I imagine the first cookout occurred one day when, after a thunderstorm, cavemen (and women) from the Bar-B clan formed a queue around a wooly mammoth that had been zapped and charred by a bolt of lightning. Once they tasted that fire-roasted flavor, mammoth tartare just didn’t satisfy their palates anymore. Finding a way to duplicate that aroma and piquancy became as important as their hunting rituals. This was a can-do tribe!

So, because they were a forward-thinking group of nomads, they formed a committee. The committee then designated project teams, whose job it was to find ways to grill meat for the next feast. They rounded up herds of animals and trapped them in the valley, while the more limber members on their team danced a rain dance around the perimeter. They herded those animals to different locations, just in case the rumors about lightning strikes frequency were true.

One day, tired and frustrated of being one link in a human fence, and also getting very hungry by this time, a junior member of the team took a break from his daydreams of becoming a freelance consultant and decided to make use of some loose rocks lying in the gully. First he stacked them in a spiral pattern that encompassed his tribe’s understanding of their outreaching purpose of life on this planet, sacred geometry, and the Feng Shui dynamic he intended to write a book about once somebody developed a language. Eventually though, growing weary from his task, he stumbled on some loose stones and dropped a rock, which struck some flint, which kindled some twigs clinging to another rock, and the rest, as they say, is history. (Alas, his boss took credit for the discovery.)

However, this breakthrough not only led to expertly grilled meals (and arguments among alpha members of the clan as to whether or not the food was done yet), it also led to smoke signals, which evolved to other means of communications, which resulted in the Industrial Age, which made possible standardized grill construction, which eventually brought us to where we are today — hoping I now have your attention so you continue to not only want to read my cookbook, but savor the recipes and have a good time in the process. Enjoy! (Please.)

Sample recipes and more information about the book

Copyright © 1998-2008 Pamela Rice Hahn
All rights reserved.

Note: This page updated to reflect the revised and expanded edition of this book; original title was Master the Grill the Lazy Way.

Author bio:

Pamela Rice Hahn is publisher and editor-in-chief for The Blue Rose Bouquet and author of Lazy About Grilling: the feet up, hands down easiest ways to barbecue and twelve other books (so far). You can learn more about Pam by visiting her personal Web site and CookingWithPam.

A Short History of Grilling is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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Just when my life is zippity doo-dah’ing along, the reality of womanhood drops Mr. Icky in my lap.

When Mr. Icky first visited me, my mom said, “Oh Hon, you’re a woman now!”

Yeah. Hurrah. Someone give me a flag to wave.

It is a fact of life every woman has to deal with. It is also a fact of life that every man has to live with. Every man. If it’s not your mate, it’s your sister, your daughter, or your mother. There is no escape.

Here’s my theory: PMS is God’s monthly payment plan for men to compensate for the fact that only women have to endure labor. I think he’s trying to share the wealth and even the odds.

We women don’t get a break of course because Eve had to give Adam that stupid apple. So we have to suffer through something that resembles a werewolf on a bad fur day. Men look on in horror as we do everything from cry for absolutely no reason they can figure out, to howling at the moon. Better yet, they get to live with us while we ingest anything that has the name Hershey on it and then scream in rage over our jeans having gap-osis.

The worst thing is they have no idea when their sweet darlings are going to transform. It’s like a fright movie. DON’T open the door! DON’T turn around! DON’T ask her what’s wrong! The scariest thing is that we have no idea what will set us off, so we can’t warn you. It could be that gap-osis thing. It could be that we’re out of fat-free cream cheese for our bagel. Horror of horrors, it could be a bad hair day on TOP of PMS. In that case take a cab out of the country. Pick up the phone and ask for the next opening on the space shuttle because it will only get worse.

Men don’t know what to say that will help. They don’t realize there is nothing they can say. They’ve never been through it and they’ll never go through it. Women are eternally pissed at you over that little fact. It’s not your fault. That’s entirely beside the point. We at the mercy of hormones that don’t deal in logic. There is no correct response you can make to a statement like this from the woman in your life:

“LOOK AT THIS! MY FACE IS ONE BIG ZIT!”

If you disagree and tell her how lovely she is, you will be branded a liar and blind to boot. If you agree…well I hope your insurance premium is paid up. I will give you a warning. Silence is taken as agreement. You can’t take that route either. Basically you’re wrong, you’re doomed, and you should die a painful death.

My personal modus operandus when Mr. Icky makes his monthly house call is to have the chocolate DT’s. I’m convinced my ovaries will implode if I don’t have a Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Chunk. So I indulge and eye my husband for the slightest sign of disapproval. If he so much as raises an eyebrow at something on the evening news, I go into defense mode.

“So you think I’m fat do you? I really shouldn’t eat this! Is that what your saying?”

He’s sunk. My fuse — short to begin — with becomes non-existent. In the aftermath of massive yelling and histrionics, I dissolve into remorseful sobs. Thus begins the crying jags. I well up at anything at all. Commercials, songs on the radio, or water weight. They all cause me to unravel. My tear ducts are singing “Cry me a River” while my husband looks on helplessly and hands me tissues.

PMS is the ultimate abomination. Comedians do monologues on it. Women dread it. Men live in fear of it and don’t draw a peaceful breath until the tidal wave of insane emotionalism recedes. The moon wanes and their beloved females begin to resemble themselves again and the world goes zippity doo-da’ing along again.

Until next month…MUHAHAHAHAHAHA!

###

Copyright (c) 1999-2007 Tami Coxen
Used permission of the author.
All rights reserved.

