Men In Kilts - Adventures in BBQ, Bourbon & Blues

A Summer Job

2011-10-28T06:21:00.003-04:00

The chill of the morning reminds me that winter is closing in on us, and as a result, opportunities to barbeque at KC's Korner will soon be dwindling. As a barbeque professional, this development is somewhat disheartening because it means that I will soon have an aboundance of time on my hands. Consequently, I've begun looking for other opportunites to occupy my time.

In my long career, I've had a variety of jobs. One of the first I had involved pouring concrete for the 'new' Library at Arkansas State University. Of course, this 'new' library was being built in the summer of 1976. My job was to help pour concrete into forms for a concrete column. The columns were roughly fourteen feet tall and two and a half feet wide on each side. A huge crane would lift a steel bucket containing one cubic yard of wet concrete, and I would climb up the 2x4s that braced the forms and were held in place by things called 'froglegs'. Standing so that my waist was at the top of the form, I would reach up and guide the huge steel bucket so that it was over the top of the form. When the bucket was positioned just right, I pulled the release bar down, and a gate on the bottom of the bucket opened, allowing a stream of concrete roughly twelve inches in diameter to flow down filling up the forms. For all the construction jobs I had had to date, this was the best. No sweating....No lifting....No hauling..,..Three dollars an hour to climb the forms and pull the lever. Sweet.

Usually.

As with all sweet gigs, sometimes things go badly. One day in the heat of the summer, I was standing on top of the forms, and the crane operator, Bozo, had a bad day. Actually, his day wasn't all that bad, but mine got dramatically worse very rapidly.

As Bozo manoeuvred the bucket containing a cubic yard of wet cement toward the column I was standing on, something out of the ordinary happened. The bucket suddenly dropped about 2 feet, and swung rapidly to the left, toward the form I was standing on. A cubic yard of cement in a steel bucket has a good amount of kinetic energy. It was barely moving when it bumped the form, but it was like a freight train bumping a litter basket, the litter basket loses.

The form, originally made up of 2x4s and plywood, instantly turned into splinters. It wasn't a gradual thing. It was a 'touch' thing....like when you turn on the light switch, the light is 'on' right then. Well, when the bucket contacted the form, the form was shattered right then.

I had that Wiley Coyote feeling. The form I was standing on was no longer there. I was fourteen feet in the air, looking for something to grab so that I did not fall onto the concrete pad that the forms for the column rested on.

In a crisis, your mind works so fast that the world seems to slow down. As gravity took hold of me and started pulling me toward the concrete pad, I reached out for the bucket. If I could just get a hand on the metal rim around the bucket, I might be able to hang on.

I stretched with my left hand as far as I could, and just as my feet felt the forms fall away, I got a grip on something. I swung my right hand over and also got a grip. The forms crashed to the pad below, and my momentum caused me to swing toward the bucket, and then, unfortunately, I swung under the bucket and I realized that I had not grabbed the bar around the rim of the bucket. I had grabbed the release bar.

As I swung beneath the gate at the bottom, my weight on the release bar caused the gate to open, releasing the concrete. One cubic yard of concrete, in a 12 inch diameter stream hit me in the chest. I lost the grip I had on the bar. I fell fourteen feet, landing flat on my back on the broken remains of the forms, and was promptly buried by one cubic yard of wet concrete. The guys on the crew immediately jumped into the pit and began digging me out of the concrete using shovels.

That was the last time I climbed a form.

The Saucon Valley Country Club

2011-10-20T17:34:00.003-04:00

As we continue to rehabilitate the basement from water damage incurred during August's Hurricane, I am finding interesting items long forgotten and stored in remote regions of the basement. With each item, there is usually some memory attached that brings a smile.

The other day, in the back of the storage room in the basement, I came across Landi's golf clubs. When we were dating, we used to play frequently, but we haven't played for years. Her clubs were in the corner of the storage room and I checked the bag for water damage. As I inspected the bag, on the shoulder strap, a smear of mud caught my eye, and I remembered the last time we played golf.

In the Lehigh Valley of Pennsylvania, there is a wonderful Country Club called Saucon Valley. It is a beautiful, high end country club that, were Landi not associated at the time with Bethlehem Steel, we would never had had occasion to visit or play. However, through a Bethlehem Steel event of some sort, we found our selves at this incredible golf course.

Landi was beautiful that day. She was wearing white shorts and a blue knit top of some sort. She had a white visor, and white golf shoes. Her golf bad was white, as was her golf glove. She had her hair in a pony tail, and a late summer tan. I wore dockers and a polo shirt.

Saucon Valley's course is one of those courses where the fairways are better than a lot of greens that I grew up playing on. We played our round with another two-some associated with Bethlehem Steel. They were much better golfers than us, but we were better looking.

The 18^th hole, was a long, down hill dog leg par four, with a small stream crossing at the bottom of the valley. Both of the other golfers in our foursome drove over the stream and into perfect position. I bearly cleared the stream, and Landi came up short. I drove her to her ball, and she asked me to go ahead and find my ball, that she would walk to me. I drove the cart to the little bridge over the stream and began looking for my ball.

Landi swung, and her ball flew towards the green. I still can't find my ball. I saw the other two golfers waiting, so I told them to go ahead and hit. I had lost a couple of balls already, and I didn't think I had another with me. So I kept looking for it, and I looked up just in time to see Landi kind of hop over the stream. It was a short hop. An easy hop, really. Actually, it was more of a long stride with just a little extra umph at the end, and she very gracefully cleared the stream without any distress at all.

The ground on the side she what coming from was firm, solid and dry. The other side of the stream was not. It was utterly saturated. Her lead foot landed on the soft green grass on the other side, and she sank up to her knee in muck. Her trailing leg completed the stride across the stream, and had no place to go but also knee deep into the muck. At this point, only her golf shoes were muddy.

I viewed this from a short distance away, and immediately came to her assistance. I remembered the old Tarzan movies where one guy stuck in quick sand quickly drags another to his doom too when he is pulled into the quick sand. No way, I thought, I was getting into the mud.

All thing considered, at this point, Landi was doing well. She was stuck in the mud yes, but she was calm. I grabbed a golf club to use to help pull her out. By having her grab the golf club, and using it to pull her out, I hoped to be able to stay on solid ground, and avoid the mud. She took hold of the club and I started pulling, but the mud on her hands caused her lose her grip. Because she was pulling so hard, when the club slipped out of her hands, she flopped backwards and sat down in the mud. When the club slipped from her hands, I was straining, pulling the club trying to lift her out. Suddenly losing that resistance, my hands, clutching the head of the 3 iron, crashed into my nose, which began bleeding profusely.

I ventured closer, and extended my hand to her, and again we pulled and strained, and the grass beneath my feet gave way, and suddenly, I was flat on my back in the mud. Landi's calm was wearing thin. I got up, and I grabbed her under the arms, and using brute strength, tried to lift her out of the mud, and again, my feet slipped in the mud and I went down. I sat down in front of her, and reached out to her, and tried again. Her leg was slowly coming free, and suddenly she shouts, STOP!

What's wrong? “I'm losing my shoe!!” Screw the shoe. I'll get the shoe in a minute. We kept pulling and straining and after a great sucking/slerping sound, her foot came free, and we rolled into the more firm grass. We were tired, exhausted really. Finally, after catching our breath, I started to head to the golf cart.

'My shoe?”, Landi reminded me.

I walked back over to the mud pit we had created. It was a hell of a mess. The groundkeeper was going to wonder what the hell happened here. I found the hole. I got on my knees, and stuck my arm down until I felt the golf shoe. I pulled it out of the muddy water, held it aloft, and watched as what looked like Hershey's Syrup poured from it. I looked over at Landi, and she looked like she had been dipped in Hershey's Syrup. I had to smile.

The other two players in our foursome had finished the hole, and were sitting on the patio at the Club House when we arrived. When they last saw us, we looked like we could have been in a photo shoot for a golf magazine, but that had changed. Both of us were covered from head to toe in a dark brown mud, and were coated with an abundance of grass clippings. Blood from my nose spattered on my shirt and pants just added a special ambiance.

I wish I had a picture of the looks on their faces, and the faces of the others at the patio bar. This is one of the most exclusive Country Clubs in the United States, and this golf course has hosted many a PGA,and LPGA event. We walked dripping mud and trailing grass trimmings into the patio bar, and sat with our friends, who had a truly horrified look on their face. They were staring, slack jawed and silent.

The manager or waiter approached, looking very apprehensive.

“Can I help you?”, he inquired.

I wiped at my nose and looked to see if it was still bleeding, “Tough hole.” I said casually.

Moments of Inspiration

2011-10-18T13:56:00.008-04:00

Every now and then, you experience an extraordinary moment of creativity. It happens in a flash, and you just have to take advantage of it when it happens. My first true moment of abstract, and somewhat malicious, creativity struck me years ago. I was working for a computer firm in Memphis, and the lady who ran the place pissed me off. I was working my ass off, maintaining all the internal computers, as well as her laptop, generating billable hours and she was screwing me out of my commissions. I wasn't really in a position to 'push back' so I just had to take it....for a while.

This was in the mid 80's, the days before multi-taking Windows was introduced. It was the days of MS-DOS - Microsoft Disk Operating System. There were some computer programs called 'TSR's...Terminate and Stay Resident. The first one was 'print'. I got a hold of a paper by some guys who had 'reverse engineered' 'print', and figured out how to make a program stay resident in the computer's memory. I used that paper to figure out how to write a program that would cause my computer to display a clock with the current time in the upper right hand portion of the screen at all times. It was pretty cool.

While stewing over my 'lost' commissions and having cocktails in a bar called The Bottom Line, I had an epiphany. It struck me out of no where. I couldn't make her pay me my commissions, but I could make her crazy. Just ask any of my X-wives. I can make women crazy.

If I used what I had learned about writing TSRs, and wrote one that used a random number generator to randomly trigger a video swap, I could have some fun. So, I wrote a program, driven by a random number generator, that would seize a block of memory identical in size to video memory, and in that space write in large block letters the work "BITCH". Next, the program would copy the contents of video memory to another location. Finally, it overwrote video memory with the contents of the first location (the word BITCH), and .25 seconds later, put the original contents back. The result was that the screen flashed "BITCH". Did I mention that I maintained her computer?

The nice thing about this, was that it did not happen often. She would just see it every couple of days,but when she did, she would scream, and everyone would go running into her office to see what had happened. She would tell us that her computer just called her a bitch. We'd hang around while she tried to recreate the 'flash', but of course, it wouldn't happen because it wasn't triggered by her. It was driven by my random number generator. Most of the office snickered some and thought she was nutts. I just kept my mouth shut.

After a couple of months of this, she bought a new laptop computer. It was a brand new Toshiba. She called me into her office and after going on and on about how the old laptop was calling her a bitch, she told me to install all the software from her old laptop onto her new laptop. When you are the low man on the totem pole, you have unique opportunities.

I installed the software....all of it.

A week later, a scream shattered the silence in the office again, and I smiled...Sweet Moments of Inspiration.

A word to the wise....Don't piss off your systems administrator.

A Peaceful Morning

2011-10-09T06:24:00.003-04:00

In the peace of the morning, and before your mind is cluttered with the chum of the day, there is time to contemplate 'things'. Yesterday, Landi and I began discussing Thanksgiving. As some may remember, last year I recorded some tips for frying a turkey.....and for putting out the fire. Landi has made a request this year that I refrain from setting the backyard on fire. I really going to try to comply. As this turned over in my mind this morning, it occured to me that while this did involve a good amount of excitement and fairly large conflagration on the back deck (concrete), it was an inadvertant aberation and it did not involve any of our local emergency services.

Contrast that with Catfish. He has always been a unique boy. At 3, he called and tried to order the Phonics Game because he didn't feel that he was 'reading at his grade level'. Arround this same time he tried to buy homeowners insurance on the Lego Harry Potter Castle he built. He once asked me if I wanted to lose "ten pounds of unsightly fat". A few weeks after the 9/11 attacks, he emerged from the basement to tell me I was needed on the phone. It was the 911 operator who told me that Catfish had reported a 'dead soldier' in our basement. G.I. Joe's head had come off. The South Plainfield SWAT unit is very responsive. A year or so after that he attempted to warm a bagel in the microwave. Five minutes into the process, the bagel burst into flames, the fire alarm went off, and he began running arround the island in the kitchen hollering 'Fi-yr! Fi-yr! Call 911! Call 911' He used to claim that Buckwheat, our black lab, put poop in his diaper. At the spring Parent/Teacher conference in his kindergarten year, we were amazed to discover that Catfish had explained Judiaism to his school mates who were primarily Hindu, Muslim and Christian. I told the teacher that 1) we were Episcopalians, and 2)I've heard him explain things before. He probably created some misconceptions.

So, in this very peaceful morning, I'm wondering what adventure awaits Landi and me. Hopefully it won't involver emergency services or a flaming backyard, but it will probably involve Catfish. He's 14 now, and understands that he reads well, and understands that he doesn't need home-owner's insurance. He can warm a bagel without setting the house on fire. Though we did it at gun-point, he is potty trained, and understands that he is Episcopalian. It's gonna be a great day.

It's Different Below the Thermocline

2011-10-03T05:32:00.004-04:00

There are times when you are really proud of something you kid has done. I was proud when Jenn graduated from Mount Holyoke, and I was proud when she decided to attend law school. She works full time as a paralegal, goes to law school at night, and in her spare time, is a cheese monger at Whole Foods. The thing that makes me super proud is that even with all that, her GPA is floats somewhere between a 3.5 and a 3.75. Pretty impressive, eh?

Jordan, too, has set the bar pretty high. Graduating with Honors in Economics from Tulane, and getting a full ride to UMass for her Masters. She reluctantly left the land of gumbo and helecopter sized mosquitoes and headed to the frozen wasteland of Massachusetts in persuit of another level of education. Today, she has her Masters, and is doing well in Indianapolis. She works for the government, and she really is there to help.

So, now we get to the Fish. He's a freshman in high school, and we haven't seen any grades yet. He plays on the school soccer team and he plays hard, and has a lot of fun. On weekends, he tells me his friends from school video games. His weekend was different.

Last Feburary, he began training to be a PADI Certifed Rescue Scuba Diver. That's a diver who is trained in how to rescue a diver in trouble. That diver may be on the surface, or 100 ft down. That diver may be unconcious, or he may be paniced, or he may just be exhausted. The diver may be lost and in need of being found. What ever the situation, the Rescue diver locates the diver in trouble, and gets that diver out of the water, and under the appropriate level of medical care as quickly as possible.

