Fez_Monkey's Full Review: Weber-Stephen Products One-Touch Gold 22.5 Charcoa...
I just looked at the calendar, and noticed it was July 14th. I kind of knew it was, because the Copa America tournament down in Colombia has been going on now for about three days. It’s still way too early to tell anything about how any of these teams will fare in Japan/Korea 2002, but so far it looks like Brasil will have a tough go of it. As usually, they are stocked with some pretty talented players, but as Thursday’s 1 – Nil loss to Mexico showed, they are not playing with any sense of cohesiveness.
Jesus, the first paragraph and already I am flying off on a wicked tangent. Maybe I ought to just quit here and now. Nah, that would be taking the coward’s way out. I prefer the way of he Spartans: Either come back with my shield or on it. Well, damnit, this is supposed to be a review of the Weber One Touch Gold Grill, and by god a review of the Weber One Touch Gold Grill it will be.
But I still can’t get over the fact that it has already been 10 days since it happened. Well, a week-and-a-half is more than enough time for me to digest the trauma that was the 4th of July, and now my therapy has to begin. You know, many psychologists agree that it is best to deal with trauma is after you have taken sufficient time to come to some sort of internal recognition of it. But then, psychologists as a group are really little more than voo-doo priests hiding behind multi-syllabic techno-babble newspeak trying to legitimize charging hundreds of dollars an hour to sit back and keep repeating different variants of the phrase “how do you feel about that” in a vain attempt to exorcise their own demons. I mean, if you think about it, they really are essentially as helpful and effective as pyramid-shaped hats, spiritual rocks, or medicinal odors. Regardless, it seems that any of you who are reading this are now part of my therapy. Well, thanks for the support, kids – I appreciate it.
Anyway, like most people in the good old US of A I tend to look forward to the 4th. It has almost reached the epic status of those bygone pagan celebrations of yore, where virgins would be sacrificed after some particularly robust dancing to drums, followed by a bunch of holy men ingesting powerful hallucinogens and then rambling on about the future and whatnot. Yeah, that’s what I like to think of the 4th as, a sort of state-sanctioned pagan orgy, where jarheads and intellectually challenged mouth-breathers get to release their aggressions under the guise of celebration under a canopy of explosions and bright, sparkly lights. Caligula would eat his heart out. Not that I indulge in sacrificing virgins (besides, finding a virgin over 13 years old in LA is a mug’s game, Joe), but there is a sufficient amount of hedonism that takes place. In fact, several of the Seven Deadly Sins tend to be breached annually. Gluttony is definitely a casualty, and sloth, avarice, and greed also get a run for their money. Oh yeah, pass the wine, chum, we’re just getting started.
Now, it is a given that the 4th of July is the most sacred of all American holidays. After all, it commemorates the official proclamation declaring the independence of the colonies from the British crown – truly the seminal moment in our history. And, as is fitting for so important an anniversary, this holiday has several sacred symbols that are held with such reverence, veneration, and seriousness that no level of impertinence, no matter how slight, is tolerated. This is the holiday for the true patriot. A day when flags are displayed unabashedly across everything and everywhere – from advertising supplements to the ample buttocks' of over-fed 'Murrcn's. A day to proclaim pride and love for the land and the principles upon which the nation was founded. A day when we can revel in our own glory, and when jingoism and boastful talk is considered de rigeur. A day when movies like Pearl Harbor are criticized not because they sucked out loud, but because they didn’t show enough images of the flag, and didn’t engage in enough patriotic chest-thumping and propagandizing.
Anyway, another thing the 4th now has become synonymous with BBQing and BYOBing. This year, I got to host the celebration, and since it was my call, I was going to tinker with the festivities – just a little bit. Sometimes a tiny nudge off the center line is exactly what life needs, and this was the perfect chance for me to test my theory. It was also the perfect chance for me to test the new Weber One Touch Gold Grill. Now a lot of my friends have been swayed by the propaganda of propane ‘Cues, but I remain steadfast. You do not BBQ with gas. It’s coal or not at all. And on this day, the 4th of July, using propane gas to cook our food would be like having the Ayatollah take a dump right in the center of the Vatican, and then use the Pope’s robes to wipe his butt.
