOLY SHIT!!!

We bolted out of the blind and sloshed across the knee deep water. Running through a flooded rice field is tougher than you'd think. First, there's the fact that you are running in rubber boots that come to the top of your thigh. Second, you're running in water that is knee deep. Thirdly, with each step your foot sinks about 5 inches into the Gumbo mud. Gumbo mud is a heavy, sticky clingy mud that add about 5 lbs wieght to each foot. Finally, you're carrying a 12Ga. shotgun, and all your hunting hear. It was about 1/3 of a mile run across the field to the truck. By the time we got to the truck, we were soaked to the bone and covered with Gumbo mud from head to toe, and we were utterly exhausted. Despite the fact that the single lane mud road was sandwiched between a rice field on one side and a very deep and very full drainiage ditch on the other side, I prayed that the gumbo mudder tires that Stump had on his truck would some how keep traction as we ran 60 mph. 9:25...SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT.

Stump's truck came off the gravel and onto the paved road like somthing out of the Dukes of Hazzard. Stump, being a country boy of the finest sort, had naturally replaced the 360cid engine in his F100 truck with a 460cid engine, and also replace the 3 speed transmission with a 3 on-the-tree shifter with a standard 4 speed (we pulled out of a wrecked Torino), a Zoom Clutch and a Hurst shifter. This truck would fly, and fly is what we did. We slid into the parking lot at Heffer High at 8:29. Niether of us even bothered to ditch our folded down waders. We sprinted into class and made it just before the bell went off.

My English teacher, Mrs.Smith was not pleased that I hunted before class and more than once had given me a lecture about it. She came over to me, presumably to deliver yet another lecture. I was sitting at my desk covered in mud and dripping water. (We had gotten very wet and muddy running through the rice field.) Before she could even start, her eyes latched onto my Buck Knife. I had a folding buck knife on my belt, and her eyes sparkeled as they seized on to it.

"Mr. Garner", she began,"I'll have that knife." And I replied, "No ma'am, that's a $10 Buck Knife. I'd be happy to put it in the truck with the guns, but you can't have it." Expecting to freighten me, Mrs.Smith said "I'll have that knife or you'll go see Coach Houge."

So, I went to the principle's office. Coach Houge was the principle....and had known me since the day I was born. After sitting and waiting for some time, finally Coach Houge came in, and said "Bill Jr., what's this about a knife?"

I told him all about hunting in the morning before class and how this morning we didn't do very well. I explained that we were late coming out of the field because a lone suzy started working late which was odd, I said, because we usually get pretty close to the limit. I was telling him about running across the rice field when he inturrputed me and, with an incredulous look on his face, asked "You're getting the limit?"

"Yes, sir", I replied.

"Where you boys hunting?", Coach inquired.

I thought for a minute. Hunting spots are valuable...very valuable, but seeing an opportunity to resolve some difficulties I'd been having at school, "Coach", I said, "I'll have to show you."

I didn't have any more trouble out of Mrs. Smith.

That's an experience you just can't get out of a Gameboy.

Ribs, The Rebels, and Boo circa 1974

This time of year, when the air gets cool and the leaves fall, always reminds me of my high school years. My whole family used to go down the Ole Miss to watch the Rebels play. Some of the frats down there would barbeque all night long, and the odors and smoke from their pits would wander from one end of the Grove to the other. Some times, when the Rebels weren't playing at home, Dad would do his ribs.

Dad had an upright smoker, and would cook his ribs for about 6 hours. Without fail, when dad did ribs you could be sure that 1) my sister would not leave until she had ribs, and 2) Boo would show up and not leave until he had ribs. After dinner, Boo and I would go running around. I had a Datsun 510 which Boo and I painted black. It took 7 cans of spray paint and looked just as good as you think a car painted black with spray paint would look.

One time we were out running around, and we saw a friends car parked back in the woods a little at Craighead Forrest. We know what Goose was up to. Goose had a date that night, and the movie had been out for about an hour. Boo and I thought it would be really funny if one of us got a running start, ran up the trunk of the car, over the top, and down the hood. Somehow, I was chosen to go first, which ment that Boo was going to be driving for the get away. I got out of the car, and sneaked around back of Goose's car. I got a running start from about 30 feet away. It's harder than you think jumping onto the back of a car while at a dead run. I fell and rolled over the top, scrambled to my feet as I fell off the front of the car, and sprinted to the car. Boo punched it, and we made our get away while laughing so hard that neither of us could breath.