This past weekend, Catfish completed his final dives for certification. In one of the dives, he was acting as divemaster, and had to direct 6 adult 'inexperienced' divers in a search for a lost diver. He deployed his divers along a line and the 'lost' diver was quickly found, lying motionless on a slope at 65ft. The diver was unresponsive, and Catfish being the only 'trained rescue diver', had to lift this diver from the bottom and do a controlled assent to the surface some 65 ft above.

The female victim was 20-30 lbs heavier than Catfish. He ensured that her regulator stayed in place as he struggled to lift her off the slope. They slid down the slope to the bottom at 75ft. Silt filled the water and reduced visability. He stayed with it. They began to rise, then after coming off the bottom, she slipped from his grasp. He went completely upside down, holding on to her with one hand and ensuring her regulator stayed in with the other while she dragged him back to the bottom. Silt billowed around them. Back on the bottom, in visability approaching zero, he fought his way around behind her, and clutching her tank between his knees, with his arm reaching under her arm, and holding her regulator in her mouth, he again began surfacing the victim. He emerged from the clouds of silt with his victim and made a perfect assent. On the surface, he established boyancy and began rescue breaths.

I knew he could learn the skills to be a Rescue Diver. He's a great swimmer, and a good scuba diver. There was no question in my mind that he could do that. I was concerned when he was asked to act as the divemaster on the exersize because that's a tall order to ask of a 14 year old kid. How many kids do you know who are comfortable giving orders to adults? Well, he wasn't comfortable either, but he got it done. I'm sure he wasn't comfortable directing the search, but he got it done. I'm really sure he wasn't comfortable when we found the victim on the slope, and she slid down to the bottom. Hell, it was 43 degrees there, and he has zero body fat. He wasn't just uncomfortable, he was freezing his ass off, but he hung in there. In zero visability, 43 degree water wrestling with a motionless woman he was not only uncomfortable, he was magnificent. He did the things he had been trained to do, and did them calmly and confidently. He safely overcame every obstical, and did every that was possible to "save" the victim.

He's not just my boy. He's a PADI Certified Rescue Diver.

The March of Time

2011-09-19T15:06:00.012-04:00

Apparently, as we age, we acquire the collective phobias of our parents. To date, I have determined that bridges are the work of the devil, and having been constructed by the lowest bidder, are inherently unsafe. I am not just refering to the Huey P. Long bridge in New Orleans, which I must add was clearly engineered by Satan in the depths of a cocaine fueled acid binge, but also the Burlington Bristol Bridge, engineered by the spawn of Satan, between New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Huey's bridge is unique in that some bastard decided that it would be cool to put the actual roadway beside the damn bridge instead of inside the bridge. They have put the damn train track 'inside' the bridge,and the road surface 'outside' the bridge. Notice how much room the stinking train has.
When was the last time a train had a blow out and suddenly veered to the right? Think about that for a minute. A damn train can not turn.

The road surface of the Huey P. Long Bridge that you and I drive our automobiles across is held up by the same sort of magic you see in Las Vegas magic shows. Oh yeah. Like the trick where they have a tiger in a cage, and make him appear outside the cage? Screw that. If you are going to make the tiger appear outside the cage, then make me appear in the cage. Likewise with bridges, put the road surface inside the bridge.

Try driving across a bridge 300 feet above the Mississippi River with no side rails. Welcome to New Orleans.

The Burlington Bristol Bridge is almost as much fun. It is about 200 feet above the Deleware bridge, but unlike Huey's bridge, this piece of art has no concrete. Although the lanes are actually inside the bridge, the lanes are metal grating. If you look down,you see water. It's a two lane bridge sized for muppets pushing hand carts, built by dwarfs and traversed by frenzied people who drive according to the traffic laws of their native lands. Now the best part.

See the section between the two tall towers? They can make that section go up. Yep...they can move the damn bridge. You're driving along minding your own business and suddenly zooop! Some sick bastard moved the bridge. Who thought that particular feature would be attractive? Next time I cross it, it will be at gun point.

Mom was scared of bridges. Dad was scared of politicians.

A Barbeque Professional

2011-09-04T06:42:00.002-04:00

I was recently reminded of my days as an Information Technology professional. In 16 years as a consultant to the likes of Hewlett Packard, Verizon, Sprint, and Bristol Myers Squibb, you see a lot, learn a lot, and develop some pretty strong ideas about how to get things done. Having acquired this knowledge, if you then abandon the consulting life for the corporate life in hopes of avoiding out of town travel which conflicts with your son's soccer schedule you need to be aware that the fates are going to deal you a screwball.

I was hired some 4 hears ago by a former client whose Unix boxes were a disaster, an absolute disaster. My first week there I received over 100 alarms a night from the unix servers. Using all of my knowledge gained in 16 years of problem solving for 'the big guys', over the first month or so, I constructed a plan to bring the unix environment into a more 'standard' configuration and introduce 'Best Practices'.....and that was a problem.

At this particular company, the use of 'Best Practices' was forbidden. The CEO expressly forbid using recognized 'Best Practices'. He also forbid note taking in technical meetings, claiming that if we couldn't remember what was decided, then the answer wasn't 'clear' enough. The environment was expected to be 'up' 100% of the time, but the infrastructure had no redundancy built into it. We had two tape libraries. One was purchased from HP, and the other was 'found'. The CEO did not believe in maintaining Service Contracts on servers after the initial warranty expired. He didn't like Support Contracts either, which sometimes made problem solving 'interesting'. One of the more interesting features of the corporate culture was that success depended on your ability to determine what Voldomort wanted to hear, and then saying it. Success was not related to your ability to deliver results.

So, I enjoyed a liquid lunch for a couple years. I kept my mouth shut, for the most part, and got the unix environment stable using Best Practices, and for my sins, was 'promoted'. Actually, the stability of the unix environment brought me to Voldomort's attention, which ment that I now had to interact with the loon and his band of lunatics. Actually he wanted me to do for the rest of the environment what I had done for the Unix environment, but without using the techniques and strategies on which my success had been built. Welcome to the land through the looking glass.

You simply can not reason with a lunatic. While trying to bring a new environment under control, I was confronted with blank stares when I explained to the imported morons that at some point, if we want things to get better, we simply had to stop doing things that we know are wrong and start doing things that we know are right. Silence. The morons had an interesting defensive tactic. When they were trying to thawart your plans, they would find the least informed person in the company who was at least one rung up the food chain from you, and get that person to make a 'decision' about the matter. More than once, I found myself in the position of having a non-technical imported moron tell me that I simply did not understand the 'technicalaties of the matter'. What is this world comming to when we have to import morons? Aren't home grown American morons good enough any more?

On another occasion, I got a lecture about priorities from Voldomort himself after I told him that until his commitment to quality exceeded his commitment to a release date, the software development guys would keep releasing non-functional software into production. I knew what he wanted to hear, but I wouldn't say it. I was an Information Technology professional, not a syncophant.

Liquid lunches got longer.

Finally, on the Monday before Thanksgiving, when Voldomort's pet monkey threatened to fire me because I would not require my entire team to be on "standby" over the Thanksgiving Weekend just in case Voldomort decided to move servers, I got mad. It was in the morning, before lunch. "That is a chicken shit threat.", I told him," Either man up and fire me, or shut the hell up." The meeting was pretty much over, and I went to lunch.

What did I care? My servers had gone two years without an unplanned outage, and I already knew my days were numbered, and it was time for lunch.

So, now I am retired from Information Technology, and, tragically, my alcohol consumption has taken a dive. I barbeque a couple of weekends a month at KC's Korner, a bar in South Plainfield, and I scuba dive. When in competition, or barbequing for one of our parties, I have been known to inbibe a bit...ok..a lot. Now, things are different.

It's important to get some things right. When you are introducing folks to the joys of real Memphis Dry Rubbed Ribs, you have to be 100% on top of your game. No liquor, because I am a Barbeque Professional.

Hurricane Ready

2011-08-24T21:34:00.003-04:00

At last reports, the eastern seaboard is being threatend by a hurricane. The Weather Channel is breathlessly hyping the storm. Their ratings in NYC are going to be great. The major networks, thankful for something other than the economy to talk about, are exersizing extreme gravitas when speculating about the possible impacts of the storm on New York City. Grim faced broadcast professionals are advising us to 'get hurricane ready'.

This is gonna be tough, as I have barbeque responsibilites I have to meet, but I'll give it my best shot.

It looks like it will be a two day event, so I'm thinking a 1/2 gallon of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum, and a 1/2 gallon of Malibu Caribbean Rum wiht Coconut Liqueur. I have a gallon of Nature's Select orange juice with Calcium and 3 cans of frozen orange juice. I have a 1/2 gallon of cranberry juice.

On the bloodmary front, I have 3 containers of Tabasco bloodymary mix, a fresh bottle of Tabasco, a fresh bottle of Worchestershire Sauce, 3 limes and a half gallon of vodka.

We have 2 boxes of wine, and a gallon of bourbon.

I have 6 lbs of frozen shrimp, and a new can of Old Bay Seasoning. There are 4 ribeyes and 4 filets in the freezer. I have some ribs I brought home from my bbq gig at the bar. I'm going to buy a couple of bags of ice, just in case we over run the ice maker.

I am as ready as it is possible to be....well...maybe I should get some batteries for the flash light, if I get a chance.

As I survey my preparations, I am reminded of a cheer I last heard at my sister's 1973 High School Graduation in the wreckage of Jonesboro High following the tornado that year....

Open the roof and let it rain, Give'em Hell, Hurricane!

Plaid Clad Strangers Invade Jersey Town

2011-08-23T05:38:00.004-04:00

All manner of wilted, worn out, sold out hippies and roving yuppies have arrived in our fair town. Freely roaming the streets in BMWs, a number of them sporting plaid shorts and polo shirts descended on KC's Korner last night.

Each approached me and the smoker with great caution. It was as if they were approaching an alien spacecraft. Warily they eyed me, which was odd because I wore shorts yesterday, not a kilt. I have become aware that kilts sometimes freak people out. Women are particularly intreigued by a kilt, and they pose quite a threat to the unguarded. Eventually, our plaid clad friends ordered ribs, or chicken, and cautiously retreated to the Patio Bar area.

Ten minutes later, after they had devoured the chicken and ribs, I discovered these guys weren't worn out hippies and yuppies, these guys were my new best friends! We began chatting about all manner of things and having just a hell of a time. One guy was from Philly, was a auditor with a giant consulting firm, and he'd never had dry rubbed ribs before. A lady, who's father was some sort of judge, ordered 1/2 a chicken, and devoured the entire thing. She wanted to know if I would be there again today. Several bought ribs to take home with them.

So today, we're told to expect 50,000 people in our little town. It's going to get 'interesting' today. Our friends from yesterday said they'll be back, and that they'll bring there friends. I can just see the teaser on the news...."Plaid Clad Strangers Take Over Jersey Bar...Film at 11:00

Ribs and Yard Birds

2011-08-21T07:10:00.010-04:00

The sun finally clawed it's way over the horizon just an hour ago, and my bloodymary sits sweating and waiting. From my kitchen window, I see a great expanse of green grass, and uncounted huge corporate 'hospitality' tents. The Woodstock generation is all grown up, has adopted golf as it's new religion, and will be descending on us tomorrow for the Barclay's Golf Tournement. Fifty thousand strong they will come in Saabs, Mercedes, and Volvos. They are going to clog our streets, and annoy the hell out of everyone....except me.

One of the great things about having a smoker is that occasionally a friend who owns a bar will ask you to come over, hang out and cook ribs....all week long. This just amazes me. I get to hang out at a bar all week long and cook ribs. He's hopeful that some of our locals will find their way to KC's Korner for a cold one and some ribs. I'm thinking this is a hell of a good idea.

KC's is a great little bar. Twenty years ago, it was a biker bar. It's no longer a biker bar, and today, it has the best food in town. It's clientele is an ecletic mix of locals, and imports (me). It's like 'Cheers', but without Kirsty Alley. I'm setting the smoker up by the new 'patio', and will be doing ribs everyday. I'm going to do them as if we were in a competition, which means I'll be mostly sober for most of the week.

So, beginning this afternoon and going for 7 days, there are king hell, championship quality, Memphis style, dry rubbed baby back ribs at KC's.

Baseball

2011-08-07T06:39:00.004-04:00

A few years ago, for some reason, Catfish decided he wanted to play Little League Baseball. He's always been a 'soccer kid', and had never really got into baseball. We go to see the Yankee's about two or three times a year, but throwing the baseball in the front yard just doesn't happen. I never played baseball, so I didn't really didn't encourage him to play. When he asked to join a Little League team, I thought "What the hell....this will be fun."

That was a understatement.

Our team was a collection of about 12 or 14 10 year old boys of various sizes, skill levels, and attention spans. We had one kid, a tall lanky pitcher, who threw smoke. He was probably the best pitcher in the league. No one got hits off this kid. We had another kid, a much shorter hyper-competitive pitcher, who threw almost as well, but would let the other team get into his head. One kid, a big bear of a kid, showed up for practice about a 2 weeks after we had begun training the team. He was a big kid, and talkative. Our head coach sent him to me. I was working with kids in right field, and the coach was hitting balls to us. We had a kid serving as a runner so that when the coach hit the ball, we had someone to 'throw out'. The big kids was explaining to me that he knew all about baseball.

Coach hit the ball, a slow grounder, to the big kid. He trotter up to field the ball. The kid running the bases saw the big kid trotting to the ball, and kicked it into high gear. The kid was trying to get to second base. He was really moving as he sprinted past first and toward second. It looked like it was going to be close. By this time, the big kid had the ball, and with a long and very athletic stride, he threw a rocket and nailed the runner in the back with the baseball about 4 strides short of second base. The runner was down.

It seems that the big kid actually knew a lot about kick ball, and very little about baseball.

Catfish, on the other hand, understood baseball. It only took getting hit once or twice by a pitch for him to figure out that if he stepped backwards out of the batter's box, he would avoid getting hit. Unfortunately, when you are stepping backwards out of the batters box, you don't hit the ball very often.

One Saturday, we were playing a pretty good team. Their pitcher threw hard and well. We just weren't getting hits. It was a zero/zero game into the 4th innning. Catfish had come up to bat a couple of time, and on each occasion, with each pitch, he stepped back and out of the box.

Finally, it was Catfish's turn to bat again. Before he went up to bat, I told him, "Don't back out of the box.". He looked at me like I had two heads, and said "He's going to hit me with the ball.". No, I assured him, he's not. He hasn't hit anyone in the whole game. My words fell on deaf ears.

Catfish walked to the batters box, and got set. The kid readied to pitch. With a swerl of arms and legs that only a 12 year old boy can accomplish, a pitch came rocketing right down the middle of the plate, and Catfish stepped back.

