29 April 2006

My evening in Hell at The Brokeback Bar and Grill

I thought I was going to "The Worst Little Roadhouse from Texas" with the Ol' Lady and some friends for a birthday dinner, I wound up in a cattle car on my way to Dachau.

(O.K., not quite Dachau but I shoulda stayed home.)

I knew things were going in the shitter when the Ol' Lady's cell rang and part of the conversation was "45 min to an hour wait." I have a rule of thumb about restaurants, "No one's food but my own is so fucking good as to have to spend an hour rubbing assholes and elbows with the living dead in the queue." Tonight was NOT the exception to that rule.

No two "steak" joints can agree on what medium is (like good pussy, a good medium steak has a hot, pink center and no blood), and odds are the one I'm at will fuck up a perfectly good piece of over-priced meat, and I hate to piss away $15. I can get two or three identical steaks with my hard-won treasure at the butcher counter at the market for that and cook them correctly at home, imbibing with select friends in quiet and comfort and not jammed up against the unwashed, loud-mouthed masses and their hellish spawn in competition with the shitty selections on the jukebox for most volume.


I after scanning the menu, I ordered what I thought was the most idiot-proof items I could find, potato skins w/ bacon (for my muslim friends) and cheese, and a cup of "Home-made" chili. Both items came out separately, early, after I specifically told the serving wench "Bring them out with the rest of the meals, not as appetizers." Both were taken back and re-heated instead of being re-prepared.

And as for the "chili"... If it's home-made, it's made at the home of the same guy who cooks up that swill Armour puts in cans and passes off as chili.

Almost forgot about the generic Bloomin' Onion or what the fuck ever they call it that was ordered, forgotten, lied about, quickly prepared, half-cooked and rushed out to the table with a side order of bullshit about "your's was delivered to another table by mistake." My ass... If the Ol' Lady hadn't reminded the serving wench after I told everyone at the table that the above was what happened, we probably never would have seen it.

And now kids, let's take a ride up Brokeback Mounting, er, Mountain...

The birthday boy is gay (If you wanna ride your buddy's saddle, no skin offa my nose, but I don't wanna see the rodeo) and really into the drag-queen scene, and one friend and the Ol' Lady (not so much now) are "drag hags", i.e. drag groupies, so you can guess what a good deal of conversation was about... which queen was in what show, who has what "crown", and how many big gay friends were working at the place, with the occasional "Ohhh, he's cute!!" thrown in.

(Friends husband and I weren't totally deprived though, It was one of the local high school's prom night, so lotsa scantily-clad 17-18 y/o breastages and fine behinds on display. Before you tar and feather me, age of consent in MO. is 17, so the Olsen twins were in season for a whole year here while the rest of you heathens blogged "ONE more year..." so neener, neener, neener)

Anyway, back to the rodeo... After waiting 45 minutes to get jammed into a tiny-ass booth, finding out who was gay and who wasn't, getting a preview of how fucked my dinner was gonna be, we passed the hour between ordering and delivery of dinner with assorted small talk, interrupted occasionally by a would be cheerleader rousing the crowd into a half-assed "Texas-style Yee HAAA for the birthday-boob!!!" and ride on a saddle bolted to a fucking wheeled SAWHORSE, while some poor bastard tries to slide under the table to plot bloody revenge on his "friends".

Eventually they served us (me for the third time), everybody said it was O.K. but not up to usual quality, Friend's Husband's said his was tough and tasted re-heated (prolly prepped too early as well by your local neighborhood kitchen fuck-ups). As I think I mentioned above, an HOUR after ordering and after tables seated after us with bigger parties were served.

Given the fact I KNOW that cruel bitch Fate loves to piss in my Capt. Crunch every chance she gets, I don't know why I never saw the big-assed bowl of crunch berries that was coming to my table until some minion from hell with a lisp plops a 10 year old kid's cowboy hat on B-day boy's head and cheerleader wench is screeching in my ear about "it's your b-day and we're all gonna holler like we have double-digit IQ's and you're gonna ride our idiot-generator on wheels around the place!! Just ignore the luke warm piece of meat you waited an hour for, leave your brain at the table and go do a lap, you can eat your steak cold later!!"