Now, it was Boo's turn. We hunted for a while trying to find another friend parking, and finally came up on Bat. Bat had a Camero, and was very proud of it. Boo sneeked around to the back of the car. He got a running start and, striding like a hurdler, leaped onto the back of the car. His other leg came around and planted squarly in the center of the roof...the convertable roof. He went through the roof and hit the top of the wind shield with his stomach. A girl was screaming at the top of her lungs, and some guy was really pissed, and Boo was fighting his way out of the wreckage of the roof. Finally, after an eternity, Boo got free of the roof and sprinted to the car, and I took off. A pair of lights came on behind us, and I knew we were in trouble. There is only one way for a Datsun 510 to lose a Camero. We had to go off road, and after driving litterally through the woods and onto the MotoCross track, we lost the Camero.

I remember Boo, still looking a little shook up, saying "That wasn't Bat's car."

The Operative Word was 'Diesel'

Stump and I go back a long way. We met on night at a pizza joint in the fall of 1974 after my bootlegging partner, Squat, got arrested for getting drunk and naked while dancing in a pasture that doubled as a parking lot for our high school. Squat's arrest presented me with a unique problem. I had my mother's stationwagon full of beer, wine, and liquor that our customers had 'ordered', and Squat, now fully clothed, was sitting in the Craighead County Jail with the list of who ordered what in his pocket. Ever since Stump helped me solve my distribution problems that fateful night, he and I have been close friends. We've hunted together, fished together, frog gigged together and partied together.

Friends help friends. When Stump bought 20 acres of land outside of Jonesboro and needed help fencing it, I was happy to help. This was in the early 80's which which happened to be the era of 'generic' beer, so we'd ice down two or three cases of that crap, and head out to his land each Saturday and work like dogs all day long building barbed wire fences. I'm not sure why we were building the fences because he didn't own any cattle, but for some reason, it was vital that we fence the place in. After the fencing was complete, we set about cleaning the property up some, so we tore down the old barn.

It was July or August. In Arkansas, those months are hot and dry. Stump wanted to burn the wood from the old barn because it was not worth re-using, and it was full of termites and bugs. I suggested that we throw the wood down into the old cistern and burn it down there because I was afraid that a wild fire would get loose in the pasture if we just piled it up and burned it. A cistern is a hole in the ground that is usually lined with bricks or stone, and is used to collect and hold rain water. Stump thought that burning the wood in the cistern was a good idea, too. So, together with a guy named Tom who Stump had hired for the day, we chunked all that wood down into this huge old cistern. It took the better part of the day to get all the wood down there, but finally we were finished. Stump sent Tom over to the truck to get a jerry can of diesel fuel, and had him pour it into the cistern. The operative word here is 'diesel'. Diesel fuel burns and starts a fire. Gasoline explodes and starts a bigger fire.

Stump and I were standing about 10 feet from the mouth of the cistern, and we had a torch which we were going to toss into the cistern to light the 'diesel' and get the fire going. Holding my generic beer in one hand, I took my zippo lighter out and lit the torch. Stump tossed it under handed toward the cistern. Just as the flaming torch entered the cistern, a tremendous explosion erupted from the cistern, blowing flaming wood all across the tinder dry pasture and giant chunks of earth and bricks about 100 feet into the air. The cistern opening had been about five feet across. It was now about 15 feet across.

If you've never been near an explosion, it's kind of weird. An explosion consumes a lot of oxygen, so it kind of 'sucks' you toward it just a bit, and then as the oxygen and the explosive combine, it then 'blows' you back. Another thing about explosions is that they are loud. They are so loud that your ears feel like you stuck them in an amp at a ZZ Top concert. Finally, explosions mean a hot, firey flash. Got eye brows?

The blast flattened me and Stump. When you get blown down like that, it kind of jars your brain some so it takes a minute or so for you to come back to your right mind. Lying there on the ground looking up, I watched the fire ball grow and rise into a mushroom shape, and saw the flaming wood scatter across the pasture. Dirt and broken bricks rained down on us.