Again, I called to him. "Don't step back!". He glared back at me, and got ready for the next pitch. Again, another strike emerged from the swerl of arms and legs, and again, Catfish stepped back. He looked over at me with that 'I know I'm in trouble look'. I again told him to not step back.

He stepped back into the batters box, and readied for the pitch. The pitcher readied, and the tornado of arms and legs began again. Once more the ball came smoking out of the tangle, and sped toward home. This time, Catfish stood as still as a statue. He didn't step back. He didn't flinch.

The ball nailed him right in the kidney. It was a smoking fastball, and it got him solid. It didn't richochet off and go to the back stop. It hit him solid on the kidney and dropped at his feet.

He was kind of hunched over as he trotted to first base. As one of the Coaches, I was allowed to go check on him. As I trotted across the field, he glared at me. I could almost see smoke coming from his ears. He wasn't rubbing his back, but I knew it had to really hurt. I slowed from my trot to a walk just a few steps short of first.

Before I could ask how he was, with a steely gaze fixed on my eyes, he said "I told you he was going to hit me with the damn ball."

Catfish prefers soccer.

The Last Swim Meet

2011-07-19T05:46:00.012-04:00

In early August of 1965, I joined the Jonesboro YMCA swim team. I joined on a Friday, and the State Swim Meet was held the next day in Jonesboro. I won 3rd place in Freestyle and Backstroke, and would have had 2nd in Butterfly, but I was disqualified. Before that morning, I had never heard of "Butterfly" and the kid who explained the stroke to me before the race didn't tell me I had to touch the wall with both hands at the same time, so I was disqualified. I swam competitively for the next 10 years until I discovered cigarettes, beer and women.

Several years ago, Jenn and Jordan were on the swim team here in New Jersey. At the final meet of the year, the last event was the "Parents Relay". My daughters, having grown up hearing of my adventures swimming,and seeing my trophies and medals, were particularly excited by this event. Of course, they ensured that I was recruited to be on the relay team. I wasn't overly concerned about it because the other parents recruited for the relay team were about 10 years younger than me and looked to be in pretty decent shape. We would be competitive with the parent's of the other team. I wasn't going to have to really sprint or anything.

In those days, I still smoked so naturally I watched the swim meet, and cheered our team on while having cigarettes and beer in the bar/patio area of the swim club who hosted the meet. The teams were well matched. It was a close meet. Though our relay would not officially be included in the point tally, in the end, it would take a 'win' by our relay team would produce a team victory in the 'UnOfficial' tally.

Our relay team gathered behind the starting blocks. I stubbed out my last cigarette, and handed my beer to one of the timers. I climbed up on the starting blocks which were higher than I remembered. I stood there...all 226 lbs of pot bellied, hypertensive me. I was sporting a two or three year old knee length baggy bathing suit that still had a little sand in it from the last visit to the Jersey Shore.

I looked down the blocks at the other 2 relay teams preparing for the race. Their lead off men were tall... much taller than me, and they wore Speedo's and had bathing caps with their team logo, and goggles. They were stretching and shaking down. What the hell? These guys really looked like swimmers!! They weren't fat. They looked like early middle aged marathon runners. They were skinny and had long arms and legs. Compared to them, my whole team looked like Danny DeVito impersonators wearing bad swimming suits and having a bad hair day. We drank, smoked and wheezed everyday while these guys obviously were running or swimming. They wore Speedos and caps and goggles. We wore baggy swimming suits and needed bifocals. "Oh damn", I thought to my self. This is going to be ugly. I looked at the crowed, and saw my daughters waving and smiling at me.

In looking from the crowd at me on the blocks beside the tall, skinny guys in Speedos, my daughters saw 'invincible dad'. Everyone else saw a fat middle aged man in a baggy bathing suit about to drown himself in a race against real athletes. Oh damn.

I looked back down the blocks and began to construct a plan to make this as respectable as possible. I knew I needed to be the first one off the blocks because that might be my only advantage. I had always has a quick start, and I knew I'd really need it this time. Each leg of the relay was 25 yards, so if I beat them out of the blocks, maybe it would take them a bit to catch me, and I could make this respectable.

I tried to shake down some but the only thing that moved very much was my belly, and I'm sure that wasn't very attractive. I began to hyperventilate. I figured if I could go the whole 25 yards without taking a breath, it might save me a stroke or two. I continued to hyperventilate to get as much oxygen in my blood as possible.

The starter was ready, and called out "Swimmers, take you mark!". I bent down into a starting posture that probably hasn't been seen in competition in 20 years. It was a little awkward. Swimming starts aren't normally done by a person sporting a pot belly. The starters pistol sounded. In the corner of my eye, I saw that I had them off the blocks. I hit the water, and sprinted. It was only 25 yards but when you haven't sprinted in 20 years, thats like a marathon. My arms were burning and getting tight after only 6 or 8 strokes, and my lungs screamed for air. I wished I hadn't had that last cigarette. I could feel the muscles in my chest getting tight, and the muscles under my arms start to cramp, and then with one final thrust of my arms, it was over. My right arm stretched out and tagged the wall. The next swimmer on our team flew over me and began sprinting his 25 yards.

I was wheezing and coughing, and exhausted. My heart rate must have been 200 beats per minute. Gasping for breath, I looked up at my team mate for help getting out of the pool, but he was looking at the other team. I turned and looked, thinking that we must have been smoked really badly.

Our second swimmer, who wasn't very fast, was nearing half way of the pool, and the lead off swimmers of the other two teams were just now reaching the end of the pool. I hadn't been smoked. I hadn't been humiliated in front of my kids. I had won. I smoked the tall lanky guys in Speedos, caps and goggles. I beat both of them by 1/2 the length of the pool.

With my chest pains beginning to subside, one of the other parents helped me out of the pool, and told me that my 'split' was a 12.9. "I swam 25 meters in 12.9 seconds?" , I wheezed as I looked around for my beer. I looked back at the race. Our third swimmer was in the water, and we were still holding a 1/2 length lead. I looked down the lanes at the other teams, with their speedos, and caps and goggles. Our fourth and final swimmer hit the water, and churned his way through the final 25 yards to victory.

Still standing poolside and wheezing and coughing, I reflected on the moment. From that first meet in in August of 1965 in the Jonesboro YMCA pool, until this one, last race at a club pool in New Jersey, there was never a sweeter victory than this one. I waved at my kids, swigged my beer, and looked for my smokes.

That was the last swim meet.

Morning Coffee in Memphis

2011-07-08T06:48:00.002-04:00

Seated in front of the fountain, and between the marble columns of the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, watching the procession of early risers seeking coffee is an event unto itself. Beginning at about 6:00am, bleary eyed guests, shaking off the night before and wrestling free from the sultry embrace of Beale Street, wander slowly in. Pausing to extend a courtesy or two at casual encounters, each guest is drawn irresistibly by the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Meandering ever so casually and yet striding so discretely and purposefully across the shiny marble floor of the lobby, they are on quest. Guests walking past the grand piano smile faintly at the tunes from the night before that now exist only in memory, smiles and photographs. Up the six steps to the hall leading to the Deli, each in turn go only to emerge seconds later smiling and clutching a steaming cup of hot coffee.

It’s only fitting that a day in Memphis begins this way.

37 West 65

2011-06-04T06:51:00.011-04:00

Sometimes you run across something that really puts life in a new perspective. You pause for just a moment, and reflect on the blessings that you have been given.
Last week, Catfish and I had a wonderful weekend of diving. We dove in deep, dark, cold water, and he accomplished things that few kids his age attempt, much less accomplish. In training for these dives, and in acquiring the skills and knowledge to make the dives, he's achieving a maturity of thought at an early age. He's learning that anything can be accomplished with proper equipment and training. Anything.

On Wednesday of last week, his 8th grade class went on a three day trip to Washington, DC. One of the places we visited was Arlington. It may not have occurred to anyone else, but it struck me that each of the heros buried there was someone's son, someone's brother or sister, or someone's dad. Over 600 acres of heartbreak. At the Tomb of the Unknowns, the click of the heels of the Honor Guard echoed across the plaza while 300 8th graders stood silently. The sun beat down on everyone, but the silence of so many lay very heavily on the moment. Again, the little voice in my mind whispered to me that this was someone's son, someone's brother, someone's father.

We visited the Vietnam Memorial. It looks like an open wound across a grassy field. At panel 37 West, Line 65 the name Douglas D Estes appears.

On December 8, 1968, Doug was Killed in Action in Vietnam. He was 18 year old, and he was my cousin. I met him but once in the spring of 1968 at my grandparents home. It was a hot day, and he was smiling and laughing and horseback riding with his girlfriend. He had kind words for his little cousins. I remember thinking that he was so big, and so strong. He was a soldier. He knew how to shoot a machine gun. He got to fly in helicopters. He was there that one weekend, and then he was gone.

Only a parent can know the heartache of burying a child. As I looked at panel 37 West, Row 65, I remembered Aunt Dale's tears at Doug's funeral in Memphis. For a moment, I remembered Doug, smiling and laughing at my grandparents home. I looked further down the sidewalk before the Wall, and caught a glimpse of Catfish and his buddies, looking somberly at the wall. Like a bolt of lightening, a thought struck me. I looked up the sidewalk and saw only children coming down, looking at the wall. I looked back at the wall, and knew that each name was someone's child. I looked back toward Catfish and his buddies, but in that instant, they were gone.

I looked at Doug's name on the wall again. It was there, but he was gone, and for just a second, I sensed the utter loss and profound sadness that covered Aunt Dale for the rest of her life. With a new insight, I moved up the sidewalk to find Catfish and his buddies.

A long way from the rice fields

2011-05-21T06:09:00.005-04:00

When she was just a baby, I used to look out over the rice fields from my perch on Crowley's Ridge and pray that she would grow up knowing that there was a whole world out there full of challenge and excitement. I wanted her to know that Paris was the city of lights in Europe, but Beirut was it's counterpart in the Middle East. I wanted her to know that while Memphis dry rub was the way to do ribs, the Carolina's really have pulled pork down right. I wanted her to sing the songs of Hank Jr., Elvis, the Boss, and Lynyrd Skynyrd with equal passion. It was important to me that she know the difference between Kentucky Bourbon and Tennessee Whiskey.

At 13, she transitioned from a tiny school in a tiny town in Arkansas to a pointy headed private school in New Jersey. She didn't know a soul here except for Landi, Catfish, Buckwheat and me. She had never lived through a 'jersey winter', but she had survived many an Arkansas summer. She had never even seen a soccer game played when she went out for the soccer team at school. Four years later, the pointey headed private school awarded her the Wigdon Cup which recognized the Most Athletic girl.

The first week of August her first year of college brought good news and bad news. The good news was that she had 'made the soccer team' at college. The bad news was that Katrina was coming in, and that New Orleans was evacuating. She wound up never playing college soccer, but she graduated with Honors from Tulane, and got a full ride scholarship to UMASS for her Masters.

She has her Masters degree, and she'll be 24 years old in September. She has a job lined up in Indianapolis, and will move there next month. It's just now soaking in that 'Indianapolis' will be 'home' for her. It's not like the time in college, when she's gone, but 'here' is still 'home'. 'Home' will be 'there', in Indianapolis. Mapquest claims it's 11 hours and 35 minutes away. That's a long way.

I'd like to visit the spot on Crowley's Ridge where I used to stand and look out over the rice fields. This time of year, you can see the farmers working the fields. From up on the ridge, it looks like nothing has changed in the last 24 years, but so much has changed. She has seen the lights of Paris and grandeur that was Rome. She has shopped the bustling, dusty markets of a North African town. She's stood on Times Square to welcome the New Year. She'll holler 'Hotty Toddy' or 'Go Yankees' with equal vigor. She can speak to you in English, French or Arabic. She's all grown up now, and I am so very proud, but she'll always be my little girl.

A Public Service Message

2011-05-17T08:49:00.007-04:00

One of the hazards of being sentenced to lose weight is that you have to modify your lifestyle. In addition to giving up Bourbon until I hit the proscribed weight, I have taken up using our treadmill. Unlike in the past when I tried jogging on the damn thing, this time I am adopting a more sane approach. I set a minimum time, and a minimum distance and I do at least that time and distance each day. Some days I go further, and others I just do the minimum. On all days, while walking on the treadmill, there is ample time for thought.

An idle mind is a dangerous thing. An idle mind trapped in a wheezing fat man's body sweating gravy on a treadmill is a very dangerous thing. Today, for example, rather than dwelling on whether or not my heart rate was actually 188 as reported by my treadmill monitor, my mind wandered back to a recent dispute with the good people at Travelocity. There was a problem with a ticket I had purchased, and I had to call Travelocity customer service. The customer service organization at Travelocity is not designed to solve your problem. It is designed to beat you. This posting is a tutorial on how to 'win' when dealing with a customer service organization designed to 'beat you'.

The first thing to know is that you will no be speaking with the company you thought you were calling bu that you will be talking to a call center company and the agent you speak with will be compensated based on his/her ability to close calls. That means they want you to hang up. The more calls they close in an hour, the better they get 'bonused'. The longer you keep them on the phone, the more 'bonus' money they lose. So, start the call by carefully, completely and politely explaining the problem to them. Keep in mind that nearly every call is recorded, so be nice, and make notes about the persons responses to your questions. If the agent will not resolve the issue, ask for the supervisor. The agent may not want to pass you to the supervisor, but be persistent. The agent may tell you the supervisor isn't available. Remember, their goal is to get you to hang up. The agent may offer to have the supervisor call you. Tell the agent you will hold, and be prepared to wait about ten minutes.

Eventually the supervisor will come on the line. The supervisor's bonus package will be a factor of their ability to motivate their people to close calls, and their ability to close 'troublesome' calls. Time is a factor, so you will want to start from the beginning and again completely, honestly and politely explain the problem and the first agent's efforts. Refer to your notes if you need to. In my case, I had caught the original agent in a lie, and I told the supervisor that I had. Stay polite, accurate, and persistent. At the supervisor level, their motivation is still to get you off the phone, so no matter what, stay on 'message' and do not let them get you off the phone. When it becomes apparent that they are not going 'solve' your problem, as to be passed on to the supervisor's management. They are not going to want to do this, so you may have to apply additional pressure. I was able to figure out when they had hit the end of their script, so I told them we were in a 'loop' and to pass me up the chain of command.

