Your Basic T-Day Immolation (or "Thanksgiving Fire and Ice, with Sprinkles")

Dude, is the grill supposed to smoke like that?

True story. When Da-da was in college and everyone was just sitting around waiting for Facebook and Twitter to arrive (really, that's all we did), Da-da was lounging in his modest off-campus apartment -- gleefully childless and well-rested -- on the Day Before Thanksgiving, thinking that he'd stay at school and NOT go home for Thanksgiving. There wasn't any familial bad blood involved, Da-da was just lazy. Besides, he thought he was smart enough to do T-day dinner himself, and so did a bunch of his friends. Jeez, how tough could making Thanksgiving dinner be?

Being new to the bird-roasting ritual, Young Happy un-Child-laden (YHuCl) Da-da thought that the most important element to a proper Thanksgiving was to first procure the largest turkey he could find to feed the three or four guys coming over to watch football. The largest turkey he could find was a 32 lb. monster that took days and days to thaw. Spending all of the night before running water on the thing and preparing all the side dishes in advance, really all Da-da had to do was roast the bird, though it was still half frozen. Once all the guys had arrived and we were collectively cruising on our third beer, Da-da lit the coals.

Coals, you say?

Yes, Young Master Bonehead (YMB) Da-da was going to do his 32 lb. steroidal monstrosity ON THE GRILL, a modest black Weber; indirect charcoal, of course, the bird over the drip tray. Problem was, the turkey was so big that it not only overhung the coals by about four inches on either side, Da-da also could just barely get the lid on. Anyway, Da-da coordinated with Mission Control throughout (that is, Grandma and Grampa Scotty), and all seemed well, at least for the first 45 minutes. A turkey that size would have to cook  for about ten years, with several charcoal-adding forays, such that current Old Da-da has no idea what YMB  Da-da was thinking. Then came the immortal words:

"Dude, is the grill supposed to smoke like that?"

Da-da looked out on his balcony in horror. The Weber was totally engulfed in white smoke. The turkey had simultaneously auto-immolated and named itself Pope in one fell swoop. Da-da and company put it out with their beers.

Tom's gonna feel that later.

Scientifically speaking, only about 65% of the turkey's body had been charred beyond recognition; the rest was frozen. So, Genius Da-da figured that he could finish the rest off in the oven. Six hours and many many beers later, the bird was STILL not done (way pink) and, well... the one piece Da-da sampled tasted like charcoal and burnt beer and plastic. YES, besides all the other errors, Da-da had neglected to remove the plastic bag of giblets stuffed into the neck cavity. Lovely.

Unfazed, YMB Da-da walked to the strip mall down the way, bought 20 orders of cheeseburgers and fries (with drunk people's money, not his own), then proceeded to sit down with his guests and eat their glorious fire-and-ice repast, along with all the side dishes (which were excellent), the pies and whipped cream, MORE beer (we were in college, after all; beer was a 300-level class) while watching 14 straight episodes of the Monkees marathon on Da-da's awesome small-screen (20") TV, before we lost consciousness.

Later, after something like 8 hours of cooking, YMB Da-da and company put BBQ sauce and sprinkles on the penultimate bird and it was just AWESOME, in a really terrible way. O'course, drunk people will eat just about anything. And one shpould never ever underestimate the power of BBQ sauce and sprinkles.

Confetti and sprinkles taste pretty much the same.

Your Permanent Record

Your past can KILL...  or at least make a decent B-movie.

A little cautionary tale/Monday splash of freezing cold water. One of Da-da's old friends recently got DEEP within the hiring cycle for a big job with a big firm... when they suddenly nixed the deal at the 23rd hour. They spelunked his personal history all the way back to when he was a zygote, and discovered that he'd never dealt with an out-of-state DUI charge he'd received in his teens before going into the army. Ouch. He'd totally forgotten about it (he's 42), but considering what he's been through, Da-da can't blame him. Anyway, a hard lesson, and one for all of the young people and parents of young people who, unlike Da-da, still have their entire life ahead of them. Basically, when The Man says, "This will go on your PERMANENT RECORD," he means it. Know it learn it live it. Atone once, atone often.

On the obverse side of that coin, exactly how much information should an employer be entitled to when considering you for a position? (For the record, Da-da's friend's job had nothing to do with driving.) Nowadays, with Big Brother bigger and less brotherish than ever, you can ostensibly never make a mistake and not atone, which is rather inhuman, in Da-da's humble opinion. Everyone deserves a second chance. And a third chance. A fourth chance... yes, Da-da guesses even flaky au pairs deserve a second chance, he said begrudgingly.

Your LP permanent record plays and plays and plays and plays and plays...

Another Public Service Announcement: DWT

Before.

Picture 3YO Da-da riding his tricycle down the sidewalk from his suburban house oh soo long ago, sometime around 2:00 in the afternoon. As usual, he was left alone to, "play outside," as everyone in Da-da's generation was -- which Da-da still finds totally inexplicable.

Just then, a neighbor materializes, a 50-ish woman with white hair, reading the newspaper. She absently gets into her beige 1967 Chevy Impala and, still reading the paper, starts and backs her car out of the driveway right into Young Master Da-da, turning his trike over and skidding it backwards toward the street, grinding its left rear wheel post into the driveway cement -- SCRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPE -- Jeez lady, can't you hear that? -- pinning Young Da-da within the tangle of metal, the huge chrome bumper reflecting Young Da-da's frozen horror back to him: Is this really happening? He finally finds his voice and SCREAMS for the car to STOP... which it did, finally, just as the wheel post found a joint in the concrete and was thinking of buckling: a good ten feet. (Let's hear it for good-ole vintage steel construction.) STILL READING THE PAPER, the lady gets out of her car and looks more annoyed than horrified. She frowned. Aren't you dead, yet? she seemed to say, failing to ask if Young Master Da-da was alright, instead inspecting her car for damage. Meanwhile, Da-da rights his tricycle and goes off on his not-so-merry way, shaking, the bent wheels of his tryke squeaking and never the same. Same to you, lady.

So, why does Da-da tell this story? Because he sees so many of you, of all ages -- even cops -- WATCHING LITTLE SCREENS WHILE YOU DRIVE. You must stop this and keep your eyes on the road. There is no info on earth that can't wait until you stop your car. Sure, you think you're okay, because you drive more slowly and closer to the curb, like a blind great white shark in the shallows waiting for some small being to lumber in front of you, for all it's gonna take is for some ebullient little kid to run out in front of you and you won't be looking at the road and those high-tech ABS brakes won't save either of you because you'll never have a chance to use them  BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT PAYING ATTENTION. A life will be lost and yours will be ruined. So, please put the phone done and pay attention.

Don't read email and drive.
Don't watch TV and drive.
Don't text and drive.
Don't YouTube and drive.

All this is called DWT, Driving While Texting, and is actually worse than driving after six drinks. Yup. It's illegal. And it's dangerous. Look at the graphic, Copernicus:

A useful DMV graphic. Know it, learn it, live it.

Note that it's veeeeery dangerous for you, too.

Why?

Because Da-da and those like him will not be nice to you when he/they get(s) to you. Ever see the Boogieman when he's mad?

Extradimensional Psycho Clown Da-da just wants to talk.