Author’s 1999 Bio:

Tami Coxen (email) is an ex-hairstylist being raised by two sons, a husband and a dog in West Virginia. She writes a weekly humor column for her local paper. Her work has been published in ezines such as Jackhammer, eMag, and The “M” Word: Parenting zine. For more of her rambles and rants, please visit Tamara’s Attic.

Ode to PMS is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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“…but it’s in your blood, honey. You see me drink it all the time. And since the time I was three or four years old, my grandmother would have the truck come and bring four, five cases of Coke to the house. Every week.” –Christina Corradino, my grandmother

Some months ago, I awoke with a terrible headache and stiff neck. Knowing that stimulants could cause such ailments, it seemed a wise idea to skip my normal caffeine rituals that day. I had already gone a weekend without a fix, just by accident. I could go another day. For several hours, I competed with pain in my head, neck, and shoulders, along with a growing craving for a certain caramel-colored, carbonated beverage.

I survived until 5:30 that evening, when my headache started to get worse. It seemed it wasn’t a ‘hopped up’ headache, so I decided there was no harm in giving in to my urge. It sounds like a very thoughtful decision when I word it that way. A better way of saying it: I caved. I took a can of Coca-Cola Classic, and admired its shimmering red, metallic finish for a moment. I cracked its top and stole a sip – which soon became a series of greedy, slurping gulps. My headache dissolved in minutes.

That was a red flag for me. That made me wonder if I was enjoying this for more than the taste. It seemed I got a headache from abstaining from it – that sounded like a dependency. That worried me, and I decided to try giving up caffeine.

It seems a bit silly in retrospect. Caffeine never dominated my life – it was always just a habit. In the mornings, I’d always sip some herbal, caffeinated tea while I listened to some soothing music – Fresh Cream or Led Zeppelin II . What was more important to me, was the Coke I’d drink after lunch while I watched reruns of MASH.

Let me tell you a bit about my taste in Coke – I’m very particular about all this. I drink from the can with a straw. Doing otherwise will subtly change the amount of fizz, and this is intolerable. Pouring a Coke over ice is completely unethical. It becomes watered down – the natural balance that perfects this special drink is destroyed. There is no turning back. I don’t care if your ice is crushed, cubed, or ring shaped — the moment your Coke makes contact, its flavor will be demolished. I despise vending machines — the ones that drop the paper cup and fill it with a beverage and ice. These go against every Coke principal that I hold dear. The soda in these contraptions has never touched a can, and the infamous no-ice button never works (or, if it does work you’re given 1/3 of a glass). Making things worse, these machines disrupt the delicate Coca-Cola balance by mishandling the syrup/fizz/water ratios. I’ve yet to see one of these come close to making a good drink – any drink, let alone a delicately-flavored masterpiece like Coke.

You see, Coca-Cola is nothing if not a balance. The carbonation is a natural ally to the cool temperature of a refrigerated can. The soothing, metallic bitterness of the caffeine sits juxtaposed to the almost sickening sweet syrup. If you leave a can unattended – which I often do – some mystic changes unfold. The soda warms in perfect harmony with the loss of fizz. As this happens, the subtle flavors come forward. It almost seems like a metaphor for life – although I can’t fathom what it may mean. At any rate, it tastes surprisingly wonderful.

This is what I’d do with the can I’d opened after lunch. I’d drink almost half of it, and then let it stand for a few hours. I’d sip at it, but only periodically. It was always fun to note the subtle taste changes as it grew warm and flat. At 11:00, I’d sit down to do my writing. I’d nurse whatever remained of that same can – usually a fair amount – and let my caffeine infused blood stimulate my creativity.

So, I see now that my habit was not very strong – only a can and some tea each day. Half the time, the tea wasn’t even caffeinated. Still, I felt moved to give it up.

Tea was easy to drop. I found decaff tea tasted better to me. It lacked the unpleasant rusty metal flavor that caffeine carries. Coca-Cola was hard to replace – it seemed to rely on that bitter taste, it was part of the balance. I tried caffeine-free Coke. My theory was correct – this was much too sweet. After stumbling back into my Coke habit three times, I tried quitting again with ginger ale as a pinch hitter for Coke. This was the longest I lasted – almost two months without a single sip of Coke.

At that time, my desires were getting out of hand. I needed a fix. I didn’t care if it was caffienated. I just needed a Coke. I needed a caramel colored, carbonated beverage in a red can. I had a revelation: Dr Pepper. It had the flavor I needed – I knew it did. And I didn’t think it had caffeine. I bought a case.

My spirit collapsed when I read the ingredients: Water, sugar, sugar, more sugar, caramel coloring, caffeine.

I did some soul searching that day. I realized how little soda I really drank – compared to some people. I realized that all that time, I had been eating chocolate without even blinking. I never did give up caffeine. I also discovered that caffeine was a natural pain killer – which was why it defeated my headache. It had nothing to do with ‘dependency’.

After a little thought (rationalization?), I was happy to re-begin indulging my addiction. All great writers need vices, don’t they? At least mine is legal.

I cracked the can and drank of it.

Dr Pepper is still making me a new and better man.

###

Copyright © 1998-2008 Estate of RJ Corradino
All rights reserved.

Note: In loving memory of former editor, poet, and one of the kindest souls ever to touch our lives: RJ Corradino (We miss your presence and support.)

Author’s Bio:

The late RJ Corradino was a dreamy young man who wrote wonderful poetry, prose, and personal essays. Some of his work (and information on the books in which its published) can be found on his Web site, The Psychedelic Rose.