It's helpful to know that usually the supervisor will not actually have the authority to solve your problem, and solving your problem will not be his goal. His goal is to get you off the phone. You have to get to the supervisor's management, and to do this you 'play' to the recording. Trouble calls will be played back by management, and sometimes even reviewed by the 'real' company you thought you were calling. Put your self in the shoes of the call center company, and think about what they would not want their client hearing. I told the supervisor that at some point I was going to encounter someone who actually cared if I ever bought another ticket using Travelocity. I got passed up the chain of command. Again, don't let them call you back, stay on the phone, and be prepared to wait another ten minutes.

Continue this exercise until you get someone who is actually in the United States. Only at that point will you have transitioned from the call center people to people who actually work for the company you thought you called. You will notice a definite difference. If necessary to verify that you are actually speaking to someone in the US, ask them where they are. When they answer, simply ask how the weather is today. Simple question, unless you aren't actually where you say you are. You can verify weather conditions anywhere using weather.com. When you get to the US side of things, your problem can and will be solved.

I would argue that it is your responsibility to use this technique at every opportunity because if you 'beat' them, at some point even the corporate ivy league pinhead bastards who thought that outsourcing customer service into a country whose culture is to 'game' the system will realize that this just isn't working. Whether it's HP Technical Support, Travelocity Customer Service, Dell Customer Support, you can get your problem solved. Just don't hang up.

In the interest of full disclosure, I used to work for the world's 3rd largest Call Center operations company. That's how I know how 'they' work. Now you know how 'they' work. So ,next time you have to call customer support or service, get a note pad, a nice big glass of tea, and be prepared to spend an hour or two. Be nice, polite, accurate and persistent. If it's not worth and hour or two of your time, then don't bother to call because you won't win.

The preceding has been a public service message brought to you by the Leady Meat Company. For meat you can't beat, it's Leady Meat.

If you hang up, the terrorists win.

I'm Fat.

2011-05-09T15:04:00.003-04:00

There must be a class in Medical School where they teach young doctors to give that 'look'. It's a serious look...with the brow sort of crunched just a little. It's an eye ball to eye ball look. No kidding around, looking away, or mumbling. When you get that 'look', you just know the doc is about to tell you something horrible. I guess in Med School they teach them to 'just spit it out'; "just say it'.

And so he did. Dr. Frankenstein, standing there in a white jacket with his name on it, looked me right square in the eye, and in a solemn and measured voice, delivered the words everyone my age dreads hearing: "Bill, the problem is that your are just too damn fat."

Somewhat take aback, I replied testily "So what? You're ugly. What's your point?"

"Seriously", Doctor Frankenstein continued, "You need to lose about 15 or 20 lbs. before I can do the surgery."

"You'll still be ugly.", I thought to my self.

Having been down the surgery 'road' before, I did not fall for his misdirection. Hell, Stevie Wonder can tell I'm fat. Here's the deal...when they want to cut you open and root around with your insides, they want to give you something else to think about rather than how much pain you are going to experience as a result of their 'fix' of what ever you have wrong with you.

Case in point. A few years ago, when I blew out my ACL, tore my meniscus, and broke my tibia, it took a lot of effort to get the knee fixed. First, the doctors said I was too old, that people my age don't really 'need' and ACL. To me, an ACL isn't optional equipment. I play soccer. I ski. I run to the bathroom. So, I told the good doctor I wanted the damn thing fixed anyway. So we scheduled the surgery. I was in the ready room when the gass-passer hit's the 'stop button'. The anesthesiologist didn't like my blood pressure or my thyroid. It took two months to get the blood pressure and thyroid issues resolved. During this two month period, because I had a great deal of difficulty walking, and was in a fair amount of pain, I was focused on getting the blood pressure and thyroid in line for the day of the surgery. I wasn't thinking about the 'day after surgery'. I was so focused on getting the surgery done that I didn't ask the most important question. I just wanted the damn surgery done.

Note to self: Think about the day after surgery. That's a very important day because the hospital pain meds will be worn off, and you be using Percocets. Think about that day. Never let some doc fussing about your age, or your blood pressure or your thyroid distract your attention away from one critically important question: "How much is this going to hurt?"

Beware! "We'll give you pain meds." is not an answer. It's part of a grand strategy for an ambush.

Here's how it works. Following surgery, you are in more pain that can be described using the English language. They have cut open the front of you knee, and using power tools or explosives, they have removed the center third of the petalar tendon. They break out the ole Black and Decker drill and, usually using a worn out wood bit, they bore a hole through your femur and one through your tibia. Next they take a coat hanger or something, and they poke the sliver of tendon through both of these holes to create a new ACL for you. You wake up, with your knee immobilized in a big ass brace that has two hinges right at knee level. Take special note of how to lock and unlock the hinges. If you fail to lock the hinges, movement of even .01 degree in the knee will bring you to new heights of unimaginable pain.

They give you "Pain Meds". Percocets, they are, and they have two distinct effects. One is to relive pain, and the other is to shut your guts down. I ate them like popcorn. The pain relief is marginal at best, but the cessation of the colo-rectal function is complete and absolute. Everything in your digestive tract stops moving just prior to its 'leaving the building' so to speak. You still get hungry. You still eat, but Elvis isn't leaving the building, if you know what I mean. Because you are looped on Percs, you don't notice for 3 or 4 days that you've apparently and miraculously been impregnated, and that what ever you are going to give birth to is going to be big. Anyone who has given birth to a large piece of firewood will never take percocets again, and the medical theory is that you'll remember the pain of childbirth instead of the pain from the surgery. It's an evil strategy.

So, now Dr. Frankenstein wants to open me up like a butterflied pork chop and rearrange my innards. He's doing that doctor 'look'. He's very serious. He's offering to gut me, for a price of course, and I suspect there is a lot of pain involved in this.

"How much is this going to hurt?", I ask, trying not to sound scared.

"We'll give you pain meds, but you've got to lose 15lbs.", Dr. Frankenstein replies.

"How much is this going to hurt?", I repeat, not falling for the misdirection.

The doctor isn't playing around. He goes for my jugular. "The easiest way for someone your age to lose weight is to cut down on your drinking.", he says without blinking. He expects this to shake me, for my love of bourbon is legend, but I don't take the bait.

"How much is this going to hurt?" I press on.

"Hurt? Not much.", he finally replies.

"Really?" I exclaim, with obvious relief.

"No...not really.", he smiled, "I can give you some pain meds."

Surprise!

2011-04-28T14:03:00.006-04:00

Surprises come in all flavors. Some are good. Some are bad. I remember several years ago on my 40th birthday, Mom and Dad had sneaked into New Jersey for a visit. That was a good surprise. I enjoyed that a lot. Back in 2004, when we were in New Orleans to watch Jordan play soccer for Loyola, we had to cross the Mississippi River via the Huey P. Long Bridge. The Huey P. Long Bridge has two lanes with no apparent means of support, floating in mid-air on either side of train tracks which ran down the center of the bridge structure. It is about 1000 ft above the river and the guard rails that should prevent you from driving off the bridge are about 12 inches high. Hell, I've driven over curbs that were taller. When you are driving in a conversion van, or an SUV, you can not see the guard rail. This was a bad surprise, a very damn bad surprise.

I closed one eye, repented of all my sins, and drove 15 miles an hour right down the center of the two lanes heading west. Traffic quickly backed up behind me, and the people right behind me were honking and flipping me the bird, but I didn't care. With everyone behind me honking, flashing lights, and flipping me the bird, I imagined that it must look like we were leading a parade across the bridge. We survived and I'll never, ever cross that bridge again.

Last week on our return trip from Florida, we were hopeful of avoiding an unpleasantness in terms of breakdowns, bridges or surprises. The Beast (pet name for the Ford Expedition) had performed flawlessly. On the trip down, we got almost 20 miles per gallon, and we figured out how to use the satellite radio. The DVD worked well, and Jordan and Catfish watched movies and studied. The only giant bridge encountered on the way down was skillfully avoided on the return route. The return trip was going alarmingly well. Too well.

On the first day coming home, we drove 540 miles, and got a room at a Marriott hotel in Knoxville, Tennessee. We were exhausted, hungry and thirsty. Landi, Catfish and Jordan went directly to the room with the Bell Hop, while I parked the Beast. When I walked into the lobby of the hotel, I noticed that there were about 200 tables set with beautiful white table clothes, and formal china in readiness for Easter Brunch. I wearily stepped onto the elevator thinking about how nice it would be in the morning if we could be out of here before all that got going. I punch '9' on the controls, and the elevator began to rise. I turned around, and HOLYSHIT YOU CAN SEE OUT OF THIS THING. IT'S ONE OF THOSE GLASS ELEVATORS!!! I was in a glass elevator rising like a rocket toward the 9th floor.

That was ugly surprise number one. As one who has an increasingly profound respect for heights, I was stunned. I was in a glass elevator shooting up at an uncivilized rate of climb heading toward the alpine region of this towering building. My fear turned to absolute panic as we neared the ceiling and I noticed that we were not slowing down and clearly we were going to hit the damn ceiling really hard. I grabbed hold of the hand rails tightly and braced for the collision. I wondered if the doors would open following the impact, or if the elevator would just break away from the elevator 'track' and plummet to the hard tile floor of the hotel lobby. I had visions of all manner of movie scenes where some poor bastard gets dropped from a really high place. Wiley Coyote and Road Runner came to mind, but I had no illusions as to my ability to survive a fall like the coyote.I closed my eyes, and again, repented of my sins.

The collision never came, but ugly surprise number two did. The elevator flew threw the ceiling and emerged into blinding sunlight on the outside wall of the damn hotel and continued slimbing upward like a squirrel on crack.

At this point, I was nearing incontinence. This had been a bad ride. I just wanted off the damn elevator. It was bad enough riding in an elevator inside the building, but this damn thing was now outside the building. Who the hell thought that was a good idea? If I survived this ride, I'd never ride another elevator. Finally, Saints be praised and to the sound of trumpets, the doors of the elevator opened, and I exited the jaws of death. It took a minute to regain my composure and dignity.

I found the hotel room, and went in. I must have looked a little shaken up, because Catfish and Jordan both thought my experience was exceedingly humorous. Funny my ass! I fixed a bourbon. No ice. No water. Just bourbon....a very strong bourbon. I was safe and in the room. I was out of danger.

Landi came out of the rest room, and cheerfully said, "Ok, Let's go down for supper."

I'm gonna need more bourbon.

Third Time's a Charm

2011-04-15T05:34:00.002-04:00

I feel a little like Charlie Brown charging up to the football as Lucy holds it. Just like Charlie, I just know it's going to work out ok this time. Nothing bad is going to happen. Everything is as it should be. Here goes...We leave for Florida this morning.

It's pre-dawn here. Ninty nine years ago today, in the dark of the night the Titanic struck an ice burg the size of a city block and sank. Last Februrary, our van lost oil pressure 78 miles into our trip to Jonesboro. In December, the Van's fuel line froze in the middle of an ice storm in southern Virginia. We sold the van.

Today, we prepare to leave in "The Beast". Cars should have names, and this one's name is 'The Beast'. It's a 2008 Black and silver Ford Expedition with 2 1/2 years warranty left on it. The tires are good. The oil is new. The windshield washer reservoir is full. The Port-a-bar is stocked with bourbon and Vodka, and we have wine and Bloodymary mix. We have snacks, and movies, and music. We are ready for a 1200 mile trek to Destin, on the banks of the sea of Wahoo, where there are never any troubles, or at least very few.

Though I'm a blind optimist, I know something is going to happen. No way Charlie kicks the damn ball. As daylight sneaks up on us here in New Jersey and our departure grows near, I know there is an iceberg lurking out there somewhere, but you know what? From my perspective an iceberg is simply free range ice cubes, and I have plenty of bourbon.

Lucy looks up at Charlie and smiles.

The Good Stuff

2011-03-29T15:17:00.002-04:00

All the grandchildren say the house is haunted, and they just may be right. Fifty years of Christmas Eve Quail dinners linger in the kitchen. That just doesnt' fade away very quickly. On the patio where thousands of cocktails were consumed and countless steaks were cooked on a gas grill beneath the spreading branches of the old 'acorn' tree, the ghost of Daddy Doc smiles back at me in a reflection off of the French Doors. In the Den, the footstools are gone, but it's a sure thing that my brother still can't fly. In the tile, Mom's reflection still glares at me, and she's still pissed. Somehow, it's my fault that Matt can't fly. Miss Dot sits in the lounger in the Den, sipping a cocktail and telling us all 'one damn thing'. Don't blink, you'll miss her. Yeah, this house is haunted.

Today, to the casual observer, the house appears mostly empty. The silver and jewlery were carried off some time back. Last weekend, we removed furniture. As we went from room to room sorting out memories and wading though smiles and tears, it became clear to me that this house would never be empty. Though Mom and Dad no longer lived there, and despite being stripped of it's contents, this house would always be full of history. Just stepping through the door brings back floods of memories and emotions. Though the pictures have been taken down from the walls, the memories still hover in the air.

In emptying the house, we are closing a chapter. We each come away from our home with things to remind us of Mom and Dad. Mom will always smile back at me from her secretary. I'll see her every time I use the corn bread stick mold. In looking at the swords, I'll remember her Antique Store. Dad will forever be sitting on the couch, cigarette and cocktail in hand, explaining things to me. He had a certain clarity of thought. On this, the last weekend in the house, the old grump, smiling and sitting on the couch, explained to me what the 'good stuff' is. I understand.

It Happened Out There

2011-02-21T05:56:00.005-05:00

In one of my favorite scenes in the movie 'Captain Ron', the one-eyed captain gazes out over the blue green waters of the Caribbean Sea, and says 'What ever is going to happen is going to happen out there.' I love that line. Of course, at this point in the movie, Captain Ron has yet to be revealed as a complete lunatic.

In a similar fashion, we set out last Thursday for Arkansas. As a result of having suffered various forms of vehicular failure on most of the last few trips down south, we have recently acquired a 'new' van. It will be recalled that a year ago last December, we made a Christmas run to Arkansas that was inturrupted only 60 miles into the journey. After being rescued by my Father-in-Law, and slamming my hand in the car door, we continued on to Arkansas for a successful trip. Our next excursion was Florida for spring break. Unfortunately, on the day we left Florida we discovered that our fuel system was still compromised, and water was still able to penetrate the tank. The final debacle was this past December when we were stranded in a rest area near Marion, Virginia in a horrible ice storm. It was certainly time to retire the old Ford Van.

Our new van is a Dodge. It has a few miles on it, but it is pristine, and we bought it through a reputible dealership. It's about 3 feet shorter than the old Ford, but we don't need all that room anymore. I was anticipating much better gas milage because it has a six cylindar engine rather than the huge eight cylindar that was in the Ford. We looked at the van and drove it on a Saturday, and returned to the dealership on Monday and bought it.

On Wednesday, the dealership filed for bankruptcy protection. Uh oh.