B-day boy waffles between "I wanna eat my dinner" and "OH BOY!! A parade for me!!", Friend is on her feet going "come on, go... you know you wanna go, come on go...", with all the GLAAD-hands in the back ground chanting encouragement, Ol' Lady and Friend's Husband trying to ignore the circus and here I am, stuck in the middle with my .45 trying to figure out if I should shoot them (cheerleading section) or myself.

FINALLY, "dinner" is over, plates cleared and praise be to allah (pork-fat be upon him), the check comes. The FUBAR onion has been deleted, B-day boy's dinner has been comp'ed, and serving wench collects the damage and returns the change, the Ol' Lady sez, "You ready??"...


(had to restrain myself from doing a Snoopy Happy Dance on the way out the door and I'm not sure, but I think I might've knocked over a blue-haired old lady with a walker on the way out...)

(To my friends and Ol' Lady, I'm sorry I brought my storm cloud to your picnic, I shoulda known better, I had previous warning and I shoulda stayed home.)

(I'll tackle the "aged", or "seasoned" or whatever they call it when they store a piece of meat, let it rot, excise the decomposed flesh and carve you a big ol' hunk and throw it on the grill and charge you triple 'cause of all the meat they paid for and wasted by letting it rot issue for later. If you want meat as fresh as roadkill, help yourself, but I doubt most of you realize you're gleefully tossing hunks of 2-3 month old rotten corpse down your gullet. I've picked up too many human (and growing up on a farm, bovine and porcine and avian) corpses in various stages of decomposition and had the skin of the lower arms and legs, hands and feet slide off like gloves as I tried to move them into bodybags to eat over-priced rotten meat)

Caveman Lab Work

I had wanted to fire up the new Char-Griller smoker I've got on the carport and 'cue up some pork shoulder and ribs for me and my muslim friends, and I would have succeeded if it weren't for the meddling weather.

Having only used the damn thing twice, I still haven't "fine tuned" temp control yet. Last time, I was all over the thermometer, 175 up to 400+, managed to stay around 250-275 most of the time and everything turned out O.K., but I had to babysit the thing like it was a 'tarded kid.

I see large piles of charcoal bags and hardwood ash in my future as I experiment with what combo of wood-charcoal works best. What I'm aiming for is a Tops BBQ taste, but according to an interview w/ one of the Tops, inc. poohbahs, they use charcoal and green hickory wood. Ever since I was a kid, I've been told not to burn green wood because the tars and resins they give off accumulate in the flue and can ignite and burn your shit down. And I'm pretty sure I don't want that on my meat.

Vacation idea: Go to Memphis and make nice w/ the owner/manager of one or more 'cue joints and see if I can be a pit-man trainee for a day and take notes. Don't wanna swipe your "secret recipe" to start my own mega-cue franchise, I got my own ideas for recipes. I just wanna learn "pit fire management" from a pro.

Sound Advice

I wanna get a set of Crimson Trace Lasergrips for my P-90 so I cruised by their 'site, crimsontrace.com, and checked out the price and looked at the F.A.Q. about installing them...

First it says "blah, blah, blah, these are general instructions see your owners manual for the picky shit..."


"1) Check both visually and by feel to make sure your gun is unloaded."

"2) Check Again."

Me, I usually check several times, even while cleaning a field-stripped weapon...

(call me paranoid, but I've never shot anything I didn't want to...)

27 April 2006

Shootin' Irons

Say what you will about the big name gun makers, how the 1911 is the ultimate pistol, the .357 mag being the be all and end all round, how that no-safety having, plastic wonder gun Glock is the best thing since sliced bread, (you'll re-think that if you ever have one pointed at your head by a nervous cop w/ his finger on the trigger in a case of mistaken identity), yadda-yadda-yadda, blah-blah-blah, etc., ad nausem...