My Caffeinated Memoirs is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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We call it “Men’s Town.” Right at noon on Friday, four of us quietly switched off our computers, watched the screens flicker and go black, and headed for the door with no intention of coming back. A few co-workers suspected that the men wearing jeans, flannel shirts, and hiking boots were outbound for adventure, and they were more than willing to let the nut-cases escape.

We grouped at my van, tossed our backpacks inside, and rocketed out of town. Our destination, the southwest sector of Mohican State Forest, is about 40 minutes away.

I was hitting the trail today with Dave the GearMan (he personally owns 300 pounds of the lightest camping gear made), Youngstown Scotty (he engraved the “Men’s Town” moniker for our annual outings), Hikin’ Mike (we’ve hiked and canoed together for 16 years), and Mike’s 18-year-old son, Paul the FireKeeper. And missing-in-action this year is Let’s Do It Dick, the ex-Navy Seal who could slog through three-feet of snow like a tank on a task. Had work to do, or so he claimed.

We strapped on our nylon and Gore-Tex homes-away-from-home and walked away from civilization. Each step jettisoned vast stressloads of excessive e-mail, voicemail, faxes, cell phones, pagers and software that will make us smarter.

The rules of Men’s Town are simple. No women are allowed. Not that any of our women are fool enough to camp in 25-degree weather — the rule merely lets us do manly things like belch and other things that generally upset the ladies. The GearMan puts it this way: “Sometimes you just have to run to the end of your chain and bark.”

We popped our tents in a steep valley carved by a cold stream while hoot owls shrieked obscenities at us. We gathered wood, made a campfire and began to cook our vittles. Dave the GearMan cooked all kinds of fancy freeze-dried stuff over a lightweight, high-tech stove while the rest of us scorched cans of Dinty Moore stew on the fire. The GearMan made lots of friends that night. Not only does he have the best eats, he has all the cool toys.

I put a well-dented, discolored aluminum coffee pot into the hot coals. This pot had traveled with me around most of the continent for a quarter of a century. Through the smoke, it had seen a lot of beautiful wilderness on its many journeys on land and across water. Most Men’s Towners had personal camp friends they drug around with them.

Then the good stuff started. We talked around the fire — trails we had trekked, mountains we had climbed, rivers we had run and characters we had met. We even retold the stories we had heard along the way. Many sagas were epilogued with laughter and Men’s Town was firmly established.

The GearMan shared the experiences of his 47-day camping trip up the Alaska and Dalton highways above the Arctic Circle to Prudhoe Bay. Youngstown Scotty replayed a mishap in mountainous Mexico. Hikin’ Mike told of his recent whitewater trips. Paul talked of losing major skin in a nasty bike spill and kept the fire going. Quite often, the speaker stood to re-enact his role or a victim’s part of the plot.

Through the smokescreen of the fire I could vividly see my comrades as they faced insurmountable odds and met the most amazing creatures. Grizzly bears, conniving raccoons, “freshwater bull sharks” chasing terrified river rafters, the revenge of a resourceful hotel maid, and the hard-nosed Mexican Police all danced to life above the fire.

As the flames flickered in the midst of our laughter, I knew that this is how life should be. The origins of language occurred around a fire — aborigines made guttural sounds to describe their daily escapades, and much later, verbal histories were passed on to younger generations around the campfires of long ago. And here was a bunch of modern engineers, business managers and media professionals continuing that traditional artform.

On the evening of my return from Men’s Town, my wife and I rented some videos and invited some friends over. For what seemed like forever, we watched the standard fare of car chase carnage, exploding helicopters and 9mm-bullet-riddled bloodbaths. Each special effect was loosely tied by a weak plot that gradually threaded its way toward a frayed end. Like the killings, it was totally senseless.

As the credits finally scrolled across the screen, I sensed that the tales told in Men’s Town far exceeded any multimillion dollar Hollywood celluloid. Why? The live theatre of the mind is much better than the images that can be conjured up on cinemascope. The magic of storytelling should be the main substance of our livelihood.

Would someone please light the fire?

###

Copyright (c) 1999-2008 Nelson Shogren
Used permission of the author.
All rights reserved.

Author’s 1999 Bio:

Nelson Shogren is a 44-year-old writer who considers word art the highest form of communicating entertainment. He is a customer communications specialist at Sprint Corp. You can reach the author at his email address.

Welcome to Men’s Town is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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By most accounts, the drive-in theatre on Highway 17 should have been a peaceful, relaxing place to take the family for a night of reasonably priced entertainment. The only downfall that kept it from being so was its location, almost exactly halfway between our hometown of Mosquito Flats, and the town of Sodbuster Junction, whose inhabitants where the natural enemies of our people. Where this rivalry began has been lost to the mists of time, perhaps it was at a softball tournament, or a school basketball game, but whatever the reason, it was our duty to despise them.

Sodbuster Junction lies thirty miles west of Mosquito Flats, along the banks of Catfish Creek. From what I understood, the town was first settled by a group of lying, thieving scoundrels who had set out to find a land where lazy, dishonest and good for nothing people could live with others of their kind. The fact that they had fresh running water flowing through their town tended to make the inhabitants think they were better than us others from what they called, “That dustbowl back east”. Our town on the other hand, was one filled with good, honest, hardworking people, who cared about their fellow man, and wouldn’t for a minute think of pointing out that nearby Lake Sukumunder was full of trophy-sized fish, while you could fish all day in Catfish Creek, and be lucky to come home with anything larger than the occasional leech that would attach itself to your bait. Indeed, humbleness was kind of a trademark of our great town.