I sat up and shook my head. I looked over at Stump. He was smoking some, and his eye brows were gone. I said something to him, and I couldn't hear me and because he didn't react, I figured he couldn't hear me either, so I shouted at him. Tom had been standing a bit further back, so he came running over. He was real excited and was saying something and pointing out at the pasture, but I couldn't hear him. I hollered at him to talk louder. Stump was looking at his pasture. It was on fire, and the wind was taking it toward the creek. This day was going downhill fast.

It took a good while and a lot of help from neighboring farms to get the fire out. At the end of the day, exhausted and out of beer, I got in my car to go home. I was dreading tomorrow.

Stump had asked me to help him pick up the wood from the barn again. We were going to put it in a pile in the pasture and burn it. There wasn't any danger of the fire spreading. For about a half mile in any direction, we had already burned everything that would burn. All we needed as some beer. We still had a jerry can of diesel.

Perhaps I Blew the Interview

As with everyone who isn't a professional pit boss, I find it necessary to have gainful employment for the sustanance of our family. Presently, I am employed by an interesting company with interesting leadership. Our CEO 'bet' our 'investors' that 'he' could deploy not one, but two data centers in 45 days or less and spend less than $2.5 million doing it. Just FYI, it can be done, but only if you actually order the equipment. Unfortunately, someone in finance missed that memo. Interestingly enough, one truth has become tragically apparent to me. You can not build a first class data center utilizing second class equipment with a third world mentality.

Anyway, in contemplating how I came to this partcular point in my career, I was reflecting on some of the more interesting jobs and interviews I have had. One interview I had some years ago consisted of a non-technical, somewhat condesending, recent grad of Brown reading technical questions to me, and recording my answers on paper. Apparently, us techies can't be trusted to write. The questions were mostly 'Unix Trivia' type questions with a smattering of real systems administration questions. The answer to one of the trivia questions consisted of a fairly complex command with several modifying arguments, so I told the young lady what command would be used, and what you would want it to do. She replied that she needed the exact command syntax. I told her that I didn't know the exact syntax, that if I were actually doing this, I'd look at the manual page. With disdain dripping from her voice, she said "Don't you want to guess?"

In my senior systems administrator voice, I informed her "Only idiots guess."

Somewhat peeved, she asked "Is THAT what you want me to write for your answer?"

"Do you need help spelling 'idiot'?"

I think I blew the interview.

The Great Duck Hunt

As we approach duck season, my bride and I are considering sending our son, Catfish, down to Arkansas for a Thanksgiving duck hunt with my brother Matt, and his son, creatively named, Matt. My brother and my brother-in-law have a duck club complete with flooded woods, a blind, and most importantly, a club house with a wet bar, leather couches, persian rugs, Direct TV and a 60 inch flatscreen TV. I am a little concerned because while my brother and brother-in-law are great guys, and they will take great care of Catfish, but they can not call ducks for shit. I have a good friend named Stump who is a great guy and who is an excellent duck caller. Perhaps a call to Stump is in order.

Stump and I used to hunt a slough in the Cache River bottoms which ment that we had to weave our way in a 14ft aluminum johnboat loaded with guns, decoys, beer, and Duke through a tree studded swamp just to get to the slough. Once on the slough, we had to put the decoys out, and then wrestle the boat back into the brush so the ducks wouldn't see it, but not so far as to block either our field of vision or the dog's. If Duke couldn't see the ducks fall, he wouldn't know to go get them.
Usually, we'd get some ducks and have a good time. Sometimes, if the ducks weren't flying, we'd just sit there and drink beer. Sometimes, we'd do both. Once, a bottle of wine got spilt in the bottom of the boat, and Duke lay there lapping it up. A little while later, when one of us shot a duck, Duke was too drunk to go get it so we had to get the boat out of our hide, and go get the duck. This happened several more times, and pissed Stump of greatly. Each time we'd kill a duck, Duke would just lay there and growl.

