50. Salsa-Fest 2016: Will the Salsa Hit the Fan?

Anxious clouds scudded across the September sky as preparations for Salsa-Fest 2016 were underway. Something, however, was clearly wrong. The fourth recorded Salsa-Fest felt different, even more so than usual, although each one preceding it was fraught with its own controversies and conflicts. It was true. Salsa-Fest, the time of celebration, had faced a growing current of hostility that, somehow, may well metastasize into a catastrophic climax in what could well be its final year, the year 2016, only to be recorded in the annals of history, or in the archives of the local newspaper—depending upon whether the local reporter/biker chic would show up with her notepad (not to mention on time) and live through and accurately record the events as they occurred. Would history end here? Would it continue in an altered form?  Would anyone notice? Would the neighbor be happy about it? Let’s just continue before the questions pile up like an unturned compost pile . . .

Characters from the past had returned with reinforcements. You could literally smell the tension in the air—though a few of the friendlier folks familiar with the two Eds were aware of their somewhat sketchy hygiene regimens. On a side note, the two Eds had developed the defensive practice of blaming each other, usually with an oscillating thumb pointed in the direction of the other Ed when his back was turned. It was a truly sad spectacle. (A quick shower with Irish Spring could have solved the problem. Why is a simple solution so elusive? Does the elusiveness of simplicity expose utter imbecility? Something to think about, preferably with a cup of coffee.)

The afternoon began with the pre-Salsa-Fest Festival of New Products, something Hawkinson had thought of during the week-long January thaw of 2016. He wanted to “mix things up a bit, for the sake of keeping the celebration fresh and perky (perky?).” The new products were proudly displayed with their fresh new labels, all designed by Marketing Director Absinthe Florida in her spare time, when she wasn’t out shoveling the driveway. Potential customers milled about under canopies spread out randomly across the grounds of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa production facilities. Sales were slow, even though, technically, the products under the umbrella of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa are not available for sale. (See Post #8.) The roll out of the new product line, perhaps too ambitious for a single trial, included Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Raspberry Compote, Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Coleslaw in a Jar, Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Potato Jam (not to be confused with jam for potatoes; instead, it’s jam from potatoes), and Ed’s very good Smokehouse Fennel Wiggle (because even Duane didn’t want his fingerprints on that particular product). So sales were slow. Changing public perceptions—not to mention tastes—is no small challenge. To put off potential buyers even more, the label on Ed’s very good Smokehouse Fennel Wiggle contained a Personal Evaluation questionnaire (see Post #3) to determine whether people were a good fit for the product. Not having a pencil to fill out the squares, most prospective buyers just shook their heads and placed the jars back on the counter . . .

“Since when do I have to prove I’m good enough for anything with fennel in it?” scoffed a resentful retiree—who apparently did not understand the subtleties of the Personal Evaluation. “I don’t even like fennel,” he added. When pressured to explain himself, he later admitted, “No, I don’t know what fennel is. I've never tasted the stuff. Is it legal? What’s fennel? Is it some kind of drug?” Then he added, “Forget it, I don’t want to know. I’m too old to try new things . . .” He stumbled off and never returned, muttering to himself, “F#*! fennel, you jack asses!” 

Clearly a bad sign.

Fennel--looks like dill on the top and some sort of
alien being on the bottom. Approach with caution.
Reminder: Some people are hostile to fennel. Also
approach them with caution. (Better yet,
just leave them alone.) Better safe than sorry.

Editor's Note: We would like to apologize to our more sensitive readers for the rough language employed by the cranky retiree. His wife claims that he's really a nice guy when you get to know him, but that he's never been the same since the The Late Show with David Letterman went off the air. She also claims the general decline of civil society, including the paperboy who keeps throwing his newspaper into dog piles, has been getting to be too much for the old guy. "I'm thinking of giving him some of  Ed’s very good Smokehouse Fennel Wiggle to cheer him up. Of course, I won't tell him what it is," she giggled to herself, holding up the jar like a trophy. "Now you hush, too," she threatened. It should be noted that she was actually holding up a jar of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Coleslaw in a Jar. She too was never seen again . . .