Our differences hardly seemed to matter, as both towns went about their business, and the inhabitants rarely crossed paths. Only on summer weekends did the rivalries flare up. That’s when the drive-in theatre on Highway 17, the only paved road in the area, showed the most recent movies every Friday, and Saturday evening. It was there that differences showed up. They would be driving Chevys, purchased at the GM dealer in Catfish Creek. We would show up in Fords, bought at Bentley’s Garage in Mosquito Flats. There were not only the material differences, but those of intellect as well. I can remember sitting at the wheel of my father’s truck, laughing as a carload of dishonest Sodbusters were getting busted at the ticket booth in front of us, with a trunk load of other hooligans who were trying to sneak in.

“What’s going on up there?” came a voice from behind me.

“Shut up Waldo!” I snapped, “We’re almost up to the booth!” If there’s one good thing I could say about the Mosquito Flats Combined School, it’s that it breeds the kind of intellect that recognizes how ticket takers at a drive-in don’t realize that you can stack three people horizontally behind the seat of a Ford pickup truck.

Once inside the drive-in, we would choose a spot that was amongst others of our kind, separated by a row of empty stalls known as “no man’s land”. Fortunately, the owner of this establishment, a certain Mr. Bruebaker, had found the good sense to set up two lines, one at each end of the concession stand, and two sets of bathrooms, so as to keep the rival factions apart, and his establishment in one piece.

The drive-in was situated on land owned by the railroad, outside of any municipal jurisdiction, so neither side could claim it as their legitimate territory, though we did have a slight advantage. You see, the drive-in sat on the east side of Highway 17, still under the jurisdiction of the Moose Tail RCMP, who were responsible for law enforcement in the Mosquito Flats area. This meant that it was “our” cops that patrolled it. We used this to our advantage every chance we could. Like most Friday nights, near the end of the first show, Constable La`France had cruised in, and almost immediately, for what reason I don’t know, proceeded to where we were parked.

“I take it you boys got no booze, yes?” He would usually ask.

“Of course not Sir.” I’d reply.

“Burp!” Waldo would say, as sort of an unintentional way of inviting the officer to search our vehicle.

After a thorough search of the truck, Constable La`France inevitably found a six pack of what we referred to as “decoy beer” behind the seat.

“Well, what do we have here, eh?” Was the inevitable question.

“It’s called beer in English” Waldo would reply to remind the officer to write out a ticket for possession of alcohol by a minor. I would have to come up with an original excuse to get out of this one.

“It’s my Dad’s beer, Constable La` France! He must have forgotten to take it into the house after he bought it yesterday.” Whew! That was close. I was good at coming up with flawless excuses at the drop of a hat.

“I see.” Replied the constable as he set the confiscated bottles into the trunk of his cruiser, “Amazing how it stay so cold in there after all dis time.” Then all of us would concur that it was indeed a near-miraculous thing, but go figure.

“You have no more booze in the truck yes?” was always his parting question. It’s at this point that we would reassure him that due to his diligent investigating, he had rooted out all of our well hidden stash. Only our strong moral conciseness led us to confess that if we had a vehicle that had a really good hiding spot, like for instance a console such as the one in the blue Chevy that was parked second from the end of row three, we would be hiding lots of open liquor in it. Stumpy Edwards, who accompanied us on most of our drive-in adventures, would then go on to explain to Serge how his cousin Ben, who owned a Chevy, spent many an hour laughing at cops who couldn’t find all the well-hidden booze contained in their vehicles. This tendency to make a laughing stock of the police, was apparently a trait shared by most Chevy owners.

After that, we wouldn’t see Constable La`France, who had by then forgotten all about writing the ticket, for the better part of an hour, as he disappeared among the crowd on the other side, toolbox in hand. By the time he returned, we had finished all the beer from the air cleaner housing, and had started on the rum and coke from the windshield washer tank. Come to think of it, if you were to question any RCMP officer today that had ever been stationed on the prairies, most of them would swear to you that Ford trucks always had two washer fluid tanks. One for the left side of the window, the other for the right.

Later on in the evening, Waldo and I were in the line up at the concession stand, when Waldo noticed a peculiar sight that left him momentarily confused. Although he spent most of his time this way, and was probably better at operating in a confused state than any of my other friends, this was an altogether new kind of confusion. Apparently, some girl nearby was smiling at him.

“You see that Eddie?” he whispered excitedly. “She’s lookin’ at me!”

“Yeah right!” I chuckled. “You probably got your fly open again!” It was my Solomn duty as Waldo’s best buddy, to keep him rooted as firmly in reality as possible.

“I checked it, and it’s still closed!”

“Well don’t be so obvious when you’re checking it!” I scolded him. There are literally tens of ways to make a girl think twice about approaching you, and I imagined that rubbing your hand up and down the general area of your zipper was one of them.

“She’s givin’ me that there, ‘come hither’ look!”

“Well, what are you waiting for dickhead?” I encouraged him, “Go hither!” Apparently from what followed, Waldo thought that “to hither” meant to stumble twice on his way over to her, then start talking in gibberish.

The girl seemed actually kind of pretty, and myself and the other two, who had by this time had left the washer fluid tank unguarded and come over to watch the spectacle, took to the job of sizing her up. She looked about sixteen and a half, Stumpy figured, and by the way her hair glistened in the light of the full moon, he said he was ninety percent sure her parents had a water softener.