Did we have the title in our hands? Nope. Did we have tags for the van? Nope. Did we have the registration? Nope. But, apparantly the Fates were in our favor because all three materialized over the next week or so, and I thought out troubles might be over. I was wrong.

Having secured tags, title and registration, I drove the van one day to have lunch with some of my old work pals. It's a 24 mile commute up over the Watchung Mountains. I drove it almost daily for 3 years. I was 10 miles into the journey when I noticed that the alternator was not charging. Damn. I turned around and took the van to our local garage. There was a little voice in the back of my mind snickering. The rational moron who apparantly co-habitates with the little voice in the the back of my mind suggested that 'Hey, it's not that bad. Alternator's go out. It's a maintenance thing.' That's 'reasonable', I thought, but the snickering still bothered me.

While in the shop, I decided to have the van checked for other potential problems because in a few short weeks, we would be making a trip to Arkansas in it. $2700 later, with a new water pump, a mostly rebuilt front end as well as new brakes, our 'new' van was fit to make the journey to Arkansas. Having picked the van up from the garage, we decided to drive it when we went out for dinner and a movie.

The restaurant and theater are only about 5 miles from our home. Before we even got half way, the van was surrounded by clouds of steam. Back to the garage. The little voice in the back of my head snickered again. The rational moron in me said "This sort of stuff just happens sometimes."

Finally, the day for the trip to Arkansas arrived. My bride and I both were a little apprehensive because this was the 30th day we had owned the van, and it had been in the garage for 18 of those days. The little voice in my head was placing bets with the rational moron in me as to whether or not we'd even make it out of Jersey.

Never the less, as we loaded the van with luggage and assorted crap, my mind wandered back to Captain Ron's words. The van's engine was tight, and pulled well. The tires were good. The belts were good, and the radiator was topped up. There was plenty of windschield washer fluid. Landi, Jordan, Catfish and I got in the van and pulled out. Weather reports indicated that we could expect good weather for the entire trip. Everything was wonderful as we crossed the river from Jersey to Pennslyvania. We switched the radio to the rock station that broadcasts from Allentown. Jordan was studying in the back of the van. Catfish was listening to his Ipod. Landi was knitting, and I was listening to the clatter of the lifters.......

Clatter of the lifters? WTF? The little voice in my head and the rational moron in me were laughing their asses off.

A quick glance revealed that we had no oil pressure. None. Ziltch. I switched off the engine and steered the van onto the shoulder of the road. We had gone 78 miles, and suffered a catastrophic engine failure.

Captain Ron was right. It did happen out there.

A Truely Super Sunday

2011-02-09T13:21:00.007-05:00

Sunday was a beautiful day. It began with Mimosas and a good breakfast. Since my former employer told me last month that my services were no longer needed because my performance was not on par with that of my fellow Vice Presidents, I don't get up and check 'my' computers first thing in the morning. It's just not my problem anymore. I get up, and I have a Mimosa and cook the Catfish and my bride a good breakfast. I have found that it really is true that if you're going to drink all day, you have to start in the morning.

So, SuperSunday began nicely, and then it got better. A friend texted me. "Intellione is down.", the message read. Intellione is a huge computer that runs roughly 30% of the world's third largest collections company. When it is down, the company is down and is bleeding serious money. Intellione had been one of my boxes. For three years, I had monitored it and pampered it and corrected the miriad of problems that had made the big server so unreliable and troublesome for prior administrators. In the last two years, Intellione had been very stable and reliable. It had not suffered not one minute of unplanned downtime in over 25 months, which is why 2.0 decided that my services, and my bad attitude, were no longer needed.

These sweet moments are to be treasured.

This guy, who just days after Mom passed away, gave me a ration of shit telling me that this company doesn't have berevement time; this guy who gave me a ration of shit about taking a day off in December to attend my Father-in-Law's funeral; this guy who just last month told me that 'my performance wasn't up to par' and fired me, was being slow roasted over a raging fire of sleep deprived, caffine fueled weasels. Because he didn't have a single ally in the organization, I knew that he was alone in the debacle, swinging in the breeze. It must have been truly agonizing because I know that he would rather french kiss a monkey's ass than call me, but my friend had texted me again, and he was asking for my phone number.

There are moments in your life where you get to make a decision. Sometimes, you see a drowning man, and, even though you know him for what he is, you find the means to rescue him. You find a bouy, or a rope, in worst case you get in the water, but you find a way to help the man.

This wasn't one of those times. This was a time for popcorn...... and Mimosas

The phone rang.

Pucker up big boy.

A 1997 Model Snow Thrower.

2011-01-27T09:26:00.008-05:00

On this date in 1997, my wife and I acquired a new snow thrower. It didn't come with any instructions, was under 10 lbs, and for 14 years we have been at a complete loss as to how to make any use of it. It has always started very easily, but never got much done. It consumed vast amounts of fuel, made a tremendous noise at random intervals, created unimaginable messes, and spontaneously spewed crap out of both ends. Amazingly, this snow thrower produces more gas than it consumes.

It's not like we had never had a snow thrower before. We had a 1986 and a 1987 model. Both are very good looking models, but neither would throw snow at all.

Last night, we got 18 inches of wet, heavy snow. It's the middle aged fat man killing snow. I expect to see two or three of my neighbours laid out dead as door knobs from heart attacks brought on by shovelling this shit. But not me. I have a snow thrower.

After 14 years of wondering how to operate this thing, my snow thrower started up this morning. It just took some bacon and some biscuits and gravy and magicaly it cleared the driveway. I didn't have to coax it. I didn't have to threaten it. I didn't have to do anything other than just get started.

So now, I sit in warm comfort sipping a Mimosa and blogging while my 14 year old snow thrower digs tunnels in the mountains of snow. I'm afraid that I'll only have the use of the snow blower another 4 or 5 years. After that, I'm afraid he'll be stolen away by a pretty girl, or distant job.

A friend emailed my yesterday that he and his wife are expecting a baby in August. I paused for a minute, and remembered a magical day in 1997, when the Packers won the Superbowl, and my new snow thrower arrived. He wasn't very big. Hell, I've caught Catfish bigger than him.

BOHICA

2011-01-26T05:49:00.004-05:00

It began in December in an ice covered rest area in southern Virginia. It wasn't really that bad. After all, if you are well prepared when your car breaks down in an ice storm, you can simply serve cocktails until help arrives. But then, the day after Christmas, we got 29 inches dumped on us over night. I had to shovel a path for the dogs, as well as a 'spot' for the dogs so they could go outside and crap. A week or so later, they closed school for a day when we got another 6 or 8 inches. The following week, we got another 6 or 8 inches, and they closed school again, so Catfish, Landi and I went skiing. Last week, we had another ice storm and school was closed.

As I sit here in the pre-dawn hours watching the arrival of yet another snow storm predicted to dump another 10 inches of snow on us, I am troubled. On one hand, a big snow means they cancel school, and we have another opportunity to ski on fresh powder with little in the way of a crowd, but on the other hand, we've already had a lot of 'snow days'. At this rate, the poor kids are going to be going to school through July 4th.

I guess that it's just like Mark Twain said. "Everyone talks about the weather, but no one does anything about it." Radar shows the storm closing in on us, and one word comes to mind. BOHICA.

Bend over, here it comes again.

For Sale: One Conversion Van

2010-12-18T08:22:00.012-05:00

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

2010-12-13T13:03:00.008-05:00

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

2010-11-26T16:04:00.010-05:00

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

2010-11-17T13:22:00.006-05:00

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

2010-11-09T05:53:00.004-05:00

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'

2010-11-01T13:02:00.011-04:00

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

2010-10-27T06:03:00.005-04:00

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

2010-10-21T09:41:00.005-04:00

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

2010-07-22T09:09:00.002-04:00

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

2010-05-23T06:52:00.004-04:00

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

2010-05-15T06:04:00.004-04:00

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

2010-04-09T07:42:00.005-04:00

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

2010-02-25T08:59:00.001-05:00

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...

2010-02-18T06:19:00.000-05:00

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

The Night Before The Morning After

2010-02-13T11:41:00.002-05:00

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

2010-02-08T09:18:00.003-05:00

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

2010-01-08T10:05:00.004-05:00

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

Dining With History

2009-09-20T06:15:00.003-04:00

Some are old men now, with gray hair. They are bent and broken, and have earing aids. They walk with a little bit of a shuffle, or perhaps a cane or a limp and some have hands that tremble bit. A gaze into their eyes sometimes betray a hint of glocomma. They are quiet, and mild, and courteous. They are gentle, and gentlemen, but once, long ago, they were fierce.

These are the men who freed Europe from the Nazis. They defeated Japan on tiny islands across the Pacific. The rescued Korea from the Communists. They fought from Saigon to Cambodia, from Grenada to Panama, from Iraq to Afganistan. They went in harm's way and lived, and have never forgotten their friends who died.

Yesterday, we fed them barbeque at the Clark American Legion.

Living in an age when football players and rock stars are mistaken for heros, it was an honor to dine with so many real ones.

Endeavor to Persevere

2009-09-15T07:36:00.003-04:00

It was a perfect September day, blue skys and cool temps. A quick dash through Restaurant Depot was just that...a dash. No delays Set up was a snap. Fire started with out a problem. Prep was quick and easy. The chicken cut without incident, and the ribs went on to thaw without problem.

A knowing mind would have sensed danger, but not me. I should have known the next two hours would be an exercise in chaos.

100 Golfers were roaring down fairways drinking heavily and looking forward to world class barbeque. The bar staff was quietly preping for what would be a giant rush. Golfers get really thirsty between the golf course and the bar. The employees at neighboring businesses smelled smoke were nosing around asking questions about the menu.

The event was KC's Korner's Annual Golf Outing. Grace, of KC's Korner fame, organized this event four years ago, and has raised over $20,000 for the Hospice.

As I said, prep went without issue, and having completed the prep and started the cooking, it was time to hit the head. To those of you who are not nautical, that means take a leak. "Go potty", so to speak.

After what could have only been a three to four minute absense, the following occured in close order....
1. A grease fire erupted in the smoker containing 120 lbs of pork shoulders, 40 lbs of
leg quarters, and 50 lbs of baby back ribs, 5 containers of barbequed beans, and 5
containers of cajun green beans. While extinguishing the fire....
2. A gust of wind blew the canopy about 10 ft. from where we had originally set it up,
nearly knocking over the table containing the rubs, vinegars, cooking tools. After
hauling the tent back into place, and fixing the table, I noticed.....
3. The wood pile was on fire. No shit.
4. All the chicken and ribs were 'sooted' beyong belief.

So, I washed 40 lbs of chicken and 50 lbs. of ribs, and cooked them anyway. And I do mean washed. Washed as in two tubs of water.

Most people with panic, others would fret. Quite a few would weap at the loss of so much chicken, ribs, and pulled pork.

Ahhh.....ye of little faith. The Good Lord gave us the hickory tree, chicken, pigs and a fine butt rub. When you combine those four, all you need is a fifth and things will be right.

So, wq que'd away secure in the knowledge that the healing aroma of hickory smoke, and the gentle embrace of the butt rub, and the periodic spritzing with vinegar would produce yet another batch of slap yo momma good barbeque.

At 9:30 last night, the verdict was in.

Damn fine food.

It's awfully late to start drinking.

2009-09-13T06:21:00.003-04:00

The sun isn't up yet, and that is one of the signs that the end of the summer has indeed arrived. There's less humidity, even on rainy days, and just a touch of coolness in the air. In about an hour, I'll start the fire to begin smoking 100 lbs of pork shoulders for a fund raiser Monday (9/14) at KC's Korner in South Plainfield. Grace, Walter and Co. raise money every year for a cancer hospice, and this year, they asked the Memphis Barbeque Company to do some barbeque.

We're doing ribs, chicken, pulled pork, cajun greenbeans, and barbequed beans. Dinner serves sometime late Monday afternoon. The event was originally planned for 50 golfers, as it is a golf outing, but it has now swollen to 120 or more. We'll have the smoker, the tent and all the regualr crap set up for the event. I'll start singing country music probably around noon.

I realize that noon is awfully late to start drinking, so cocktails may begin a bit earlier.

Fang Skull

2009-06-25T10:11:00.002-04:00

This isn't about barbeque. It's about a kid.

At a height of about 5 feet, a kid has a different perspective on a lot of things. They know every dog in the neighborhood, and speak of the dog as if he were a friend. Property lines have little meaning. Nary a thought is given to cutting through backyards, side yards, and front yards on their way to the 'woods' or a friends house. They may borrow things, but they will never steal, and they will give you all they have for the asking. They haven't a clue about the value of a dollar, but they can tell you all about lucky rocks. At once, they treat their friends like dogs, and dogs like brothers. They are generous beyond good sense to friend and stranger alike, and loyal to the end even in the face greivous punishment. I think they pick that up from the dogs. They ride bicycles and skateboards with the causal elegance of a soaring hawk, crash them like flaming train wrecks, and rise again bleeding,but smiling and laughing. They find more joy in a single jelly bean than we find in Christmas, and, we try to teach these kids to be adults.

It seems to me, that we ought to consider becoming more like kids.

On Father's day, my wife took my son to the worlds greatest store (Spenser's), and bought me a gift I will never, ever forget. Having blown my knee out last September, and despit having it surgically repaired, it still hurts and I limp a little. If you limp, you ought to have a cool cane. A cane much cooler than any that Dr. House might posses.If you are a 12 year old boy, there is nothing better you can give your limping dad than a black cane that is topped with a skull with fangs.

If you are a limping dad, there is nothing better your son can give you than the look on his face when he sees you smile after opening a box containing the world's greatest cane.

It doesn't get any better than that.

Weekend Update

2009-06-22T13:05:00.002-04:00

Having survived the weekend monsoon intact, we have determined that we have not suffered enough. Dixie Dog has recovered from sitting in water for 12 hours. Landi is in fine form. I'm still fat.

KC's Korner, the finest dive in South Plainfield, has asked us to barbeque ribs for their third annual Weekend of the Bands. They have 30 bands scheduled over two days. We'll be doing ribs both days, and they've got a guy doing clams.

This should be a lot of fun. The crowd that hangs out at this place is just fantastic. It's like Cheer's meets Archie Bunker on Friends in Mayberry. Everyone who works there super.

So, if you're looking for fun, food and music on Saturday (6/27) or Sunday (6/28) stop by KC's Korner in South Plainfield. We'll have the smoker setup and cooking from 8:00AM until we're done.