Finally, Stump and I had enough of the attitude from the damn dog. Dogs that can't hold their liquor should not drink. We collected our decoys and headed toward the landing. Stump was steering the boat, and I complained to him that we were going too fast through the trees. I was afraid we would hit one. We had a 9.8 HP Mercury motor on the johnboat, and even with the load we had in the boat, we were moving pretty damn fast. John, being fortified by having been drinking beer all day, was very dismissive of my concerns and supremely confident in his ability not only to guide the boat but also to judge wheter or not the boat would fit between two trees. We were simply flying through the swamp. I'm in the front of the boat scared stiff as we pass closer and closer to trees, or squeeze between two trees standing close together. Duke is passed out in the bottom of the boat. Decoys are clattering as we shift and weave between the flooded oak trees. The motor is going flat out, and I can hear Stump laughing over the roar of the motor when suddenly everything stopped.

Well, almost everything. The boat and motor stopped. Everything else including me, my gun, the decoys, the cooler, 100,000 beer cans, Stump, his gun, and Duke continued moving through the air at pretty much the same rate of speed we were traveling at before the boat got stuck. I made out the best because, sitting in the front of the boat, there was nothing for me to hit on the way out of the boat and into the cold, cold water. Duke bounced off the front seat of the boat and then into the water. Stump hit the middle seat, then the front seat, then hit the water. I was cold and wet. Stump was cold, wet, and a little dazed. Duke was pissed, and was trying to bite me and Stump, and may have eaten a decoy. While I was trying to evade Duke, I steped into someones lost trap. The steel jaws slamed into both sides of my ankle and even through my boots, hurt like hell. While Duke was chasing Stump, I cut the rope that secured the trap. I told Stump that I was going to kill who ever owned the trap. I pryed the trap from my foot, and checke the tag. It said "Garner/Stump".

Finally, we got Duke calmed down and back in the boat. We spent probably an hour splashing around collecting decoys, beer cans, coolers, guns and dead ducks. Finally we set about getting the boat unstuck from between the trees. It is not possible to convey in words how cold we were. It was early December and a north wind was blowing through the swamp. We were cold. However, as with most things, unsticking the boat was in the end, simply a matter of motivation. After an hour or so's struggle, we were successful in freeing the boat.

On second thought, Catfish might be better off hunting with Matt and Matt.

It Must Have Been One Hell of a Starry Night

On a starry night in the spring of 1954, a dashing young doctor met a beautiful young nurse in the Skyway at the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, and they danced. In November of 1954, they married, and through house fires, tornados, and three children, and a multitude of adventures, they laughed and loved, and lived a very good life. Saturday nights always ment steak. In the late 60's, Birthdays ment a trip to Shakey's Pizza. Saturday afternoons in the fall revolved around Ole Miss Football.

Sadly, the dance ended far too soon in November of 2000, when the now aged doctor went to his reward. The nurse spent the next 10 years shamelessly spoiling dogs and grandchildren. Miss Lady, a land shark masquerading as a poodle, frequently enjoyed breakfasts of scrambled eggs and sausage. Sleepovers at Nana's often found 6 kids in matching pajamas in front of the television set watching 'The Sound of Music'.

Saturday morning, two weeks ago, the nurse and the doctor danced again. We all will miss her, but she always loved to dance with the dashing young doctor.

Barbeque Magic

One of the really cool things about barbeque is that it will get you invited to into bars. Yes...invited to bars.

Of course, you have to bring a smoker and make a ton of ribs and chicken, but fact remains that a bar has asked you to come and party with them. For some of us, we are more accustomed to being asked to leave a bar than being asked to enter a bar, but that's another discussion all together.

Yesterday, we opened up the summer with a barbeque at KC's Korner in South Plainfield. They asked us to come and barbeque for them at Rootsfest. Rootsfest is a celebration of some sort and KC's, in conjunction with LNO Music, put together a whole day of music. Not lame ass suburban kids trying to be Alice Cooper and Lou Reed, but real Jersey rock.

After firing up the smoker at about 9:30, we barbequed 80 lbs of ribs, and 40 lbs. of chicken while rocking to The Doughboys covering the Moody Blues and the Stones. These guys are vintage rockers from the 60's and they play rock the way it is supposed to be played. They were on sometime in the mid afternoon.

Once again, today is the morning after the night before, and soon, I'll pack up the smoker and head to the soccer fields. We've been asked to barbeque for the soccer club.

The road goes on forever, and the party never ends.

May 17th, 1929

I heard him laugh just last week.