Jimmy Dickson had a deeper insight into Waldo’s new friend. Jimmy by the way, was our group’s expert on all matters pertaining to girls, romance, and sex. All those hours spent in the bathroom reading his older brother’s Playboys, and his mother’s Cosmopolitans had not been lost on him. He knew not only what women looked like when they were naked, but what they really wanted in a man as well. “She jus’ wants him to build up her failing self-esteem,” he volunteered. “By the way she dresses, I’d say she’s asking for attention that she’s not getting at home.”

“Hmm..” I replied, without the least hint of sarcasm, “Jeans, and a t-shirt. That’s a cry for help if I ever saw it!”

By the time Stumpy and I had finished harassing Jimmy about his Freudian insights, Waldo had vanished. At a time like this there is always much confusion as to which path to follow. You could either go look for your friend, who was now under the dangerous influence of both alcohol, and hormones, making him an easy target for trouble, or go back to the truck and drink his remaining share of the washer fluid tank. Considering the friendship that Waldo and I had shared over the past decade or so, there was only one clear choice.

“Want the last couple of ounces Eddie?” Stumpy asked as the second show was finishing.

“Sure.” I replied. After all, a friendship that had endured as long as mine and Waldo’s can survive such indiscretions as drinking his share of the booze.

As the bright floodlights came on overhead to indicate the end of the show, Waldo stumbled out of nowhere, wearing what the rest of us were to later agree was the stupidest grin we had ever seen, even from Waldo. When he was just about up to our truck, a horn honked, and Waldo turned to wave at the smiling face that stared out at him from the window of a grey, four door Bel-Aire.

Wait a minute. Was that a Chevy he was waving at?

The ride home was pretty silent that night. Waldo had his chin parked on the dashboard, staring up at the stars with that big, stupid grin that made the rest of us cringe. All except for Jimmy, who was passed out with his head slumped against the side window, drooling in a way that you don’t want to think about when you’re eating. I looked over at Stumpy, and the two of us gave our unspoken concurrence that there was only one thing that could be done, and regardless of how difficult it was, we had to do it.

“Yo, Waldo,” I said.

“We gotta talk,” Stumpy added.

“‘Bout what?” Waldo asked, his eyes still glazed and looking skyward.

“About her.”

“Ya’ mean Tiffany?” he grinned. Tiffany? This was worse than we thought. To our knowledge, only preppies, and Catholics named their children Tiffany, and our town had neither of them. Stumpy took the initiative, and tried to explain things to Waldo.

“Me an’ Eddie been thinking some, and … well, we’d appreciate it if you didn’t see her anymore.” he said, with a note of sympathy in his voice.

“Are you outta’ yer damn mind?” Waldo was taking this better than we had thought. “We all been planning fer th’ day one of us would meet a girl!” Yep, Waldo was taking this very well. “An’ now that I gone and done it first, you guys is gettin’ all jealous”

“Look man,” I said in as understanding a voice as I could muster, “we’re glad you met someone, and believe me, we all want you to be happy, but you gotta understand that a girl from that town can’t be no good!”

Waldo was unimpressed. “Aw, you guys don’t believe all them ol’ wives’ tales, do you?” But it was true. After all, what would a girl from Sodbuster Junction want with one of us? It could only be part of a vile conspiracy on the part of all citizens of that town to mess with our heads, and lead us astray. “I think you guys is all paranoid!” he added.

And that was that. For the all of next week, Waldo made himself scarce. None of us had heard from him by Friday afternoon, so Stumpy, Jimmy and I had just assumed he was been busy working at his father’s fertilizer plant, and went around to pick him up for our usual Friday night trip to the drive-in. When we got there, Waldo’s mother, Irma Hinkley, informed us that Waldo had left earlier that afternoon with a girl driving a green Chevy pick-up truck.

It was worse than we could ever imagine. Waldo, our lifelong friend, companion, and champion cow tipper had been lured away by the enemy. The way this shameless harlot had posed as an innocent young girl to kidnap one of our own was more than just devious, more than just dirty, and under-handed.

It was indeed an act of war.

The three of us returned solemnly to my place where we instantly put in place a battle plan that, although unrehearsed, was nonetheless instinctive to anyone whose friend was now trapped in the jaws of a ruthless adversary. Jimmy got on the phone and talked to some other guys around town who, though we didn’t normally hang out with them, instantly volunteered for service as they learned the state of emergency that had arisen. During times of crisis, all schoolyard cliques were cast aside for the greater good of the community.

Within half an hour, our front yard had become the marshalling ground for a group of nearly a dozen young men who had come forth to defend the honour and reputation of our town, and bring home Waldo, who by now was being talked of as a fallen hero. My grandfather, long known for his distaste for the Sodbusters, offered us the use of his Dodge Newport, reasoning that someone entering that town in a Ford would be too easy of a target. It was also the only vehicle handy that could fit a dozen people in relative comfort.

“Go get the bastards!” Gramps yelled in encouragement as we rumbled off down the lane. I’m sure I caught sight of a tear in his eye, for this was indeed a solemn occasion. For the first time since the end of the Korean War, the young men of Dustplain township were going into hostile territory, facing an enemy that greatly outnumbered them. Then again, he could have been laughing hysterically, but who’s to know?

