Yuku free message boards

I like analogies as much as the next guy. The things
we tend to forget about them are that they're meant to
clarify, they compare two things that are alike in one
or a few ways but quite different in others, and,
while the user sometimes believes they fortify points
he is trying to make, they actually don't prove a thing.
So if there is sweat of a previous owner dried on the
grip of a Heddon, a Granger, or an Edwards I have
bought, I'll take it as a sign of good, honest use, but
I still won't wear the fellow's old underwear.

And as to college degrees, why not take a cue from
Frank Baum? Remember what the scarecrow, who is
seeking a brain, gets at long last from the Wizard of
Oz? A diploma, as testimony to the presence of what
should be there anyway.

Boo wrote:

---

Just wanted to get you back on the same page.
I know when I'm beaten. Thanks for the ride.

Bob, Greg, mr. flymph, outdoor master chefs all,

I can't begin to tell you how much it has meant to me that you've finally
brought front and center through this thread one of the truly great issues
upon which the survival of American manhood--well, certainly American
machismo--depends: The Barbecue. Gas-or-charcoal, heat-and-smoke,
briquette-and-hardwood. It gets the blood racing to hear that kind of talk
and to realize I'm in the company of real pros, not pretender-wusses. If I
wasn't wary of raising the spectre of similar distinctions in the fly-fishing
world, I'd go so far as to make an analogy. . . . Ah, but no, that's neither
here nor there. Well, maybe here--because here we can roll up our sleeves
and deal with the real stuff. The ephemeral.

I now get my ribs from a place called Lyle's. Eat them more often than every
two months, your lips get blisters, your stomach grows ulcers, and you need
periodic help from a respirator to keep carbon monoxide poisoning at bay.
But goooood! I tried hard (and hardwood) to cook them in my own backyard.
I really did. Because being sensitive, as I am, I knew my manhood was at
stake. And sometimes at steak.

But it didn't work out. I had no aptitude for it. I've always needed lots of
help to start a fire, then even more help controlling it when it finally started.
The excitement of my barbecuing and grilling finally came down to when
the ribs would slip from the tongs, the hamburger from the spatula, the
bratwurst from the fork to be consumed by hot coals in a sort of Dante-esque
allegory of burning in hell. There were other thrills, though, as well. My wife
has an allergy to yellow jacket and bee sting. She is a magnificent gardener.
Consequently the backyard is a paradise of perennials and alive with buzzing.
We keep the shot kit at the ready of course. But cooking up meat on an open
barbecue brings out aggression in yellow jackets that is unmatched except by a
World War. Their macho is touched by it, too. They come finally to think of
your yard as theirs, of your dinner as theirs, and of you as theirs also because
you stand in the way of total and complete claim. It would be accurate to say
they are adamant in exercising their rights, imperialistic even. Intemperate, mean,
and surly come to mind. So we abandoned the barbecue.

But we didn't go down without a fight. I bought one of those electric grills named
after a junior welterweight boxing champion. The Kid Zucchini Grill. Kid Zucchini,
normally a sour-looking fellow, always seemed so happy when using his. I do have
to say that the meat really got cooked. When it was pried from the grill, all the
juices had run off into a special tray for that purpose, also handy for burning your
fingers. The grid pattern impressed upon your burgers (and often upon your fingers)
gave them the aspect of having been run over by a tank on a hot desert asphalt
highway. And you had to check your dental insurance before chewing. That is
how we came to depend upon Lyle's superior survival instincts.

Now, however, I can depend upon yours and leave my manhood to my flawless
casts with my 6-wt Edwards Quadrate, my 5-wt Abrams, and my 4-wt Calviello. I
like my burgers, brats, and ribs medium rare, tending more to the medium than the
rare. But then, gentlemen of the backyard, you don't need to be told your business.

Hey, you know me. I never bicker with a man's work
when I'm in the presence of a true expert. Your approach
seems a very good one to me.

I've been served sauces by chefs clearly anticipating a
compliment and have been unable to find one anywhere
or even to lie graciously. I've managed, though, to survive
Bob's and Greg's dry wit for years, so I ought to fare well
with your dry-style ribs--that is, if you can survive that pun.