We're a Chicken Outfit

2009-06-21T05:52:00.003-04:00

Though the monsoon lasted most of the day, we endevored to persevere. Our bourbon stocks were adequate thanks to Pat. Ice was plentiful. We had wine, and beer...and the tent of a thousand pieces served us well. Hillsborough is aways fun because it's pretty much the same competitors as always. Big Mark was there, as was the RUB Hut boys, the Ribs Within and the Keansburg Firehouse and Moose's Mayem.

The ribs and chicken went on the smoker at roughly 9:00. It was still dry then. We had sovled rubic's tent puzzle and finally started the real work. Only after the ribs and chicken went on the smoker did the skys open up. It was a steady rain. A soaker of a rain....which, as you can imagine, played hell with the temperature of the smoker. On one end 200 degrees...on the end that sticks out into the rain, 100. Can you guess which end we cooked on?

We were stymied on the Chef's Choice. I forgot about it and didn't bring anything for it. Thankfully, when Pat made the liquor run, she was able to get some shrimp. Salvation!

Chicken turn in was at 3:00. No problem. We pulled our chicken, and foiled it at about 1:00. At 2:30, we sauced it, and put it in to carmalize a little. We made the 3:00 turn in just fine.

Rib turn in was at 3:30. No problem. We had three slabs that were nothing less that works of art. A test cut revealed that they were at perfection. It was clearly the consensus that we had produced the perfect rib. We delivered our entry of six hollywood cut ribs at 3:00.

The Chefs' Choice turn in was at 4:00. The shrimp are still frozen? Oh shit. We spread the shrimp on a baking pan and shoved them in the smoker. 5 minutes later they were thawed enough to peel. Raw? Of course they were raw. You can't cook 'cooked' shrimp. Sprinkled with bbq seasonings, cajun seasoning, or bbq sauce, they went back into the smoker. Ten minutes later, they are still raw. Oh shit. We sat the pan on top of the firebox to see if that would cook them. Five minutes later, oh shit. Finally, we opened the firebox, spread the coals flat, and sat the baking pan. At 3:59, we had nine shrimp done, in the box and delivered.

Awards were at 5:00. They were held in the fire house because the sunshine was was again pouring. It was a cozy group. Everyone cheered for everyone else. We thought we had a good chance because we were pleased with everything we delivered. Of course, that is usually the case. In the end, we won Second Place for Yardbird (that's chicken to you yankees), and Seventh Place for Ribs, Sixth Place for Chef's Choice. We were Third Overall.

Of course, that's not the end of the story. Less than one mile from home, either the bearings or the brakes on the van's left front wheel apparently exploded. We were able to limp home at 5 mph and get the smoker put away....and that's the end of that story.

Sunshine Reigns in Hillsborough

2009-06-20T11:33:00.003-04:00

Dateline: Neptune

Eleven intrepid barbequers are high and dry in the parking lot of the Woods Road Fire House. Four kegs of beer sits on ice in the fire house. We managed to get our Rubic's Tent erected before the sunshine began to fall.

Got to go.

The March of the Kilted Madmen

2009-06-15T07:05:00.003-04:00

On Saturday, June 20th, a day that will live in infamy, the Central Jersey Firemen's Cook-off will be held at the Fire House in Hillsborough. All members of the the Memphis Barbque Company and The Dead Cow Society will remember that this is a major fun event. It will start with Meat Inspection at about 7:00AM, and end sometime around 4:00pm. In between those hours, there will be music and a lot of fun.

We've done well here in the past, taking 3rd for ribs, and second for chicken....or vice versa.

So, sober up and try to make it to the event. If the past is any guide, it will be a lot of fun.

The Pig Flu

2009-05-04T09:23:00.002-04:00

Though some of us may be late, I believe that it is of the utmost importance that the Dead Cow Society gather immediately to discuss the latest assault on our carnivours activity. Not too many years ago, you will remember, lying bastards were warning us about 'Mad Cow' disease. What they failed to tell us was that they were actually trying to warn the world about one of my xwives. Now we are being bombarded with information about something called 'the Pig Flu'. Again, we are being mislead.

The whole uproar is the result of an argument about baseball in Mexico City brothel.

My brother was there. What he said happened was that the piano player, apparently an older gentleman with a touch of Atlizhimers, was talking baseball with some visiting politicians, and the piano player said that pigs would fly when Boston won the Series.

At this point, a Boston fan who was employed at the brothel, blew beer our her nose, and screamed at the piano player "They've won twice in the last 5 years, you moron!", everyone laughted. The piano player, being somewhat hard of hearing, missed what was said and asked the bar tender what was going on..and the bartender say...'nothing, but I think the pig flew"

So, thursday, 6:30 at the Outback on 22. Help us help ourselves to dead cow and liquor.

oh..yeah..Boston sucks.

Sacrifice and Penitence

2009-02-26T12:41:00.003-05:00

With Mardi Gras and Ash Wednesday behind us, each of us must now contend with our own forty days of sacrifice and penitence. Forty days...and nights. Just two days less than six weeks. Not much time, when you think about it. It's time to reflect, to turn inward a bit and examine ourselves.

I do this every year. On Ash Wednesday, I get up early, and look at the world around me. If I'm not in a jail cell in New Orleans, then we're off to a good start. Next, I look at myself closely in the mirror. If I don't find a wound or a new tattoo somewhere, the day is starting to look good.

After a cup of coffee, and the haze of morning has been somewhat lifted, I consider what I have given up for Lent. Some years, the sacrifice is more difficult than others. Once, not realizing that St.Patrick's Day is during Lent, I gave up cabbage. Damn.

This year, after due consideration, I've decided to give up Makers Mark. It's my current favorite bourbon. As most everyone knows, I will not drink that crap from Tennessee, and I've never been a fan of Scotch. I can no longer drink beer because it contains gluten. Since I don't have any hand guns, Tequila isn't near as much fun as it used to be.

It's going to be a long forty days and forty nights.

Thank God for Knob Creek.

It's all clear now...

2009-02-18T11:58:00.002-05:00

Finally, the vodka kicked in. Here are our known dates....We are not firmly committed to Keansburg, but we are to Central Jersey .

May 30 - Keansburg Fire Company "Smoke Condition"

June 20 - Central Jersey Fireman's Cook-off

Now, back to work...

Correction...

2009-02-18T07:24:00.001-05:00

Ladies, Gents, and Cory,
The date of the Central Jersey Fireman's Cook-off at Hillsborough is May 30.

I appologize for any confusion. I sent the earlier email before my first bloodymary.

The Year of the Pig

2009-02-18T06:02:00.004-05:00

Ladies, Gentlemen, and Cory,Via the miracle of internet communications, our good friends at the Hillsborough Fire Company have made known to me their intention to once again conduct the Central Jersey Firemans Cook-off. This event will be held on July 20, at the fire house. This event will be limited to 30 teams and is a one day event.

This event has been good to us in the past. We won second place for ribs one year, and third place for yard bird another. It's close to home, and we always see old friends from past competitions, and generally have a hell of a good time. Because I have stayed out of trouble all winter long, I believe that we will have a very good year this year because I must have accumulated a lot of good karma and powerful Juju. For this reason, I anticipate winning.

We'll be registered for this event today, so mark your calendars., buy your bourbon, clean your kilt and get ready. The 2009 Edition of the Memphis Barbeque Company Competition Barbeque Team is ready to cook some barbeque. For us, this just might be the Year of the Pig!

How to Prepare for the SuperBowl

2009-01-27T08:32:00.006-05:00

Janurary 15, 2009
Superbowl T-minus 16 Days:
The day began normally, but ended with a 1 inch stream of water pouring into the basement from an electrical conduit. Yes...an electrical conduit. Who the hell do you call for that? A plumber or an electrician? Together, my wife and I fought the water. A plumber came and capped the electric conduit. We are standing in 3-4 inches of water and as he cuts each wire, he says 'Watcha for da sprarka'. I'm thinking, this may very well become an example of natural selection.

The water company arrives and shuts the water off. It's 4 degress outside. I'm pumping water from the basement but the hose keeps freezing up. Each time I go ouside to clear it, my hand freezes to the metal door knob when I reenter the house.

Janurary 16, 2009
Superbowl T-minus 15 Days:
The water is turned off. We began a 4 day marathon of drying out the basement. The big screen is intact and functional. Damage appears to be minimal. The Middlesex Water Company bozo's begin manouvering to avoid paying for repairing the water line. They forgot to bill us for our 'Customer Care Line Protection'. Our Homeowners Insurance begins trying to tell me that this is ground water (not covered). I calmly explain that in my experience, I have always seen water flow from a pipe, but never have I seen free water flow into a buried pipe, travel up hill, and emerge with force.

Janurary 17, 2009
Superbowl T-minus 14 Days
No running water means no flushing. We move to a hotel. A hotel with a bar. A bar that is out of Knob Creek. God hates me.

Janurary 19, 2009
Superbowl T-minus 12 Days:
Plumber can't get a permit to repair the line until tomorrow because all city offices are closed due to Dr.Martin Luther King Day. We become aware of CLUE. CLUE is a database maintained by insurance companies so that they can intimidate folks into not filing claims for water damage. If you file, you go in the CLUE database. When your insurance company drops you for filing the claim, you are not able to get homeowners insurance from anyone else.
Fortunately, it snows. We move out of the hotel to reduce the potential loss. We begin melting snow to flush. Flusing is a privledge not to be abused.

Janurary 20, 2009
Superbowl T-minus 11 Days:
Got permit. Have to wait for the Digging Cops to mark the yard so we can dig. No idea when they will come. Apparently the Digging Cops are typical employes of the utilities. They may not show up till spring. We're still dehumidifying the basement. It's getting better.

Janurary 21, 2009
Superbowl T-minus 10 Days:
Some bastard painted lines on the snow in my yard. It's the Gas guys. Now we're just waiting on the Middlesex Water Company. I am praying that the guy who paints the lines is more motivated and more competent than the guy who sends the bills out. They're not very good at billing people properly. Many tiles on the basement floor have come up. We remove them to allow the concrete to dry properly. Basement looks like hell, but we're making progress.

Janurary 23, 2009
The guy from Middlesex water show up and marks the line. Plumbers don't work on weekends.
The basement floor is finally dry enough. We prime the floor, and put new tiles down. The carpets are cleaned, and the furnature is washed with Murphy's Oil Soap. We are getting there.

Janurary 25, 2009
SuperBowl T-minue 6 Days
It is 4 degrees outside. I have a good fire into the smoker. Two shoulders and 18 slabs of loin back ribs. A couple of rough looking neighbors just happen by to see what's cooking. They are chronic Jets fans. Neither Steeler fans nor Ole Miss fans. I know why they are here. I show them my ax handle, they realize there is no barbeque for them, and they leave empty handed.

Janurary 26, 2009
SuperBowl T-minus 5 Days:
The Pagans Motorcycle club sends a plumber and a buttboy over at 7:00am. A guy on a backhoe shows up moments later. By noon, we have water. Life is good.

Janurary 27, 2009
Catfish is 12 years old. An email arrives from the Central Jersey Fireman's Cook-off! They are having the contest this year. it will be on June 20, 2009. It just doesn't get any better than this. We can flush. The basement is ready for the SuperBowl, and we've recieved notice that our favorite barbeque contest, where we have done well, is back on!!! The very best thing about this barbeque contest is they have running water in the bathrooms.

I love running water.

Long Live the Dead Cow Society

2009-01-06T12:39:00.002-05:00

It is said by some, that the masonic societies began when the seven knights Templar began digging in the stables beneath Solomon's Temple. Much good has come from these organizations. Children's hospitals have been built. Scholarship programs thrive. All manner of civic good has come about since the seven knights first dug.

One week and one day from now, another equally impressive ensemble of men will gather. Brave men, Eaters of beast. But they will not be digging in stables buried beneath a temple ruin, but rather drinking hard liquor and wine in a bar with an attached restaurant.

Be not decieved, as this is a mission of mercy and much good juju will come from this. One of their number is suffering badly from chronic and long term bovine deprivation. The Good Brothers of the Dead Cow Society have resolved once more to rescue Brother Heiss from tofu.

So, Here's to us, The Good Brothers of the Dead Cow Society, as we seek to save Brother Heiss! May your glass never empty. May all your steaks be rare.

Until the appointed day,
ralphsfeetareclean!

Should Old Butt Rubs be forgot?

2008-12-29T08:10:00.003-05:00

Should old butt rubs be forgot,

and never rubbed again?

Should old sauces be poured out?

they might clog up the drain.

For clogging up the drain my friend

Is not for what they're ment

For clogging up the drain my friend

Is a sauce that that's badly spent

Should old butt rubs be forgot,

and never rubbed again?

Not if you want the finest ribs

that ever graced a plate.

Happy New Year!

Watch the Rebels Tomorrow at the Cotton Bowl!

'Twas the Night Before Christmas - BBQ style

2008-12-28T09:04:00.000-05:00

Courtesy of "I Smell Smoke"...

`Twas the night before Christmas and all through the tent
Not a creature was stirring – all were spent.
The knives were laid out on the counter with care,
A haze of sweet smelling smoke filled the air.
Then what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a big, scruffy guy, holding a beer.
His beard was red and oh so thick,
I knew in a moment it wasn't Saint Nick.
And more rapid than eagles his team members came,
As he shouted "I Smell Smoke!!!" and each team member's name.
And so out to the cooker the team members flew,
With their arms full of lettuce and curly parsley too.
To the cooker he came with a leap and a bound,
He was dressed all in flannel and his belly was round.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And pulled out the meat, then turned with a jerk.
He filled the container with piles of pork,
Slices and strands, which he pulled with a fork.
And I heard them exclaim, as they always joke,
Bring the judges our meat – I Smell Smoke!!!"

Carlotta
ISS!!!

My brother can' fly, but he is bullet proof

2008-12-17T14:40:00.003-05:00

When I was about 5, and my brother Matt was about 3, we used to get up every Saturday morning at 6:00 to watch Superman on WREC-TV out of Memphis. Because he had a Superman suit, my brother believed he could fly just like Superman. I wasn't stupid. I knew he couldn't fly, and I told him so. He didn't believe me, and one day, he stacked up three footstools. He climbed up on top of them. He must have been about 3 1/2 or 4 feet in the air. He stood there, insisting he could fly just like Superman. I told him he could not fly, and we went back and forth for a while until finally I said 'ok, prove it!'. He dove off the footstools, and I was right. He couldn't fly. He gave it a good effort...perfect form..arms straight out in front...absolutely prone... and he landed on the hard linolimum floor flat on his belly. It shook the house so much that mom looked over and saw Matt laying on the floor turning blue.

