Life Explained Bourbon (The first draft of the next 500 posts)

Today was an exciting day, here at Life Explained, we finally discovered how to age bourbon for 8 years in only twenty five minutes. It requires a wooden barrel, a small thermo-nuclear device, a huge building lined with lead, and a used toaster oven. Technically, the toaster oven doesn't have to be used but it is going to be a little messy afterwards, if you can find all the pieces.

Our bourbon is going to be served on Virgin Atlantic space flights, though Mr. Branson doesn't know it yet. We kind of peeked into the future using a microwave oven, an engine from the space shuttle and a digital alarm clock.

Dr. Dawg actually ended up on a flight to Mars, where, before they could drag him to the cargo hold he managed to see a bottle of "Life Explained Flash Bourbon." Right next to the honey roasted peanuts, and ginger ale.

The flight attendants were unimpressed by his credentials as a scientist actively engaged in the
nations defense. Even when he explained that by National Defense he meant weapons of awesome destructive power. They still locked him in a crate between a lizard named Ralph and a sheep dog who was a double agent. He worked for a competing airline thinking about starting discount space flights. Flights where everybody would travel in crates. A lot cheaper but not very comfortable.

Turns out the sheep dog knew it was a stupid idea. He ended up getting a lot of free vacations, and the miles, oh man you can't believe the frequent flyer miles, they were obscene. Eventually the airline just gave him a plane, and he learned to fly it, and is now employed by Life Explained Future Office, in a strictly peaceful capacity. Odd how things work out isn't it?

Tomorrow is a big day, we are starting work on a way to make a martini so dry you need a fork. The work never ends.

Wednesday, Hump Day, The gods of leisure have smiled on us.

We, here at Life Explained, are always looking for a way to celebrate Wednesday. And, we have had some doozies. Like that time we accidentally reanimated Vlad the Impaler from a small sample of DNA found in an ancient serving bowl.

We were trying to make the perfect spinach dip, and our greens were a little to "green." It seemed like sending it through the wormhole we have harnessed to generate the power needed for the sound system would be a perfect way to ripen them. Nobody wanted to use a new bowl. This was the first time anybody had thought of using time travel to make an appetizer, and we had this bowl from something we have no knowledge of and if we did have any knowledge of we would not be allowed to discuss.

It worked perfectly too but when the Dracul came out carrying our perfectly ripened spinach we got a little worried.Though, the spinach was perfect, and the dip was extraordinary. People still talk about that dip, and tear up a little bit.


That might have been a real problem had we not been having such a keen party. Turns out Vlad loves a good party, and was leading the conga line. Man, he was really busting a move, too until Security could apprehend and unanimate him.  Thank goodness our security forces don't join the party, most times we think they are kind of wet blankets, walking around, following rules, and just being armed, pushy people in general. Sometimes we are grateful for their obsessive attention to regulation.

Anyway, today, we are sending Bob, from Legal, back to the last ice age to get some really fresh ice, lots of it! We have rum punch, Kentucky Bourbon (if it isn't from Kentucky it's just whiskey) and lots of beer. There might even be a live band, depending on how much the lab guys have to drink.It will be the best party ever. You have to love Wednesday. What could possibly go wrong?

The First Step is Always the Hardest, and Sometimes the Fastest, Too.

It was so much simpler in the early days. Just Dr. Dawg, Bob, and me. Driving around, in a 1971 VW Micro Bus, solving problems, and saving humanity. No withholding taxes, no retirement accounts, no worries, no huge government contracts. Life was simple.

We were staying in the HG wing of the Wells hotel in Baltimore. It had taken some work, and a lot of effort, and combing a microwave oven and a laser printer to create a small, controlled nuclear reactor, but our first time machine was ready to try. Bob, our accountant, had agreed to give it a shot.

"You're sure it's safe?" Bob asked and the trembling in his voice, and hands and knees,
made it obvious he was considering un-volunteering, backing out, not going.

I poured him a bourbon, neat. And Doctor Dawg pointed to a chalk board covered with long, complicated equations that had almost as many letters as numbers.

"I have been over the calculations too many times to count. They always come up the same. Since you lived long enough to be born you can't be killed before your birth. There is no way alter a reality that has passed. It is numerically impossible. It's all right there. Nothing bad can happen." He said, and a bit lower, under his breath, almost inaudible he added, "I think."