Half an hour later, we were pulling up the main street of Sodbuster Junction. At first I thought we had been drastically mistaken in our opinions of these neighbours of ours, but soon realized that that was exactly what they wanted me to think. The unspoken, yet deeply embedded evils that ran through this alien society had been carefully hidden behind a facade of a quiet, gentle little farming town. All along the main drag we saw numerous examples of the deception. A church here, a Salvation Army there, over in the park a small band played as dozens of townsfolk pretended to sit quietly, enjoying the music. These may not be good people, but I had to give them credit for their ability to put on a show.

We had expected to be set upon, and beaten, or tortured the minute we entered the town, but the citizens who milled about the street slyly acted as if we were just another car passing through, and pretended not to notice us. Near the first intersection, a Chevy Caprice driven by a suspicious-looking couple in their early nineties approached us from the opposite direction. As they passed, both of them smiled at us, and the little old lady in the passenger seat did her best to give us a feeble wave with her shaky little hand.

“Seem friendly enough.” Jimmy commented.

“It’s just an act.” I retorted. My companions too, had underestimated these people. “They know we’re here now. That was just their first line of defense, posed as a friendly old couple”

“Dirty bastards!” said Bobby Thurmun from the back seat.

“Yeah,” agreed Stumpy, “I don’t care how old she is. If she tries to pull that crap on me again, I’m gonna kick her ass!”

“I’ll back you up man!” offered Danny Best in a show of solidarity with Stumpy. The team, or should I say, the strike force, was beginning to work together as a unit. This was good, because phase two of the battle plan was about to go into action. One of us was gonna have to go out on a limb and ask some questions. We decided to pull the car over and have some of the guys pretend to work under the hood, while a few of us poked our head in the Chinese cafe and made a few inquiries. Not that these shrewd operators were likely to give up anything we could use, but it was Waldo’s only hope, and we knew it, so I pulled the car over and popped the hood. I got out of the car and pretended to fiddle with the carburetor, with a few of the guys covering my back, while Jimmy led his squad over to the cafe.

We had been parked for only half a minute or so, when two large, burly men pulled up behind us in a big Chevy 4X4. This was it I thought, the old spies had ratted us out, and now the town death squad had come by to do horrible things to us that even in our worst nightmares we hadn’t dreamt of. I thought about making a break for it, but realized that these men were not about to approach us without perhaps dozens more backing them up, well hidden as they may be.

As the two men strode up to the front of our car, we all stifled a shudder of fear, and put on a brave face.

“Hi boys!” Said the first burly death squad member. “We noticed your hood up, and thought you might need some help.”

“Yeah,” Said the second one, “My brother and I here own a garage around the corner. we’re closed right now, but if you need some assistance, we’d be happy to lend you some tools and advice if it’s needed.”

I gave the others a sideways glance to be sure that they were ready for possible combat. “That’s okay, I was just checking my oil,” I said.

“Good idea son,” the first man commented. “You can never check it often enough. Glad to see a young man like you who’s so conscientious with his vehicle”

“You boys from out of town?” the second one asked. The temptation to lie was there, but I couldn’t handle these games any longer. It was time to tell the truth and stand our ground. Maybe one day they would build a statue out at Lake Sukumunder in our memory. Besides, these men surely knew who we were anyway.

“We’re from Mosquito Flats,” I said. Fast as lightning, the men raised their hands from their sides and lunged at us.

“Well, what do you know?” the first man said as he shook my hand. “Welcome to Sodbuster Junction!”

“We don’t often see many people from your parts,” the second man added as he shook hands with the other guys.

“We gotta get going home for supper,” the first man explained, “but if you ever have car trouble out here, you just take this card and give me a call. My home number’s on the back.”

“Sure will,” I said. And with that the two men walked back to there vehicle, waving as they drove off.

“Can you believe these people?” I asked the rest of the group, “Look at the way they play with us! It’s like a cat who bats around its prey before crushing it in his jaws!”

“Yeah,” Danny agreed. “They aren’t just mean and devious, these people is dang cruel!”

“Took all I had not to kick that guy’s ass when he tried to shake my hand!” Stumpy fumed. I must say it gave us all a little more confidence, having Stumpy along. In a situation like this, you need a guy who isn’t afraid to almost kick someone’s ass.

Jimmy and his squad, whom we were beginning to fear were missing in action, returned with a piece of paper in Jimmy’s hands. “They’re gonna ambush us!” Jimmy yelled. “I went and asked someone if they knew a sixteen year old brunette with a green Chevy pick-up truck, and someone drew me this map!”

“Luring us into a trap!” Stumpy cried. “These people have no shame!”

“We still gotta go get Waldo,” I said. “I know it’s dangerous, but we can’t just leave him here with these sadists.”

The rest of the group agreed, and in minutes we had parked the car in the back lane of what we had been led to believe was Tiffany’s house.

Music and laughter abounded from the back yard of Tiffany’s home. Upon further investigation, we were able to determine that some kind of garden party was going on.

“There he is!” whispered Danny, who was peering through the hedgerow. “Muh god, He’s wearing a tie!”

“If they brain washed him, and turned him into a pansy, I’m gonna kick someone’s ass!” Stumpy added.

We watched closely as people milled around near the hedgerow, just inches away from us. Just when it looked hopeless, as there was too many for us to fight off at once, we got a lucky break. Waldo had wandered away from Tiffany, and had excused himself to take care of some business behind a bush in the back of the yard.

“Now!” I said, and our elite commando force leapt into action, scurrying down the hedgerow to the back of the garden. In a sweeping move that not even the best choreographers in Hollywood could re-create, Jimmy and Danny bound over the back fence, scooped up Waldo on their shoulders, just as he was doing up his zipper, and bolted out the back gate towards the waiting car.