49. A free joke for Demitri Martin if he can find it in this blog (and I'm not going to tell him)

The perfect joke for Demitri Martin

The difference between here and there is only 1 letter. Interesting.

The difference between here and over there is 5 letters. A small difference.

The difference between here  and way over there is 8 letters. The difference is growing.

The difference between here and way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, 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way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way, way over there is a lot. 

Too big to count. I think I've made my point.

48. A New Take on Old Definitions—insert water and a glass (or How Hawkinson yet again attempts Humor (or Weren’t the other posts punishment enough? (or For god’s sakes, how much more can we take?)))

Editor’s Note: Before handing this post off to Hawkinson—who’s only going to ruin it anyway--the editor would like to point out that on occasion the apostrophe is before the s and on occasion it is after the s. This practice should not be viewed as simply sloppiness in an unprofessional blog. The Editor’s/Editors’ Notes are never sloppy. In fact, we do most of the cleaning up so that if you think this blog is sloppy, well, just hold on a minute, you should have seen it before we cleaned it up. Having said that, the differences in the position of the apostrophe indicate that sometimes one person writes the notes and sometimes more than one person writes the notes. It’s just that simple. (You may wonder why it takes more than one person to write a note. Our answer: That’s none of your bee's wax. We’d also like to point out that when we say we, it’s entirely possible that only one person is writing. We know that sounds confusing, but it’s our prerogative.)  Now, a recommendation: If you thought the above comments were unnecessary and tedious, you can triple those thoughts and apply them to yet another attempt at humor by none other than the owner of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa. You’ve been warned.

Handing off . . .

Hi, everyone. Today I’d like to play with definitions using that pesky old glass of water. Ready? Here goes . . .

How to define . . .

An Optimist: The glass is half full.

(Just for Fun: An Optometrist: Is this half of the glass better, or . . . is this? Again. This half . . . or . . . that half . . . Okay, let's try again.)

A Pessimist: The glass is half empty, jerk.

The how to spot an optimist versus a pessimist chestnut has been around for a while, and frankly, it seems to oversimplify the world just a tad. Therefore, I came up with a few more glasses while eating cheese puffs and drinking  light beer. Read and discuss with your neighbor. Keep it civil.

How to define . . .

A Fatalist: Stay away from the glass, I’m warning you! It’s going to explode, and shards of glass will  pierce your eyes, and you’ll be blind from here on out. And you’ll end up living in a cardboard box, and your kids won’t visit you—they won’t even call! Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

A Republican: How full is the glass? That’s not the right question. Notice how we reduced the sales tax on the glass. Notice how we reduced regulations on lead and other toxins, and sold off the rights of municipal water (just another bloated bureaucracy) to private firms. Notice how the water has a completely new flavor . . . and smell (Well, government can’t do everything!).

A Democrat: Careful with that glass. It’s liable to fall off the table and you’re going to slip on the remaining water and possibly break your hip and the shards of glass might start working their way into one of your major arteries and you’re going to have to go to the emergency room and it’s going to cost you a bundle, and so you had better support universal health coverage. You need it. You need us. Vote Hillary for President. (Democrats and fatalists, curiously, have a few things in common.)

A Libertarian: Water down by 50%. We warned you years ago; we’re plenty prepared. We’ve got our water, and we’re warning you now, stay away from ours. Start digging your own well. That’s the deal. Live with it, jerk. (Libertarians and pessimists, curiously, also have a few things in common.)

An Independent: What glass? What’s the deal with the water? Anyone have beer?

A Realist: Whether the glass is half full or half empty is meaningless. Here’s the real question: Will the remainder be sustainable for the demands placed on it in the future—or will those jerks the Libertarians steal it when nobody is looking? (Sometimes realists can’t help but be in a foul mood.)

A Trump: (Not to be confused with a Republican.) What a disast-AH! This would never happen with Trump Water! It’s the BEST! Putin endorses it! What could be better than that!!! It’s going to be great! I’m going to make water great AGAIN and HUGE! I’m telling you, HUGE!!!