How does this relate to barbeque, you must be wondering. Here's how. When you go to the diner at the place where you work, and the chef proudly tells you that he's serving barbequed pulled pork, you just need to eat it. Quietly eat it...and smile a lot. What ever you do, when the chef asks you how you like it, tell him you like it just fine. Sometimes, it doesn't pay to tell folks something they don't want to hear. Let them believe what they want. If they don't know that you can't barbeque in a gas oven, don't be the one to tell them. It will only piss them off.

Back to Matt...just after he dove off the footstools, Dad walked in. Dad managed to get Matt to breathing again, and Mom wore my ass out for...for...well, I still don't know why I got my ass beat. What I do know is that later, when Mom was holding Matt, and he had his head laid on her shoulder, he looked over at me. His blue eyes were really set off by the Superman suit. He looked at me with tears still in his eyes and softly he said "Bullets will bounce off of me."

I let that one go.

A Dog's Life

2008-12-13T06:01:00.004-05:00

I first met Nellie when, after drinking for a few hours at CW's house, Landi and I had to attend a function at the Big Fat Head's house. The Big Fat Head was what we called the head of school that our children attended. We had never been to the Big Fat Head's house before. It wasn't hard to find, and we parked among the other cars and walked into the house....the wrong house. Into Brother Jeff's house, who was quite surprised to see us. And we determined at that moment that Nellie was much more of a 'greeter' type dog, than a guard dog. Nellie was happy to see us too. So after petting Nellie and chatting with Brother Jeff, we left, walked next door, and staggered into the function. We both would have prefered to stay at Jeff's petting his dog and drinking his liquor. Nellie passed away last spring.

Spanky first greeted me with an abrupt package check. I don't remember exactly how many years ago it was, but it certainly caught me by surprise at the Christmas party. I'll not say that he was a chronic crotch sniffer, but I suspect that Spanky became acquointed with everyone at the party. I had a good time watching Spankey do the 'nose' thing. The expressions on the faces of the unsuspecting guests were just priceless. Spanky wouldn't be much of a watch dog either. He was happy to see everyone, and I suspect that everyone was happy to see him. Spanky passed away last week.

Buckwheat was imported. He arrived in New Jersey on a flight from Memphis in Janurary of '95. Jordan picked him out of a litter of 8 in an Arkansas town so small that the only building in town had collapsed back in the 50's and no one had bothered to build it back....but this place was still a town. Just ask either of the people who lived there. Buck lived a life of leasure. He used the pool more than any of us. He took naps where ever and when ever he wanted to. He taught Catfish to pee in the yard, and to turn around 3 times before laying down for a nap. He did make it tough to potty train Catfish. According to Catfish, it was Buckwheat who was putting poop in his diaper. Buck passed away in September.

Someone once said that if we are lucky, we find maybe two good friends in the course of our lives. I am quite sure that this person never had a dog. Nellie, Spanky, and Buck all were our good friends. They listened to us when we need to talk. They comforted us when we were sad. They danced through our lives without ever contemplating their own mortality. and left us with only smiles and fond memories.

Let us each strive to be the person these great friends thought that we were. May they rest in peace.

Rehab is for Quitters

2008-12-02T15:20:00.002-05:00

It's December. For hard core barbeque folks, it truely is the winter of our discontent. It's damp, and cold, and it's going to get damper and colder before it gets warmer. That's the bad news. The good news is that finally, after two months of limping around bitching about my knee, I have had my knee surgically repaired....by a real doctor...not one of the mail-order imported surgeons.

It took a while to get it done because between my thyriod and my blood pressure, the doc's weren't real excited about knocking me out to do it. So, finally we got enough alcohol out of my system that my thyroid values appeared ok, and my blood pressure got right, and the doc opened my knee up and poked around in there with a stick and it is all better.

So, today I start rehab. I have always said that rehab is for quitters, but this isn't that kind of rehab. I can take bourbon....or....let me rephrase that...I am taking bourbon to rehab. This isn't one of those deals like one of my Arkansas buddies had where they took turns on who would bring the beer to the AA meeting. This is knee fixing re-hab, which means they don't have any qualms about bourbon. In fact, if they expect me to put any weight on this wobbly ass knee, there is going to have to be a cocktail at the end of the damn rainbow.

Finally, as we draw nearer to the superbowl, just a heads up.....the party is on. The whole team is invited. I'll send a general invite out later. By supersunday, I should be walking without a cane, crutches or limp....unless Landi breaks my other leg.

May the force be with you....

-Bill

Note to self

2008-10-04T08:52:00.002-04:00

It's been a rough couple of weeks.

Two weeks ago, I learned that most 11 year old boys can not distinguish between a heart attack, and a blown knee. I've never had a heart attack, but now I have a blown ACL, torn miniscus, and a fractured tibia. Note to self number one: Next time the doc says, here's some pain meds...take them.

The next day, I barbequed for 100 American Legionairs and had a hell of a time. The gave me a bottle of bourbon. Note to self number two: Don't stand on a blown knee for 6 hours drinking bourbon.

One week ago, I learned that if the Good Lord let's you know that it's time for Buckwheat to take a dirt nap, he'll throw you a bone by having the Rebels beat the Gators in the Swamp. Note to self number three: It ain't a good bargin. Buck was a fine dog.

This morning, I noticed that I am low on bourbon again.

Note to self number four: Buy bigger bottles of bourbon.

A Special Time of Year

2008-09-25T05:42:00.004-04:00

Sometimes, you don't have to look at the calendar to have it really soak in, that Summer is gone, and that Fall has arrived. You notice one day that the trees are begining to drop their leaves. It's cooler in the mornings. Kids are back in school. Schools sports have kicked off, and weekend barbeques are mostly for local clubs and not competitions. It's a good time of year.

The cool weather makes for good barbeque. The mellow aroma of hickory smoke lingers just a little before the breeze shares it with the neighborhood. Neighbors bearing bourbon begin stopping by. Hell, strangers bearing bourbon stop by, and suddenly everyone likes my taste in music, loves the Ole Miss Rebels, and adamantly insists that bourbon is a legitimate breakfast drink.

Nothing brings people together quite like bourbon and barbeque. There's something special about a bunch of folks getting together around a huge smoker, sipping bourbon, and singing outlaw country music at the top of their lungs as the sun crawls up over the horizon. You just know it's going to be a great day.

Cheers.

Labor Day Barbeque Advice

2008-09-02T13:48:00.002-04:00

Where I grew up, it's still hot. Labor Day was always hot. Hell, it's gonna be hot down there for another month or two. And the skeeters are as big as rabid flying vampire turkeys. They rove in flocks so thick they can blot out the sun and cause a mini-eclipse. I've seen small cars completely demolished simply by driving into a flock of mosquitoes....or rabid vampire turkeys. While skeeters don't officially celebrate labor day the way we do, they do a pretty good impression of Thanksgiving....only we're what's for dinner.

So, the first bit of wisdom for Labor Day is to start the day right. Neither skeeters nor turkey's like the taste of bourbon, so first thing in the morning, have a nice tall bourbon and water to start the day right. If it looks like it might be hot, have two just in case. Keep the bottle handy for emergency application.

Second, get ready for the barbeque. Remember, you don't barbeque burgers, steaks, hotdogs or veggie burgers. Those are grilled and given to the kids. If you are doing a shoulder, drink a lot right now because everyone is goingto be pissed when you tell them the shoulder isn't done. It's not going to get done today. It's too damn late to do a shoulder. You should have started your shoulder yesterday. If you're doing ribs or yardbird, you still ok...for now.

Build a fire, but be careful doing it. Since you've been drinking since dawn, accidental fires are a real threat and generally piss off your wife and the neighbors. After building the fire, you should probably skip marching in any parades. In addition to being drunk, somehow you've probably managed to burn your eyebrows off, and get covered with soot.

Once the fire gets right, check for skeeters, and take more anti-skeeter medicine. Put what ever it is you're barbequing, on the grill in the smoker. Notice that when you put something on the grill in the smoker, you're going to smoke what's on the grill, but you're not going to grill it. To grill it, you'd put it on the grill on the grill. This isn't grill, it's a smoker. Have more bourbon.
It get's easier.

Now, take a nap. It's labor day. It's ok to take a nap before noon on labor day when you're fighing skeeters, rabid vampire turkeys, and barbequing ribs. It's the American way.

The Ghost of Henry Hudson meets Murphy

2008-08-08T08:24:00.003-04:00

The year before last, a sudden monsoon swept throught the Hudson Valley Ribfest, but it couldn't dampen the spirits of the 50 some odd teams who were barbequing through the night.

Last year at the contest, a microburst storm blew half the tents into Canada, and flash!bang! lightening blinded and deafened the survivors.

This year the Ghost of Henry Hudson went all out. No rain could stop us. No wind could stop us. No lightening! No thunder! Nope. None of that. Henry Hudson's Ghost sought help. Help in the form of Murphy.

One stinking 300 gig disk in a half million dollar highly avaialble, high performance disk array sitting in a data center in New Jersey screwed me to the wall. It didn't fail. It degraded. A disk failure would have been zero impact. The array would have handled it without problem. Degradation is another matter.

It's impact caused a two day application move to morph into a 16 day night of the living dead.

Needless to say, When the Ghost of Henry Hudson involks Murphy's Law, the Memphis Barbeque Company is screwed. We didn't go to Hudson Valley this year. Not to worry, friends and neighbors, we'll be back next year.

How to barbeque ribs: Part One

2008-07-23T14:13:00.003-04:00

When you set out to barbeque, the very first thing you got to do, is get your head to the right place. If you are not happy, at peace, and calm, your barbequed ribs are not going to be happy. So, take 4 cubes of Ice, place them in a tall glass, fill with four fingers of Maker's Mark, or Knob Creek, and spash with water. Wine snobs swerle wine in a glass. True conissoures of fine bourbon just smile real big, give them the finger and sip the bourbon.

To get your head right, frequently it takes music. Music soothes the beast. It soothes me, too. Your selection of tunes is critical. It is a scientific fact that you can not barbeue while listening to Disco. The meat sours and the fire goes out. Polkas are out, too, but only because it drives all your friends away. Rap music isn't good because it draws gunfire.

Yep, the very best barbeque music is Outlaw Country. No...not that crap by Kenny Chesney, or Garth Brooks. That's not country, that's just crap. I'm talking Jerry Jeff Walker, David Allen Coe, and Delbert. Put that stuff on, and your fire will damn near light itself.

So, thus ends lesson one in the fine art of the barbequing of ribs.

Key points...Drink good bourbon and listen to good country music.

Lesson Two to follow....

The First Barbeque

2008-07-16T19:04:00.003-04:00

I've been asked a number of times about how I got started doing barbeque. As best as I can remember, this is how it happened. I'm not saying this is 100% accurate, but this is my story, and I'm sticking to it.

When I was about 16 or 17, the man who took care of my dad's cattle had a stroke and died. Dad took advantage of this opportunity to exile me to a cattle farm located 16 miles north on Jonesboro Arkansas, on highway 141. I was responsible for 200 head of registered Brangus cattle.

So, I'm living in a trailer on a hill in the boondocks of Arkansas with 200 expensive ass cattle, and the county line beer joint is only two miles away byway of my pastures. No a bad setup, if I do say so my self. I used to ride my horse to the beer joint, but that's a whole other story.

So, late one night I was driving back to the farm when something ran out of the woods and I hit it. What ever it was flew up and over my truck, and I skidded to a stop. I got out and ran back to see what I had hit. It was a deer...a doe. She wasn't dead, so I went back to my truck and got my pistol, and I shot her to put her out of her misery. I made a call on my CB radio and asked whoever answsered me to call the State Police so I could get an accident report.

It wasn't long before an Arkansas State Trooper pulled up. He was a big guy. He first looked at my truck, and asked if I was hurt. I told him I wasn't. He went over to the deer. He looked down at her, and then he looked at me and said "This deer has a gunshot wound."

I had to explain that the deer wasn't killed by the impact, so I shot her to put her out of her misery. He was cool with that. After that, we got down to business. I gave him my licenses, and he looked at it, and said "Boy, are you Doc's boy?"

I said 'Yes sir.'

Nothing much else was said until the trooper asked me what I was going to do with the deer. I told him that I was going to have a party. I told him I figured I'd cook it the next day. With that, he gave me my accident report. I loaded the deer in the back of my truck, and the trooper drove off.

The next morning, I called a few friends, and invited them over for a barbeque. Johnny made a run to the line and got a quarter keg of beer. Barry showed up with some tequila. Slater arrived with bourbon. I got the backhoe and dug us a pit. We built a fire, and used the headache rack of the dozer to hold the deer. We settled in for some serious drinking and shooting. Did I mention that we had a bunch of guns?

Living out in the boonies and having access to a bulldozer provides certain opportunities. One of these is the ability to construct a shooting range. I had cleared a shooting range down a draw with barrels set at 100, 150 and 300 yards. I had some short targets at 25 and 50 feet for pistols. Let me say now, that there is nothing in this world that is more fun than handguns and tequila. We shot for a while, and then went back to the fire and the keg.

Me, Johnny, Barry and Slater are setting there talking and drinking, and reflecting on how life just doesn't get any better than this when suddenly, with not a word of explaination, they all jumped up, and sprinted across the corral, jumped the fence, and disappeared into the woods. Even being drunk, I knew this was odd behavior, so I looked behind me.

Three Arkansas State Police cars were pulling into the drive.

I was 16 or 17 years old, in possession of a keg of beer, a couple bottles of whiskey and tequila, about a dozen weapons, an untaged deer on the grill....and I was drunk.

So, I figured it was a pretty sure thing that I was going to jail.

Wrong! The Trooper who did my accident report had come over and brought a couple of frinds to the barbeque. As they made a bee line to the keg, I realized that they had come to party, so I started showing off the attractions. First, I showed them the horses. We had six, and I figured they might want to ride. Then I showed them my shooting range. I was a little nervous about showing them the weapons, because a few of them may not have been legal. One of the troopers, took a great deal of interest in the weapons. I was nervous. I didn't want to lose a weapon, so I took a 30-30, and started demonstrating my shooting ability. I thought I was pretty impressive. Apparently, I wasn't.

One of the troopers went back to his car. He came back with a very impressive rifle, equiped with a very impressive scope, and the fun began.

While all this shooting was going on, one by one, Johnny, Barry and Slater all came back in from the woods. I guess all the gunfire was a good sign to them. So, they came back, and I introduced them to my new friends the State Troopers. We all shot weapons all afternoon while the deer cooked. When we finally ate, we were out of ammo, and damn near out of beer, so Barry and one of the State Troopers made a beer run. It was clear to all of us that if you have to make a beer run after you've been drinking for about 7 or 8 hours, it's best if you have a State Trooper drive. They rarely get pulled over.