“What’n hell are you doing?” Waldo cried out.

“Quiet you idiot,” Stumpy scolded. “We’re here to rescue you!”

“I don’t wants t’ be rescued!” he said ungratefully. “Tiffany…Help!!!”

Poor guy was brainwashed.

Within an hour, we had Waldo safely back in his driveway. On the way home, we tried to clear his mind of the brainwashing by forcing him to drink a small bottle of whiskey, which he agreed to drink after six guys sat on him, Danny held his jaw open, and Stumpy threatened to kick his ass. This was all part of the plan to help him as you will see.

Waldo’s father, seeing him in a wobbly, bruised state, and smelling of cheap whiskey, naturally sent him upstairs, then demanded an explanation from us. We explained how we had gotten an anonymous call that tipped us off to the fact that Waldo was in a bar in Sodbuster Junction, drunk as a skunk, and trying to fight with the local cops. As his closest friends, it was our duty to go rescue him.

Mr. Hinkley thanked us for our help, and suggested that Waldo would be busy for a few weeks, and we might not see him around much. That was okay; in fact, it was part of the plan. That was just about enough time for him to get over the brainwashing, we hoped.

It was a proud, but solemn bunch that returned that night. The war was not over by a long shot, but we had won the battle. Our friend was safe.

What Waldo did for those couple of weeks I’m not sure, but I think it must’ve been something to do with school work, as he demonstrated his knowledge of physics to me during a phone call a week later.

According to his calculations, if my house were just half a mile closer to his, he could pick me off my front porch with high powered rifle, without ever leaving his room. Funny the things you can learn when you have the time to sit down and think a lot.

###

Copyright © 1999-2007 Troy More
All rights reserved.

Author’s 1999 Bio:

Troy More a.k.a. wyzaz writes humour, science fiction, and alternate histories. He is the author of several plays, a hundred or so newspaper columns, as well as humour and science fiction series in magazines from Toronto to Kuala Lumpur. Along with illustrator Maritza Campos, he also publishes the single panel cartoon “True Romance” — soon to go into syndication. Troy is an op on several IRC channels, including #Authors and #Brisbane (where he’s pictured on their gallery pages); he is channel manager for #science_fiction and Managing Editor for Planet 3 ‘zine. Troy is also the new editor of “Undercurrents” — the Undernet’s newsmagazine.

The War is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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I watched the tiny bird hop down the sidewalk on Grand River Avenue, a busy six-lane thoroughfare which separates East Lansing and the campus of Michigan State. From a distance, the little fellow seemed aloof and unconcerned. But as I strolled by, in the middle of my Saturday shopping, he got spooked and hopped toward the street. I wasn’t paying much attention: on some level I just assumed that he would fly away, as birds usually do. After all, most of them have a fairly wide comfort zone. But nagging at the back of my brain was a question as to why this bird was still on the ground at a distance of three, two and now one foot away? Evidently he decided that one foot was close enough, thank you, and he fluttered out into the middle of traffic.

That really caught my eye – a bird on a kamikaze mission! He sat shivering in the first lane, and as I peered closely at him, I realized two things very quickly. First, the short wings and pink underbelly indicated that he was just a baby. He had only gained about three inches of altitude when he cleared the curb; he wasn’t capable of flying anywhere. Second, he was in the middle of onrushing vehicles. One car passed over him, but he was lucky, he was right between the tires. The experience petrified him. He hunkered down in the middle of the road, pulling his tiny feet up underneath him. He seemed resigned to his future as a feathered pancake.

I, however, didn’t want to witness his extinction, so I dashed into traffic. Horns blaring, drivers cursing, tires squealing – but I couldn’t let the little guy face that all alone. The drivers might be able to see me, but he’d be invisible, flat under their tires in a flash. He was quick for a fledgling, though, and it took four passes before I scooped up a tiny handful of quivering feathers and pink gullet. Of course he was hungry – after a close call like his, I’d be hungry, too.

Over the next two days, I found out from the university’s animal husbandry experts what a young sparrow’s favorite foods were, but I was warned not to expect too much – they said that he probably wouldn’t accept food from anyone but his mother. To make things worse, they warned me that his family and friends would probably shun him, now that he had been in contact with a human’s scent. I was devastated. In my panicked attempt to save him, it seemed that I had condemned him. The rest of the weekend passed very slowly – from time to time I halfheartedly offered him food. He looked sadly puzzled, but never ate anything.

On Monday, I took him back to Grand River Avenue, as he nestled, bedraggled, in the open grocery box that I had made into his bed. I figured he might as well see the old neighborhood one last time. As I was wandering down the sidewalk, I saw some sparrows in the third-story eaves, and I guessed that he had fallen out of a nest up there. So I climbed the stairs to the roof, and set his box down a few feet away from the wide three-foot-high guardrail. I leaned back against the rail and stared down at him. He stared back, mute, and seemingly hopeless. I wondered what his life might have been like if he hadn’t fallen out of his nest, and if I hadn’t picked him up.