Catfish somehow failed to see a 6 foot umbrella in the yard, and destroyed both the umbrella and the hours old lawn mower. I heard him laugh, and I could see him tilt his head back just a bit, and look toward the sky as he chuckled. It was a 'I've been there, done that and bought the t-shirt' laugh. I haven't heard him laugh all that much in the last ten years, but he laughed at that. In his pale blue eyes, you could see memories of my many misadventures as a child..., and in the echo of the chuckles, you could tell he was enjoying this.

I remember, once I told him about something absurd that Catfish had done, he laughed a little and looked at me with smiling eyes, and said "Has he burned the house down yet?".

I had to answer 'No, sir. No, he hasn't.'

"Well, I'm one up on you then, aren't I?", he replied And he threw his head back just a little, and laughed. I laughed, too.

When he laughed, he laughed with his whole body. Sometimes, it was just his eyes. Sometimes you could tell when he was laughing just by the way he was standing, even when he wasn't making a sound, and sometimes, it was just that look in his eyes.

As my daughters grow older, and accomplish greater and greater things, I hear from him at graduations. He doesn't laugh at graduations, but I still know he'
s there. He smiles really big. He had two gold teeth way back in his mouth, and when each of girls graduated from college, I'll bet you could see both of them.

As Catfish experiences the teenage years, I suspect I'll hear from him more often. I know he's looking forward to this. I remember that he didn't laugh much when I sank a car, or when I skipped school and went hunting or fishing, but he will when Catfish does. I expect that I'll hear him on the sidelines at soccer matches, and in the crowd at school concerts. I'll hear him at the treehouse, and out by in the pool. He's always with us at barbeques.

Jennifer will be 24 years old on Monday, and he would have been 81.

RIP, Daddydoc.

The Sunshine State

Our last day in the Sunshine State dawned cloudy with gusty winds. Storms were due in from the south west by 9:00 AM, but we weren't concerned. We were pulling out at 7:30. We'd have long started our 9 hour journey on the road by the time the rain started.

So, we loaded the car. We double checked the condo to ensure that we didn't forget anything. We looked under the beds. We looked in the closets and drawers. We checked every electrical outlet in the place for the random electrical gadget. We climbed into the van, looked a last time upon the Gulf, and....the van wouldn't start. yannie yannie yannie yannie...no start. yannie yannie yannnie. oh shit. yannie yannnie yannie

The problem was clear. Moisture in the fuel. So, I walked to the Shell station and got some fuel dryer. At roughly 8:00, the van begrudgingly started, and we coughed and sputtered for about 20 minutes until we had burned through the last of the moisture, and we were on our way.

There are two routes to Jonesboro from Destin. One takes you through Mobile
Alabama, and the other takes you due north through Montgomery. Our navigational device selected the quickest route, which took us due north. Unfortunately, the navidational device does not consult the weather radar, nor does it consider that the filler hose for our fuel tank now allows road spray to enter our fuel tank. Water and gas are not a good combination. Roughly 30 minutes out of Destin, heading due north, we entered heavy storms. After about half an hour, enough water had made it's way into our fuel that the van was coughing and spitting, wheezing up every hill.

There is nothing quite like being in rural Alabama, in a thunderstorm, in a van with New Jersey tags, trying to drive with fouled fuel. When I say 'rural Alabama', let me clarify. We drove for 40 miles and saw nothing more than green grass, trees and cattle. We didn't even pass an intersection with another paved road. This was a two lane state highway, that we were apparently traversing alone....in a van that was despritly trying to die.

Finally, we came to a rural general store with a gas pump. A single gas pump that pumped 'gas' and 'diesel'. No credit cards. No ATM card. Cash only, so I stood in the driving rain adding some more STP Gas Treatment and putting $20 of gas in. In a matter of seconds, the van seemed to come off of life support, and again idled smoothly.

Having dried out the fuel, we set out on the road again in the pouring rain. We finally found an auto parts store where I bought three more bottles of STP Gas Treatment. Landi, combining the input from the navigational device and the weather radar, plotted us a course due west so that we would exit the deluge as soon as possible. So, we dodged storms and drove through Alabama on smaller and smaller roads, in a farting van with New Jersey tags.

Finally, somewhere in the hills of Alabama, in the county of Taladaga, we emerged into sunshine and blue skys. The van burned through the last of the water in the tank. The ride became smooth again, and after 11 hours on the road, we pulled into Jonesboro.