Bob had a very keen eye for numbers, which is why we hired him to be our accountant, but he did not understand science, or scientific notation. Which was fine, that was why we had Dr. Dawg. I was the driver, bartender, chef, shopper, and calming influence. We all took our jobs very seriously.

So, Bob finished his bourbon, looked at the equations, and Dr. Dawg, who patted him on the back, and said "you can do this, Bob, you are blazing a new trail, setting a new course for human understanding, you will be a hero. And we will wait right here."

Bob, stepped through the portal.

"Where did you send him?" I asked.

"I'm not too sure, but I was aiming for ancient Egypt during the reign of Amenhotep III, it was a relatively peaceful, prosperous time, according to the internet, anyway. We will find out, when Bob returns, where he actually ended up, and calibrate the Chrono Place-Ometer for accuracy. Hey is there any pizza left?"

I went to check, Dr. Dawg said we wouldn't have to wait long, according to his research, Bob could spend two or three days in the past and it would only be a small amount of time, no more than a few minutes, in the present. I was coming back with a couple of pieces of pizza, and a nice glass of Chardonnay, when Bob came running through the portal, screaming in terror. He knocked the pizza to the floor, I barely saved the wine.

Bob slammed the door open so hard he put the knob through the sheetrock wall and tore off down the hall, like a motorcycle.  Right behind him came a contingent of Egyptian soldiers, slamming through the small apartment, knocking over the couch, and table, and took off after Bob.  I drank the wine before anything else could happen.

Dr. Dawg looked at at me and said, "Well, I certainly didn't see that coming. We should probably pack up and go somewhere else. There could be a lot of questions soon."

We moved to Memphis, Tennessee and started working on a method to open and close the portal.  More on that later, though.

The Awning of a New Day.

Today we are going to attempt to predict the future, the near future, this summer, in general, our vacation plans this summer, in particular. We are going to visit Pukwana South Dakota (and points west, and some points east, and maybe even a point south). The home of the Puk U Bar and Grille and Lawn Mower Race Arena. It is a delightful place, owned by my cousin Marcie, a hard working entrepreneur who has managed to carve out a successful business in the windswept, indifferent plains of Central South Dakota.

Here is the Puk U, the awning is new, at least this is the first time I've seen it.

Those who know me, understand my long, comfortable relationship with cold beer and Kentucky bourbon, (and Tennessee sour mash, and rye from a small distillery in Iowa) and the Puk U has both in generous supply. Though, finding a Puk U t-shirt in the appropriate size is difficult, they are a very hot commodity, still, I have not given up. There is also a wonderful menu, featuring many local favorites, all prepared to order (if the grill is on) and served with cold beer.

But, the real draw is the lawn mower races. People take small, riding lawn mowers and modify them using mechanical prowess, Midwest ingenuity,  and the burning desire to take something designed to be a functional and only slightly dangerous, and turn it into something fast, fun and much more dangerous. It is human nature.  These modified mowers travel at... they go...  reach speeds of... well I don't know how fast they go, but they really go, rocketing around an oval track at speeds approaching way faster than a person should be driving a lawn mower. Which makes for a wonderful spectator sport.

Of course, no true spectator sport is complete without a little action on the side.   Lawn mower races provide this through the process of auctioning racers.  You bid on the drivers, and if they win you get a portion of the prize money, which comes from the auction itself, almost a zen koan, the gambler waging on his \ her own ability to pick the right racer on which to wager.  You see, this is culturally enlightening as well as exciting.

An actual, professional auctioneer is employed to expedite this process. There is something hypnotic, mesmerizing in the cadence of an auctioneer's call. After sitting through the first several racers the siren's song won, it was addictive, and I was powerless to resist,  and had to bid, finally managing to win. Naturally, since I had won the right to root for the racer and would get a part of his winnings, the poor guy never stood a chance. His lawn mower, recognizing the curse that I routinely bestow on various sports teams, actually gave up and stopped without finishing a whole lap. Curses can be funny things, who knew they understood the workings of the internal combustion engine.

But, never quit, that's my motto, (unlike certain lawn mowers) and I am going back this summer. I have been working on my ability to exude a winning demeanor to machinery (mostly by talking to cars in parking lots) and plan on watching my racer cross the finish line, that would be a victory, at least for me.

If you happen to be driving across South Dakota on I90 and see the sign for Pukwana, stop in, find  the Puk U, it is not difficult to locate, it is right next to the race track, and very near to the Fire Station, I think, have a beer, and a shot of bourbon, a good meal (if the grill is on) and leave a very generous tip.  We are talking about family here.

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