Now, normal 4th celebrations seem to revolve around a few tried-and-true American traditions: Grillin’ burgers and dogs, playing a game of softball (or, if there aren’t enough folks, perhaps a game of Over the Line or just catch), displaying the flag, and checking out the old municipal fireworks show. Of course in my youth (all those years ago …) we got to set off our own fireworks. They were the Red Devil brand of “Safe & Sane” fireworks. Basically a collection of sparklers, smoke pots, Piccolo Pete’s (or screamers), whizzers, roman candles, etc. Nothing that would go Kaboom! on its own. Of course, as precocious little bastards we soon discovered that a little tampering would create some choice explosions even in these “sane” fireworks. Crimping the Piccolo Pete near the base would cause it to explode after a prolonged whistling, perfectly mimicking the sound of the bombs dropping over Dresden. Roman Candles would also explode, but with a flare preceding the explosion instead of a whistle (perfect for those Challenger commemorative moments). Taking a wad of Duct Tape and tightly wrapping a whizzer would usually cause it to go bang, and strapping anything to skateboards created rocket-sleds for some impromptu street racing. Ah, the simple joys of childhood. Of course, due to the annual toll of mangled body parts and destroyed hearing that would inevitably follow these festivities, now any independent celebration of Independence day is strictly verboten. Luckily, close proximity to Tijuana ensures that there will still be occasional explosions and un-supervised mayhem, but it just isn’t the same. After all, in my day we would walk five miles up hill barefoot through snow on the 4th, but there would be gunpowder waiting as a reward.
But I digress. Before I wandered Reaganesque down my own muddled path of pre-senility I was discussing the fact that I was hosting the BBQ for the 4th this year (using my Weber One Touch Gold Grill), and that I would be doing things a little different. Naturally both Duende and Eggs came to the BBQ, as did Zokie, Oso, that old immigrant Boromir Švejk, that drunken Englishman, Jocko, and this casual acquaintance of Jocko's, Smudge. I called him Smudge because no sooner had he arrived than he had to start screwing with the coals in the Weber One Touch Gold Grill, getting his hands black with coal residue, and leaving a smudge on the left side of his nose where he scratched it. Now I could go on at length describing the intimate details of Smudge’s personality, but in the interest of brevity (Ha! Now I talk about brevity!) I’ll simply define the parameters of his character thusly: He drives a new Chrysler 300; he attended USC, he still puts the collar of his Polo shirt up in that annoying 80's style, he truly believes that Fox News is unbiased, he trusts the government, and is fiercely proud of being American. In short, he is a simpleminded rube.
Okay, where was I? Oh yes, the BBQ. Anyway, instead of burgers & dogs, this year I decided the flesh to grill would be lamb. We had lamb sausage, lamb kabobs, lamb-burgers, lamb chops and to top it off, a beautifully grilled 9 pound leg of lamb lovingly seasoned with sea salt, cracked pepper, olive oil, freshly crushed garlic, and herbs. Side dishes included marinated garlic cloves, roasted red peppers, and kalamata & green olives. Surprisingly, all the food fit on the Weber's ample grill. Keeping the temperature under control was easily achieved with both top and bottom vents, and the ash catcher system made sure that there wasn’t too much build-up of heat-quashing sediment.
The food sent everyone into apoplectic fits of ecstasy. Everyone, that is, except Smudge. For some reason he found the fare as being somehow off kilter. Evidently he was looking forward to eating what he considered to be proper food. Food like beef scraps sent through a mulcher until it is ground beyond recognition then formed into patties and charred beyond flavor, or highly seasoned hog anus and cranial connective tissue packed into artificial casings and heated to the point of explosion – you know, hamburgers and hot dogs. But he ate the lamb anyway … a good amount of it, as I recall now.