Then a large female sparrow swooped over his box, and he became agitated – a second later, he fluttered right up out of the box, and down onto the rooftop. This startled me, since he had never seemed capable of escape in his two days at my apartment. The larger sparrow was chirping to him from up on top of the guardrail – she obviously wanted him to join her up there. But I was perplexed: if the animal husbandry people were right, this larger bird shouldn’t even be speaking to him. She flew down to him and he opened his mouth wide, not making a sound. I was stunned – this must be Mom! Sure enough, she had something in her beak which she dropped into his tiny throat. He swallowed it whole, and I may have been indulging in wishful thinking, but he looked healthier right away. Great! Mother and child back together, not too much the worse for wear…

Feeling very self-righteous, I stood up, thinking, “My work here is done.” But Mom was acting strangely: from the top of the guardrail, she was flying out over Grand River Avenue in small circles, and coming back to chirp down at Junior. Junior was getting excited, bouncing up and down – he finally hopped up to the top of the rail. They both chattered and worked their way closer to the edge, as Mom flew her tiny sorties. I was somewhat mystified, but then it dawned on me that Mom was continuing a flying lesson which had been interrupted two days before. With growing alarm, I could see how he had ended up on the sidewalk in the first place; I got ready to sprint down the stairs and scoop Junior out of heavy traffic again.

Then, almost as if in slow motion, Mom flew off toward the campus side of the street. As I held my breath, Junior jumped off, flapping weakly against gravity. Down he went, five feet, ten feet, and my heart sank with him. I was riveted by the spectacle of a disaster in the making. But then his descent slowed; something must have clicked into place inside his mind. He fluttered out, barely ten feet above the hurtling cars below, to follow Mom across the six lanes. He was barely avoiding a tall tractor-trailer; I was biting my nails. He was swerving to avoid a school bus; I was tilting my outstretched hands as if I could show him how. After what seemed like a thousand missed heartbeats, I watched him land safely in a tree on the edge of campus. I hadn’t noticed before, but the tree must have been full of waiting sparrows, because as soon as he chose his landing spot, the entire tree exploded in wildly gorgeous birdsong. I guess, in their own way, they were celebrating Junior’s first solo flight.

I whistled on my way to class that morning.

###

Copyright © 1999-2007 Alan C. Baird
All rights reserved.

Author’s 1999 Bio:

Alan C. Baird‘s short fiction and poetry have surfaced in several anthologies, and his humorous and technical articles appear in various periodicals (including PC, Playboy, and Britain’s Guardian). All four of his screenplays have advanced during international competition, and he’s inordinately proud of the fact that his undergraduate film was acquired for background by the Max Headroom TV series. He recently completed his first one-act, which will be produced in the spring. A Harvard Book Prize recipient, he’s currently writing a guide which describes the challenges and pleasures of collaborating on a dramatic script via email.

His screenplay formatting software design is a 4-star Editors’ Pick at Ziff-Davis, and was published on two separate CD-ROM) collections. An award-winning webmaster, he also created a renowned legal productivity system, featured on the cover of WordPerfect magazine. Thus, his film and stage scripts may be viewed as one man’s desperate attempt to reconcile two disparate, hemispherically-opposed creative urges.

The Sparrow Way is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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Portfolio

by Kathan

Our administrative assistant, Michele

Wild Billy:

wOOhOO:

Little Chubby:

Bug With An Attitude:

Ghost In The Mirror:

Copyright (c) 1999-2008 Kathan

All rights reserved.

Any use of these images is forbidden
without the expressed written consent of the artist.

Artist’s 1999 bio:

You can learn more about Michele aka Kathan (who doesn’t look anything like the ghost in the mirror) by visiting her Web site. You can also contact her by e-mail.

Portfolio by Kathan is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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Suppose, just suppose. …

A man strolls into a bank, walks up to the teller, and makes a polite request.

“Please put all of the money in this bag.”

Taken aback, the teller pauses for a moment, uncertain.

The man repeats his request, this time adding, “I’d prefer it if you would not give me any marked bills. And, it will be best for all concerned if you don’t press any silent alarms.”

Once she finishes filling the bag, he asks her to introduce him to the bank manager, who is then instructed to open the bank vault.

The man obviously knows his way around a bank. He instructs the manager to “give me all of the money without any of those dye packs, if you don’t mind.”

Within minutes, the man turns to smile and wave at those inside the bank and exits via the same door through which he had entered.

He then walks next door to the homeless shelter and asks to see the person in charge. Once inside the director’s office, the man hands him half of his “take” from the bank, telling him that no receipt is necessary.

Next he enters the AIDS Research Foundation next door. Again, he asks to see the person in charge. And again, after presenting the director with a substantial amount of money, the man tells him that he doesn’t want a receipt. He drops the empty bag on the director’s desk and leaves.

Police arrest the man as he attempts to leave the AIDS Research Foundation.

Later, during his trial, the man testifies in his own defense. “I did not rob that bank,” he says under oath, shaking his finger as he continues. “I expeditiously withdrew funds so that I might contribute to two worthy causes.”

Regardless, because of eyewitness accounts and the evidence presented by the prosecutor, a jury finds the man guilty of bank robbery and perjury, and sentences him to prison — which is refreshing that there are still some who know the difference between right and wrong.

Actions are more significant than good intentions.

Meanwhile, while senators consider more expeditious withdrawals in the form of tax increases and complain that corporations don’t have the right to keep the profits they earn, across town, reporters protest that everyone makes misstatements (the PC term for lies) about sex — omitting that not everyone lies about it under oath, which is a big distinction. Opinion polls show that everybody is pleased with the economy. Perjury becomes a partisan issue. The United States Senate fails to convict.

It’s no longer about “who you know and who you blow.” It’s sometimes about who gets blown. And whom.

Something to think about.

###

Copyright (c) 1999-2008 Pamela Rice Hahn
Used permission of the author.
All rights reserved.

Suppose, Just Suppose is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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