My money is on Ruger.

I've bagged more tree-rats, easter-bunnies, and assorted other small varmints at up to 100+yd ranges w/ a Ruger 10/22 LR than I can count. I've owned at least 8 different 10/22's since I was a teen, and even the most worn-out one was accurate enough to hit what I aimed at.

I have a friend that owns a Mark I that he inherited from his Dad. Between the two of them, they shot it so much that some part of the bolt wore out (don't remember what piece). He contacted Ruger and they had never heard of that kind of failure before because they make their smallest guns outta the same material as their biggest guns, and would he be kind enough to ship it to them for examination to correct the problem and repair (on their dime). Customer service of the finest kind. (not to mention that Ruger expects their shit to out live more than one owner)

So it was my lucky day when I stumbled across a down on his luck sod with a early model Ruger P-90 .45 acp, four Ruger mags, cleaning kit, gun-rug, range bag and 200-odd rounds of ammo for $150!! SOLD!!! (I say early model 'cuz it has the metal not poly reciever)

I took it out shooting with a varied combo of ammo, 185 gr., 230gr., jhp, fmj, and after about 300 rounds, the only malfunction was a failure to feed that I think was caused by my Brother limp-wristing the thing.

I don't know why I don't hear/read more about Ruger handguns as carry options, but I know that this P-90 shoots better than the G.I. 1911 I qualed and carried as an MP, and being a big, strong sumbitch, the heavy DA first shot is nothing more than an extra safety against blasting something I don't wanna blast. And my large frame allows me to carry this big, re-assuring, heavy chunk-o-gun (size (1/2" shorter) and weight (36 oz.) are almost the same as a 1911-a1) concealed in a IWB holster w/o problem.

Given that the average Ruger runs anywhere from $100 less to half the cost of comparable guns, and will last as long if not longer, and already have most of the fine tuning done outta the box, I don't see why anybody but a gun-snob would wanna pay more.

But that's just my opinion, I could be wrong... (but I doubt it)

26 April 2006

Opening Salvo

Lemme see... went thru the process of creating this blog so I could rant somewhere besides at the t.v., other blogs and at the the Ol' Lady, and now it's time for "The First Post", now what???

I know! How about the old "all about wonderful lil' ol' me" post??

42 years old, S.E. Missouri resident most of my life. I call Memphis, TN. my home away from home (the fact that Big M is the Center Of The BBQ Universe, and all those all-night, in-ground pig roasts my Dad and his Navy buddies and family would have explains my heroin-like addiction to good 'cue.)

I love guns, have a few, and am fairly proficient in their use(thanks Dad and Uncle Sugar's Army). I HATE american idol and would love to toss the fuckers responsible for it over a cliff (I mention this 'cause that shit is currently infesting my telly like a zombie outbreak).

I'm for free speech (even if both you and what you're saying are blackhole-stupid, i.e. so damn dense that nary a glimmer of intelligence can escape), the right to keep and arm bears and building an ARMED wall across BOTH borders, 'cause fuckers who want us dead just because allah (piss be upon him) sez so, and other fuckers who want to take over the Southwest and extend the shit-hole called Mexico northward a few hundred miles, on MY tax dime. (piss be upon their burritos) are pouring across without so much as a "Fuck you, Gringo!" (wait, they prolly are saying that...)

I'll wait for the DVD of "Flight 93" before I watch it, don't wanna take the chance of running into some loud mouthed sumbitch in the theater who is begging for a beating, (besides, guys w/ weepy-eyes aren't cool in public, but'll get yer ol'lady to honk on bobo in a home theater setting... yeah, I cryed when Data died in Trek: Nemesis, so??"

Good Eats is on Food TV, and A.B. is The Man, so I'll be back...