Jonesboro is in a dry country, but the hotel where we stayed has a 'private club' where you can get a cocktail. We sat down for dinner. I ordered a 'bourbon and water'. Five minutes later, the waitress approached the table. In her hands....a glass of water, and a shot of bourbon.

We're gonna need more bourbon.

Screw the Groundhog

Early December
It snowed last night, and our neighborhood looks like a Christmas card. The snow is absolutely beautiful on the houses and in the trees. I watched a couple of squirrels playing in the snow, and Dixie dog just loved running and playing in it. I love early snow because it means we're going to have a great winter for skiing.

Early Janurary
More snow. The snow blower won't start, but Catfish helped shovel the drive and the walks. It only took two hours to shovel out, and it was the light fluffy snow, so it wasn't too bad. Still haven't made it to the mountain to ski, maybe next week.

Early Feburary
The damn ground hog can kiss my ass. Another foot of snow fell on us. Catfish is hiding from me. He took my good snow shovel out, earned $20 shoveling someone's drive, and broke my damn shovel. I had to shovel our drive using a small shovel from the car. The damn dog is running back and fourth on the fronzen surface of the damn pool, and then tracking water into the house.

Late Feburary
More white shit is falling from the damn sky. They say we'll get a foot and a half. And, if that's not enough, it's the heavy heart attack inducing snow, and I am 100% confident that the damn snow blower won't start. No one has any snow shovels yet, so I'll be shoveling using the small shovel from the car. Catfish claims he's not strong enough to lift the heavy snow. Dixie is covered in mud from the wet sloppy snow, and has rolled on the white carpet. Chaunti and Tony Perez refuse to go outside and will either crap in the house or explode soon. Tell me again why I don't live in Destin, Florida...

oops...

Sorry...I goofed and posted my political rants on the BBQ board.

The Night Before The Morning After

Though the cold February night air clearly said 'You are in New Jersey', inside it was nothing less than Bourbon Street at it's finest. Begining with supply runs to Restaurant Depot and the liquor stores a grueling day of cooking and drinking began to take shape. Bob Sanko and I arrived at the Sr. Citizens Center at roughly 1:00 to get the party started. As professionals, we knew how important proper preparation is to any party, so we immediatley had a cocktail, and began dealing with the trinity: Onions, Celery, and Bell Pepper. As the gumbo, jambalaya and shrimp etouffee began their journey to culinary heaven, Mr. Sanko and his trusty aide d'camp Joe Evans began preparing the drink that will forever be their trademark: The honest to God real thing....Pat O'Brian's Hurricane complete with Pat O'Brians glasses. Anyone can drink one, but if you have a second, you should probably check for new tattoos in the morning.

This was a fund raising event for the South Plainfield Soccer Club. Marshall's Dixieland Band provided the entertainment until roughtly11:00, at which time the folks who had two Hurricains took over. Roughly 60 people came, and enjoed the cajum contribution to the culinary arts. We had aboundant help in the kitchen, and wonderful participation from a lot of folks who don't even have kids playing soccer.

I don't know how much money we made, but I believe everyone had a good time. it's probably a good thing that we didn't do the henna tattoos over by the Hurricane bar because there would be a lot of people with a headache and a new tattoos this morning.

On a more serious note, I shared my bourbon with the kitchen staff, and my supply was exhaused by 8:00pm. As a result, I was sober the entire night. Of the 60 some odd people there, I was the only completely sober person there.

Yeah...I know....but, that was the night before the morning after the party.

Any Given Sunday

A deep, dark and disbelieving quiet flopped down on Indianapolis like a beer soaked carpet as time ran out in Miami and a rising tide of 'Who Dat's and half 'nekid' women dancing to Dixieland jazz left the bars and clubs of New Orleans and rolled down Bourbon Street in the what was the biggest celebration since...since...well...since Saturday night. It is, after all, Mardi Gras season in New Orleans. But this party was just getting started as the New Orleans' Mardi Gras Super Bowl crowd spilled from the bars and danced in the streets to celebrate the Saint's victory.