It was a couple of days later that I realized that barbequing was a lot of fun. Hell, it's fun even if you don't drink heavily and play with guns.

So, that was the very first barbeque that I was responsible for.

Dead Cow?

2008-06-24T22:21:00.002-04:00

OK, gentleman. You all (or is it all y'all?) wanted this blog. But there's a serious deficiency of contributions from all but Bill and myself.

So PLEASE - feel free to jump on in!

It was suggested we book another Dead Cow Night. I couldn't agree more. I thought we might get a review of Front Street Smokehouse and Saloon up here, but we haven't gotten to that yet. But let's figure our next rendezvous. How about the place that Gerard suggested...RUB hut? In Manville? They were down in Yardley, too. (And they whipped us like a dead mule, like almost everyone else did.)

By the way...are we a cult? One must wonder. Do we qualify? Check out this site... http://www.cultdeadcow.com/

(Wikipedia says they're a hacker.)

So - let's figure a date, before our next contest. Please - do chip in, here.

Bob

A Hot Day in Yardley

2008-06-09T05:59:00.002-04:00

Dateline: South Plainfield....air conditioned

Not to be redundant, but it was hot. Just before dawn on Sunday, I looked down at the dusty road beside our site, and the rocks were sweating. That's a bad sign.

I knew that once the sun got fully above the horizon, and daylight hit us, we'd feel like lettuce under a heat lamp. I knew it would be important to keep our bodily fluids replentished. I realized that though we had plenty of water and ice, I had grossly underestimated the amount of bourbon I would need this hot, hot morning. If I managed my supply carefully, I might make it to noon, but after that, it was going to get..dusty. I looked at my bourbon and water sweating in my glass, and realized that this competition was really getting deadly serious.

It was time to get out the long knives. As usual, during prep and turn-in, we worked like crack addled squirrels searching for nutts in a mid winter jicker. Wirlwinds of motion, followed by surgical precision, the presentations were ballets. From a distance, I imagine activity surrounding the assemblage of the entries resembles the graceful, and strange beauty of a tornado chewing threw a forrest when view from afar, when viewed from afar. Maybe not. Up close, kinda like it to...lot's of 'Holy S*it!' moments. I realize that maybe I'd better slow up on the bourbon, or I may not make it to noon.

Despite our presentations being art, and our Chicken, Ribs, Brisket, and Pork being fantastic, all our scores pretty much sucked. The brisket and chicken were 35th. The ribs and pulled pork were worse. We were all disappointed. I know Brother Bob wasn't happy with the way the Brisket cooked, but I was sure happy with how it turned out. I have to say it again....nobody rubs a brisket quite like Bob. Bob is a Brisket rubber par excellance! I would encourage everyone to ask Bob to rub their brisked for them.

The Chicken was just smoked and covered with sauce, so I was surprised that it did so well. Strange vistiors from another world must have abducted our ribs and replaced them with ribs taken from an abductee because it's just not possible for the ribs we turned in to have placed 47 out of 57 entries. Bob and Landi suggested that perhaps the judges just didn't appreciate Memphis Dry Rubbed Ribs. Seriously, how likely is that?

The Pulled pork wasn't DAL (Dead Ass Last), but when you're in the 50's, you don't have anything to brag about.

I should mention that our Mississippi crew, Casual Smoker, did great in deserts, 3rd in Chicken and 1st for brisket. The big daddy of the team is actually from Kansas City, but obviously has family roots in Mississippi.

Well. It's Monday morning. Work becons. More updates with pictures later.

Morning has broken...

2008-06-08T07:44:00.002-04:00

Dateline: Yardley, Pa.

Dawn has greeted the 57 barbeque teams gathered in the pasture like a teenage mugger with a zip gun. It's getting hot. It's going to get uncomfortable....and because we are near the honey cart, it's going to smell....sometimes bad. Very bad.

The good news is that the night went well. I have roughly half my whisky left. Bob is well, and appears to still be breathing. A good sign. The ice is holding up well. The Missippians next door survived the night. The Senator is Missing in Action. Landi, Catfish and the boys are enroute.

I feel great. Yesterday, I flushed 12 quarts of toxins from my body. They appear to have killed the grass where I was standing. Now, it's time to replace them. We had a great breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage, and potatoes. I'm going to have a bloodymary soon.

The Brisket is looking good. Bob is concerned that it may have cooked to quickly. I'm not worried. It looks world class. The Shoulders are getting happy. Ribs are on, and looking good. The yard bird is doing it's thing.

Soon, the heat and humidity will drive many of the competitors mad. I am prepared. Because I'm the only Utilikilted competitor, I have a tremendous advantage. It may turn out that, due to the ungodly heat and the air-conditioned utili-comfort, I may be the sanest person at the contest.

That's a sad state of affairs.

Now, on to bloodymarys!

It's hot

2008-06-07T22:17:00.002-04:00

Dateline: Yardley, Pa.
It was hot today. It was more than hot. It was sweltering. So, naturally building smokey fires in steel barbeque rigs just added to the...the ...joy. Oh, yeah, did I mention that it was humid? Yep. Humid too. It was so hot the the wax melted on the top of my Maker's Mark bottle, and so humid the label slid off.

It's 10:20pm. It's still hot. It's 84 degrees. and humid. I promised Landi that I would not get drunk tonight, so I'm mixing my bourbon with water. I only have one fifth to make it all night, so I' rationing it. I just bought 40 more pounds of ice, so I think I'll make it.

We have had the good fortune to have some fellow Missippians set up next to us. I heard them talking when they first got here, and it was so nice to hear someone speak without an accent. Turns out, they have one kid at Ole Miss, and anther who dropped out of Ole Miss to be a professional poker player.

So, I should mention at this point, while everyone else was sweating and suffering in the oppressive heat, Bob and I were in AirConditioned comfrort. When it is 98 degress and humid, it's so hot that it's not healthy. However, because Brother Bob and I were in Utilikilted comfort, we sweated, but did not wilt....and we were cool.

So, it's hotter than a three petered skeeter, and we're sitting out all night around the fires to make sure that we produce only the finest barbeque. I've probably sweated out enough toxins and poisons to live forever.

Brisket and shoulders started tonight. We'll listen to Buffet, Jerry Jeff and others, and hang through the night. Update to follow in the morning....

Off to Yardley!

2008-06-06T22:23:00.003-04:00

Hope to see y'all there! Click here for directions.

Worth waiting for...

2008-06-01T18:29:00.002-04:00

We sat. Like Pavlov's dog waiting for the bell to ring, we sat. Salivating every time we heard a car....Damn! Waiting. Waiting for brisket. Like Christmas night, time crawled.

Finally, a knock at the door! Brisket? Hell no. A neighbor needing a chainsaw.

A door! I heard a car door!

It was here!....and Bob and Cindy were, too. It was good to see Bob, and Cindy. Haven't seen Cindy since Eli Super-Manning and the Boys celebrated winning the SuperBowl. Eli can talk the talk and walk the walk, yall.

Smiling, Bob walked in carrying a cooler containg something as precious, as fragile and as rare as a newly harvested donor liver. He had brisket.

As if preparing for a communion, Bob carefully lifted the brisket out of the cooler. It had been resting for 3 hours. Almost as if unwrapping a Christmas gift, he removed the foil. An aroma took over the room. The Pavlovian reflex kicked into high gear.

Brother Bob took the big knife, and slice a thin piece of meet from the brisket. With the point of the knife, he pushed it across the cutting board to me. I paused. It looked good. It smelled good. I took the piece of thin brisket in my hand. I bit it.

Suddenly the clouds parted! The sun was shining! Birds were singing!

It was that good.

The Night Before Brisket

2008-06-01T05:53:00.003-04:00

Twas the night before brisket,
And all through the night
I couldn't close my eyes
Without seeing the sight...

A big green egg
puttting off smoke
Bob smiling real big,
and telling a joke.

The aroma
it floated so soft in the air
And I ran low on bourbon
But I didn't care.

Time trickeled slowly
off of the clock
And Bob held his temprature
Steady as a rock.

All throught the night,
the brisket, it cooked
Everyone wondered,
But nobody looked.

Oh damn!,
I said when I woke with a start
I looked outside,
And still it was dark.

Me and my dog,
We both sniffed the air
Buck pee'd on my leg
But I didn't care.

On the midnight breeze
of the last day of May
I found the aroma
of a great brisket day.

What's Cooking?

2008-05-30T13:48:00.003-04:00

With Yardley just a week away, I figure I better do some work this weekend on that one dish with which we've struggled - BRISKET! So, Saturday afternoon I'll fire up the Big Green Egg with enough wood to last 16-20 hours, and see if I can turn this dead cow into something juicy and tender.

I'll bring the results over to our leader's house on Sunday. If it passes the test, we'll enjoy it. If not, we'll call Dominos.

Have a good weekend, all!

7 of 9....We didn't assimilate.

2008-05-27T13:35:00.012-04:00

Well folks, despite being sober, we arrived at Keansburg right on time. We were well prepared. Landi made the worlds best Bloodymarys, and I build a fire of pure hickory. We used only the best stuff. Grey Goose Vodka, Major Peters Hot and Spicy Bloodymary mix, tobasco, and pepper ground in a $90 pepper grinder. ( It really does grind pepper better.)The wood we used was the finest, too. It was virgin hickory. Never climbed by a squirrel and no dog ever peed on these trees. It was well aged...two seasons..football and baseball.

The dead pig and yardbird were hand picked by trained pig and chicken wranglers just for this event. The pig had what has been determined by the Pig Association (Pig-Ass) as the perfect ratio of lean to fat. The chicken had led a pampered life, massaged daily with beer on a gourmet chicken ranch in Arkansas. This particular type of incredibly tender and flavorful chicken is known world wide as 'Kobe Chicken'. I think it's named for a basketball player.

It seemed that the sun and moon had aligned just for us. Karma was with us....we thought.

The fire started with little effort. This is always a bad sign. The ribs, still frozen, were thawed in the smoker. When they thawed, they prep'ed with little trouble. Same was true of the yardbird. Everything was going great, which obviously caused me great concern. I was deeply troubled by the chain of good fortune we had encountrered. If this trend continued, we would have zero chance at trophies.

Feeling the mounting pressure, I felt it was necessary and prudent to switch from bloodymary's to bourbon. I checked my watch and saw that it was almot 11:00am. I was concerned that I may have waited too long for the switch. My smoker went to 225 degrees, the perfect barbequing temperature, and stayed there with little effort. I felt panic setting in.

I took a moment to fix another bourbon and water, collect my thoughts and to pose underneat our Memphis Barbeque Company Team banner, holding in my hand our Utilikilts banner. I'm hoping for a larger banner later this season. I'm hoping for a larger bottle of bourbon, too.

Two hours in, it was looking grim. Everything was going perfectly. Zero problems. Three hours in someone brought us free ice because they observed that we were running low.

Oh damn! A random act of kindness.

A wave of sadness swept over me and I realized it was all over.

We continued the next hour, and worked hard in presenting the ribs, the chicken and the barbequed shirmp, but I knew in my heart, that the die had already been cast.
Landi's magical presentation of ribs, would fall on blind eyes. The wonder of real Memphis Dry Rubbed Ribs would be appreciated by many, but alas, we were doomed to be Seven of Nine.

Some might be let down by not placing higher. Others might be discouraged. Sometimes our competitive zeal gets the better of us. But not this day. We made some great barbeque, saw some wonderful friends, met some new and strange people, and had a hell of a good time. Though we will never assimilate (use that surgary barbeque sauce), we look forward to Yardly and the knowledge that it is yet another opportunity to spread the gospel of the Memphis Dry Rub! Can i get an 'amen'!?

So, friends and neighbors, get your Utilikilts ready. The world's only Utilikilted Award Winning High Performance Memphis Dry Rubbed Barbeque Team is going to Yardly, Pa. to smoke butts and take names!!

Again, if you're on the team, touch base with Landi. If you're not on the team, bring bourbon (Knob Creek or Makers Mark).

Barbeque Preparedness 101

2008-05-14T20:09:00.003-04:00

This Saturday morning, at 6:30AM, we'll pull our 18ft. Custom built Barbeque Smoker from it's winter quarters to it's first competition of the 2008 season. Prior to that moment, we'll load the wood, load the canopy, load the coolers, get the ribs, get the chicken, and stock up on bourbon. Before that, we'll pull the wheels, lube the bearings, and check the lights.

We're two days away from Saturday.

Do we have any of this done?

We have the bourbon.

Don't try this at home. We are professionals.

Mother's Day

2008-05-12T09:11:00.005-04:00

Belated Happy Mother's Day to all.

How appropriate that Mother's Day began with us discovering that the Canadian Goose nesting on the pond became a proud mama. This is about as close as I could get before the proud - and very protective - papa would come to their defense.

A short time later, another birth! I pulled these two puppies off the Big Green Egg following a 15-hour smoke. Yum! Mom and some of my family were coming over later for a picnic, and these would feed many, along with some tasty ribs.

My brother, Greg, loves barbecue. I think he's also fallen in love with my BGE. Fortunately, I caught him before he loaded it in his car.

I hope you all had nice Mother's Day!

Dad, Jenn, and a Barbeque Contest

2008-05-10T05:59:00.003-04:00

First, Let's all sing Happy Birthday to my oldest Daughter, who happens to graduate from college this week, and to my Dad, who shares the birthday and graduated to the next level about 8 years ago.

Now, on to Barbeque!

On Saturday May 17, 2008 Keansburg Fire Company # 1 is hosting the inaugural “Smoke Condition” BBQ cook-off. Categories are ribs, chicken, and anything but desert. Prizes for 1st, 2nd, and 3rd in each category as well as Overall Champ and reserve champ.

Check in time is 7:00 a.m., meat inspection is 7:30 a.m. Judging begins at 1:00p.m for Chicken 2:00 p.m. for Ribs and 3:00p.m. For everything but dessert. Awards at 4:30.

Yes, it's true. The kilted wild men will be there, and you should join us. It will be a lot of fun, and a good way to start the season.

If you're on the team, check in with Landi. If you're not on the team, bring bourbon.

Smoke in the morning

2008-05-09T11:13:00.003-04:00

In the early morning hours, as the dew settles, and the smoke hangs low, it has occured to me more than once that this is as good as it gets. There is nothing that complements the shear beauty of dawn quite as well as a good Kentucky bourbon and the smells and aromas of hickory smoke and barbeque.

As our 2008 BBQ Season begins, we are ready for some intense barbeque competition.

We may not win a lot of contests, but we've never lost a party.

Let the blogging begin!

2008-05-09T09:51:00.002-04:00

The Memphis Barbecue Company and friends have hit the internet!