During the day our activities consisted of such things as drinking down some fine Mexican “oat sodas”, playing spirited games of briscola, discussing the best overall episode of The Simpsons, or engaging in a cut-throat round of bocce. Much as he did with the food, Smudge frowned on our socialization, and set himself apart from the rest of us, in a haughty and self-superior way. He wondered aloud why we were drinking imported beer (a lame joke on his part), called briscola (an Italian card game similar to Hearts, which uses a special deck) a stupid immigrant game, preferred to talk about his investment portfolio over The Simpsons, and confused bocce with lawn bowling. Smudge was strutting around like he was cock-of-the-walk, but he was cock or nothing! It was just a matter of time before he was to come face-to-face with that reality.
See, unlike every other house in the neighborhood, ours did not have a flag displayed. We did not have any red, white, and blue bunting hanging around, there were no images of Mt. Rushmore, and the music tended to stray away from Sousa, and toward Mariachi and Banda (I am in LA, after all). It was evident from the beginning that Smudge was disoriented by the complete lack of patriotic décor, but he tried vainly to play it off by his clumsy attempts to humorously mock everything from the food to the conversation. It was about time for me to unfurl my piece de resistance. I use the word “unfurl” purposely here, because while I did not have a flag displayed, I do have a flag. A special flag. As I brought my rolled-up flag out, Smudge looked relieved to finally get down to some honest 4th of July stuff.
The unfurling of the flag was met with a sudden and oppressive initial silence. Chewing was stopped in mid-bite, and mouths were agape. Eyes were huge, and somewhere, off in the distance, a dog barked. There, in the middle of my personal “old Glory” was stenciled a large, menacing, black fist. It reached from the top red stripe to the bottom one, and from one column of stars in on the blue rectangle to almost 3/4 of the way to the end. It was truly impressive, and it had the desired effect on the folks gathered about: It got their attention and kept it. Švejk was the first to react, and his was a loud and hearty laugh. This was followed by similar laughter from Oso, Duende, and Eggs. Zokie, who was all too familiar with my wisecracks and antics merely shook his head and walked away. But Smudge looked like I had just urinated in his mouth. It was actually quite funny, seeing his normally placid, doughy face contort itself into a seething cauldron of anger. His skin tone going from pasty white to soft green to red to splotchy purple in only a matter of seconds. Watching him literally choking on his indignation at what he perceived to be the highest insult he had ever witnessed, was music to my eyes (how is that for mixing metaphors, eh?). I had not only found his button, but I pushed it harder than it had ever been pushed before in his life. Finally, after realizing that he was not hallucinating, Smudge whipped around to face me, rage in his eyes, and demanded to know just “What the f*ck is this!?”
What indeed. I tried to calmly explain to Smudge that this was my particular means of celebrating the marvelous freedom we, as Americans, have for expression, and was exercising my right of dissent. I went on to further explain that this symbol was to signify that, although the country was surely the shining beacon for the rest of the world, perfection had not been reached, and progress was still needed in our socio-economic & political landscape. Lastly, I explained that this small protest was in honor of the disgrace visited upon our national psyche as a result of the treacherous, deceitful, and felonious manner in which the presidential election of 2000 was savagely heisted from the will of the people, to ensure that a slow-witted pawn of the corporate power-structure was placed in control of the government.
Smudge was unconvinced, but instead of answering my contentions with rational discourse he chose the path of emotion, sputtering in a rage that the flag be taken down. Smudge would not be budged, and was now becoming belligerent. It was when he tried to take matters into his own hands that things really went bad. Smudge grabbed the flag, and ran toward the BBQ with the intent of throwing it in the coals. He was deceptively fast, but not very agile, and he was met halfway by Jocko, who took him down with a particularly brutal tackle. Jocko had played rugby as a lad, and still remembered how to lay a lick, but he mis-judged his angle, and sent Smudge tumbling into the BBQ’s legs. Fortunately, the designers of the Weber One Touch Gold Grill built a significant amount of stability into their tripod stand, and although Smudge hit the BBQ with no small amount of mv, it wasn’t enough to topple the kettle. This was a good thing, because we still had a considerable volume of both oat sodas and lamb sausages left, the night was yet young, and we had more briscola to play.
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