Shoup Airlines

Keeper of the Flame

What is it about a grill that attracts ALL men like a moth to a light? What powers do these “culinary sirens” have on us? These powers that seduce us to damn all consequences and beat caution into submission, puree it in an industrial blender, and then use a particle accelerator to throw it to the wind.

Back in the Days of Virginia (2001 to early 2005), Beni (the Pissed Puerto Rican) and I decided to get a grill. Nothing fancy mind you, just something to sear the meat that piqued our interest at feeding time. Finding a suitable (cheap) gas grill, we then hatched the plan for getting OUR grill into the apartment without landladies or snooping neighbors busting us. Grills were not allowed on the balconies.

We lived in the back of the complex where it was usually dead, not a problem to do this quietly. So of course as we brought our baby into the world, everyone from the complex was there to greet us. Typical. We used a towel to cover the letters screaming CHARBROIL GAS GRILL on the box that was about as effective as using a napkin to hide the Statue of Liberty. Somehow no one said anything, but then I realized, much later, that that was because everyone else had a grill.

I had to laugh when we opened the box and right on the front of the manual in huge red letters was: Warning, do not use on enclosed balconies! I’ll ease the nail biting tension right here and state that we never had a fire or burned anything unwarranted.

Many good times were had surrounding our beloved grill. The first, and only, burning of burgers. Countless Halo playings. A very odd and impromptu New Year’s party. Movie watchings. Job bitch-fests usually hand in hand with drunk fests. The insurmountable pile of dishes to be cleaned. We even had a corner reserved for the vegetarian in the gang. All year round. In fact, it seemed like I grilled more often in breath seeing, wind ripping, snow falling conditions than summer fare. And every single time, I was proudly in shorts and sandals.

As all good things must come to an end, our jovial Virginia Days stopped with a fat man belly flop of a smack. Everyone went their separate ways and the grill followed me to California where it was shelved until last night.

After nearly a year of neglect, I removed the soiled and cobwebbed cover and brought life back into the fire breathing miracle. Hooking up the propane tank, I laughed as I saw the Chinese food container we used the very first night as a grease catcher. Hitting the ignition button I swore I heard “We Grill, We Grill!” Bygone days for sure, but that is this sordid tale called life.

The grill is once again open for business. Who wants some!

The Itsy Bitsy Spider

I’m not one that tends to freak over spiders. In fact, the more wicked they look, the cooler. So when someone of the female species cries in terror for the death of a poor eight legged arthropod that happened to get stuck in the tub, I tend to feel bad.

“What’d it ever do to you?”

“It’s creepy, just kill it!”

“Ah come on, it helps eat the other bugs in the house.”

“OTHER BUGS?!”

“Never mind.”

So when I’m cleaning the house and find a spider all balled up and dead, I find myself wondering how it died? Was it old age, starvation, boredom, just couldn’t go on the arthropodal way? You never actually see one go through it’s death throes, at least I hadn’t until this morning.

Visiting the bathroom for the morning ritual, I noticed a little guy scurrying across the floor. I didn’t think much of it other than where he was off to in such a hurry. About a half hour later, I revisited the bathroom to brush my teeth and noticed the little guy back in the middle of the floor. I kneeled to take a closer look and noticed he was slowly balling up. At first glance, I thought this may be an opossum defense. Funny, I didn’t think spiders did that. Then he kind of “un-balled” himself and took five steps, which isn’t much for a spider if you think about it, where he balled up again. Only this time he never moved again, except when I laid him to rest in the trash can.

This incident leaves me with several questions. What in the world is on my bathroom floor that can kill a spider, full of vim and vigor, less than twenty minutes later? Which then begs the question, should I be walking barefoot in said bathroom?!

Or my favorite question: What “other bug” is lurking in the bathroom that could kill a spider that fast?

15 Seconds, Part Boo!

Not so long ago, in a neighborhood right across the street, I spoke of a nocturnal menace that haunted my precious and coma-inducing sleep. Trying to wake me is on par with attempting to scoop all the oceans into a single Dixie cup. However, this Banshee appeared to own the Dixie company! That is, until I became desensitized and hermaniacal mechanical rants became just another screeching voice in the background.

She’s back! First, some background. The aforementioned amusement park turns the entire place into a haunt-fest during nights in October, rides and all. Often imitated, but never equalled, Knott’s Scary Farm was the first and has been scaring the bejesus out of people, young and old, for 33 years! Many people from the entertainment community go to work there solely for this temporary event. Costumes, effects, and props always seem to be top notch, but you really can’t care because of the “pull your brain through your nose with a rusty fish hook and then do a Spanish Flamenco dance on it” shrieks that continually come from the female companions you are indubitably with. God forbid if one of said female companions is holding on to you in any way, shape, or form. Then you’re in for a treat that makes Freddy Kreuger’s hand look like a flimsy spork! Oh sure, you think it’s cute and funny at first, but by the 42nd time your eyes are bleeding spinal fluid and you actually look like one of the monsters running around! It’s a great time, I recommend it to anyone. But I digress…

As I said, the bleep-er bleep-ing, bleep-rd spawn of a hamster and elderberry smelling father, the Banshee, is back and with a vengeance. She has bridged the gap and is now a diurnal thorn in my side as well. Knott’s main entrance is at the same intersection I turn to get into my housing tract. Right around 5:30 pm, the local police invade the area and shut down all northbound left turn lanes within a 5 mile radius of said intersection. Gee, what time do you think I generally get to this intersection?

After detouring through VICTORVILLE to get back to my place, I am finally safe until nightfall. Somehow, the mechanical shrills that emanate from Knott’s during the rest of the year are now amplified during the Halloween Haunt. I still don’t know the reason for this. Not only are they louder, they last much, much longer than 15 seconds. It’s almost a continuous low moan accompanied with constant shrieks that vary in pitch every few seconds. Rob Zombie would die in ecstacy.
Again, I thought this was cool, extremely malicious, but very cool nonetheless.

That is until I go to bed!! My skills at desensitizing and coma-induced sleep have betrayed me. I am able to fall asleep, where my subconscious (the biggest part of my mind) takes over and taps right into the ghoulish dirge, setting the tone for all dreams to come that night. These ungodly creations make George A. Romero’s worst nightmare look like an intolerably cute children’s book with a title like “Phil the Fluffy Squirrel and his Flufferful Friends!” Being in coma-induced sleep, I can’t wake up either!

The banshee is smiling one of those razor sharp, toothy grins with a single drop of blood dribbling down the side of her chin.

Happy Halloween, Blaah!