Far to the north, in the subterrainian headquarters of the Memphis Barbeque Company, the usual suspects sat momentarily silent then suddenly loud. A miracle had been witnessed and they were at once soaking in the win,...and the loss, in the bourbon, some scotch, a little beer, and an odd assortment of wines.
Forty Six years of sucking melted away, and the unknown fans of years gone by were finally able remove the paper bags from their heads and loudly, proudly cheer the Saints. Somewhere in a skybox above the game, Archie no doubt was tormented. At once mourning the failure of Peyton and the Colts, but at the same time, secretly relishing the Saint's incredible win, Archie must have been in his own, special hell. Unable to so much as utter a single 'Who Dat!', Archie no doubt remembers the days when he when he epitomized the black and gold. It sucked to be a Saint fan back then, but that was 'back then'. This is now, and it's the Super Bowl, and it's good to be a winner.

So the game ended, and obviously, this means spring is just around the corner. I'll update everyone with information about the Brooklyn Barbque Contest on March 27th. Mark you calendars!

It's time for Barbeque!!!

Who Dat!

It Was An Ordinary Road Trip

We set out at about 9:00AM on 12/26 for a long anticipated tript to Arkansas. Because we planned to hunt, we had guns. Because it was our Christmas visit, we had gifts. Because we would be gone a week, we had tons of luggage. Because we're stupid, we had a dog. We were packed pretty tighly in the van when we set off in the rain and wind and cold.

Things went relatively well for about an hour, when it appeared that we had encountered bad gas. No, not that gas. Gas that makes the van go. So, at Hellertown, we pulled off bought some Gas-Dry, and filled the tank with more gas. We started the van....well, we tried to start the van. Of course, the damn van wouldn't start.

Fortunately, my father-in-law lives only a couple of miles away, and there happened to be a tow truck sitting at the gas station, so we had the van towed, and switched our 'stuff' to my father-in-law's mini-van. Did I mention that we did all this in a cold, blowing rain? You're probably thinking something like "this can't get worse?"

Oh, ye of little faith. It can always get worse. think about how your hands feel when they are cold, and wet. Really, really, really cold. Now, slam the car door on one of your hands. See, it can be worse. Fortunately, no great harm came from the experience. My hand is fine.

So we traveled to Arkansas in a mini-van full of guns, luggage, dogs, gifts and us, and it really wasn't a bad trip.

So, in Arkansas we prepared for our duck hunt. Because there the water is so high, we had to go out in the swamp, in the boat and collect and reposition the decoys. So, we're in a 14 ft. john boat, in a swamp that normally is about 2 feet deep in water, but is now about 5 ft deep, and of course, we foul the prop on the motor with the rope. Did I mention that it's cold, and the wind is blowing, and that we are in a swamp that is too deep to walk out of, about a mile from the landing....and now the boat motor won't go? Fortunatly, we are able to manouver to a place where my nephew is able to stand on a floating tree, and, using my knife, clear the prop. We motored out.

The hunt the next day was equally interesting. Because there's so much water, the ducks have too many choices and stayed away from us. On the way out, we pulled up to the duck clubhouse, and were about to tie off the boat, and go in. My niece's boyfriend was struggling with tieing the boat off, so I stood up and stepped out of the boat to walk around to the front to tie it for him. The nice thing about the club house is that it is situated so that we usually can motor right up to a really shallow spot, and just step out of the boat into about 6 inches of water. The operative word is 'usually'. Not always. Not when the water is up by 4 feet. Then the water is 4 feet, six inches deep. Yeah, it's cold, too.

Finally, after spending a week in Arkansas visiting friends and family, we headed home. We covered 700 miles on the first day, and were we'll pleased with our progress. We had a great supper from Ruby Tuesday, and slept well. At about 5:30AM, I woke up and walked to the bathroom.

Apparently, at some point in the night, my darling wife morphed into Cato from the Pink Panther movies. So that our yappy little dog could not approach the door of the hotel room, she had placed the ironing board on it's side, on the ground to form a 'fence' of sorts blocking the dogs access to the door. Half asleep, and in the dark, I rediscovered the ironing board with my foot. I fell forward, catching my upper body with my hands, and rapping both shins very sharply on the narrow metel edge of the ironing board. Both shins. 220lbs of falling, middle aged, hypertensive redneck landing on his shins on a narrow metal ironing board. Let that soak in for a minute. A whole new kind of pain.

Happy New Year