Q. Before we begin, let’s clear the air concerning the title
of your blog—Salsa’s Me. Don’t people
usually say Salsa Me? Usually after
they’ve scraped the remains from their bowl, and then they want more. Don’t
they usually say Salsa Me? Meaning,
fork over some more. Isn’t that right? Did you make a mistake right from the
get-go? Even if it’s inadvertent? What do you have to say? Please answer the
question . . .
A. It’s a Zen thing.
Q. Let’s change the subject . . . How does this year’s salsa
production look?
A. Pretty good. Going out on a limb here, but I’m projecting
anywhere from 8 to 16 jars.
Q. That’s a 100% range—why so wide?
A. Well, the critters
have a say in the matter.
Q. Since your production facility is quite modest, have you
considered expansion?
A. Well, if I dug up the other half of the back yard, the
neighbors would probably complain.
Q. Let’s talk about you now. Why do you like to garden so
much? My guess is it’s your passion? Is it your passion? Is it? Please, answer
the question.
A. You’d think so . . . Well, actually, I hate gardening--lots
of hard work, and compost dust gets up your nose.
Q. That is a stunning revelation, sir. I’m like, I’m
stunned. I mean . . . Let’s move on to your product—salsa. You must have a
passion for salsa. After all, it’s your life’s work, for god’s sakes.
A. You’d think so, wouldn’t you . . . You know, after about
half a jar, I’m full.
Q. You can’t even get excited about your own salsa, sir.
What kind of man are you, anyway? Please, now, answer the question. Don’t you
like it? Why don’t you like it? When did this happen? Isn’t it any good?
A. It’s pretty good.
Q. (Frustrated) What are you passionate about then?
A. Well . . . I like to _______________________*
Second Editor’s Note:
If the thought of being wrong inhibits you from trying, some of the
printable incorrect answers are listed below to help narrow down the
possibilities, along with Duane’s annotations. (The guy’s gotta have a comment
about everything. Geeze.)
Duane likes to ____________________.
1.
Walk the
dog and not pick up after it. (I would never do that, the latter and not
the former, assuming I owned the
former.)
2.
Compare
apples to oranges. (I knew this post would invite snarky responses.)
3.
Go
shirtless like Putin. (You’re cheating. That’s in my Upcoming Posts list. I
haven’t actually done it yet. But I appreciate that someone would have the chutzpah
to cheat on my own blog.)
4.
Bee a pooopee
hed. (It’s not something I like to do. It just seems to happen.)
5.
Chase
blue jays out of the yard that crossed the Canadian border illegally. (If
you let a few cross, who knows how many will follow? It’s my patriotic duty,
not something I like to do . . . )
6.
Discuss
major works of Darwin with anyone willing to listen. (No one’s willing to
listen.)
7.
Never
wear pants. (A near miss. Not at the same time I pull a Putin. “Never” got
you.)
8.
Shave and
shower at the same time. (Not so much wrong as overly vague. Shave what?)
9.
Rescue
turtles in the middle of a busy highway. (Getting warmer. But I’ve cut back
on this activity after a guy in a grumbly Ford truck yelled, “Get out of the
road, you dumb motherf*ck**r!” At first, I thought he was the literary type,
citing a line from Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five.
But the more I thought about it, the more it seemed coincidental. He didn’t
seem like a book reader. I could be wrong, though.)
10.
Read,
write, and try to be funny. (Disqualified
based on form. Only one answer allowed. A shotgun strategy may work in a
college psychology exam, but not here. And I’m having second thoughts about
putting your name in the pool with that “try” crack.)
Third Editor’s Note:
Due to a complete absence of insight, inspiration, or entertainment value in
the previous interview, Duane has volunteered to share a brief biographical
sketch to help unravel the until-now unknown and humble beginnings of the Duane’s
pretty good Smokehouse Salsa dynasty.
(Recently submitted)
Thank you, Rusty.
Let me begin by saying I was a rotten little kid.
My rottenness took a new turn one day when I flipped to the
back of Boy’s Life magazine. An ad from
a seed company promised great wealth in exchange for relatively little work. I
just had to go door to door and sell its seeds. Flexible hours. No investment
required. That part was good because I had a quarter and two dimes that I stole
from my older brother to my name. The company would split the profits with me
after a few easy hours of knocking on doors.
I filled out the order form and sent it in.
When it arrived, I greedily tore open the box revealing rows
upon rows of seeds all neatly organized and labeled. This was really a big deal
dumped on an eight year old. I thought about what I had gotten myself into, and
decided I wasn’t really your high-flying executive type salesman at heart; I was more of a Boy’s Life reading, taffy
eating, Gilligan’s Island watching type at heart. Almost immediately, I
decided that selling a box load of seeds was a lot of fuss. I’d just go ahead
and keep them for myself. Did I mention I was a rotten little kid?
 |
| D. Hawkinson, haunted by giant tomatoes |
Well, after not receiving its share of the profits, the seed
company sent me several threatening letters. I wasn’t too worried, though. I was
already planning new hiding spots if some strange man came knocking on the
front door. I also had an excuse (which started with “Who, me?”) memorized in
case my mother asked what in the world was going on. (In hindsight, what kind
of business model relies on an eight year old for its financial success? Even I
knew I wasn’t reliable.) As it turned out, I never opened the seed packets or
learned about plants or gardening or financial responsibility or about the cutthroat
corporate world. I just threw the box of seeds in the back corner of the closet
and forgot about it.
Now you know the genesis of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa.
This is a true story, well most of it anyway—although you
may not necessarily trust a narrator
who started out as a rotten little kid.
Fourth Editor’s Note: Here’s a chance to voice your opinion. If you believe this story is true, e-mail Duane Hawkinson at duane.hawkinson@gmail.com (This is a real e-mail address, so be a good digital citizen and you won’t have to redeem yourself later.) Tell Duane: I believe, I believe. Your name will be put in the pool of potential salsa winners. If you don’t believe Duane, say: Hey, mister, I didn’t just fall off a turnip truck. You too will be eligible to win a jar of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa. Good luck.
Nothing is free.
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