A Bush: (Not to be confused with H.W. or W.)  i want to play along too . . . donald, you’re a jerk, you can’t insult your way to that glass of water, take that, you meanie . . .

Yes, I know, what about Cruz? Yes, yes, settle down. I know, it’s entirely possible to use almost all of the presidential candidates for more fun definitions, but let’s not beat a dead horse unrecognizable. This is not, after all, a political commentary. Cheers.*

*More definitions as they become available.

47. An Open Letter to the Coen Brothers RE: Their Use of the “Minnesota” Accent in their Latest TV Series

Editor’s Note: When the production facilities of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa are closed down during the early winter months, the owner preoccupies himself with two activities: He likes to work on a novel that is essentially his vehicle for trashing all things Canada (we still don’t understand his hostility toward the good folks to the north). And he likes to write to celebrities (probably thinking his notes will elevate him from anonymity to some sort of notoriety, attaching himself to their coattails—which has yet to happen and never will in our estimation). 

Below is his latest letter . . .

Dear Coen Brothers:

First a confession: I have always enjoyed the quirky characters and graphic violence of your movies and more recently your TV series. No Country for Old Men and Fargo are already considered classics in my book.

Now for the point of my letter: I scheduled my life around a singular goal of catching every episode of your most recent iteration of the Fargo series. I must say, it was quite good. Kirsten Dunst was fun (and for being a doofus, she was pretty good at cutting down homicidal sociopaths). For my money, the overall violence lived up to expectations. I especially enjoyed the scene in which a local low-life was buried alive by a dump truck load of lava-like asphalt.  Good stuff.

If I do have one small quibble, it concerns the Minnesota accent used by many of the characters—except for Ted Danson. Ted Danson always sounds like Ted Danson, even when he played an earlier cop in the movie The Onion Field, where he did not fare so well. (It was nice of you to let him survive the series, albeit with a knock to the head and a bullet to the gut.) But I digress.

My point is that not all Minnesotans have the kind of accent spoken on your series. Some do. I’ll grant you that. But here’s a little secret: Most Minnesotans sound a whole lot worse. So in the interest of moving beyond criticism toward constructive advice, here’s what I’d suggest: To be authentic, your characters could on occasion allow stomach eruptions to punctuate their exclamations; they could spit often from exuberance, grunt in disagreement, use double-negatives and plenty of other bad grammar; the older characters could inject routine malapropisms, and whip their John Deere caps into the mud, as if to say, this conversation is over you god-damned egg-headed little punk pea brain. (Note the mixed metaphors and lack of commas--classic Minnesotan.) You might also offer a few of the more rural characters opportunities to free their rabid German Shepherds on anyone who disagrees with their point of view. 

Finally, and this last point might earn me a few more enemies, but here goes: Allow your characters the freedom of stringing together obscenity/profanity/vulgarity-laced tirades. Remember that under their Minnesota Nice lies a cauldron of untapped resentments and frustrations. It’s true. (Just give them a twelve-pack of Coors or a fifth of Windsor Canadian, and five minutes later, you'll see what I mean. It isn't pretty. (It's no coincidence that a Canadian product can bring out the worst in Minnesotans.)) That Minnesotans can swear a blue streak is seldom reported in the local media, preserving their own reputations and the mythology of Minnesota Nice.

Now that I’ve gotten that bit of unpleasantness out of the way, may I also comment on the alien craft floating over the motel parking lot during a bullet-laced blood bath. What was up with that? All I could think of was that the writer had taken some sort of special medication before writing that scene, or that the space craft was supposed to be some sort of metaphor—a deus ex machina. I’m still confused. At any rate, I digress.

Looking forward to your next series,

Duane Hawkinson,
Owner of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa

PS—This has nothing to do with your series, but I’d like to put it in the record: Minnesotans sound like Minnesotans no matter where they relocate and no matter how long they remain relocated. It’s just one of those things. In a way, it’s like an ant’s scent, a way to track fellow-Minnesotans down in foreign lands. I guess you could say that you can take Minnesotans out of Minnesota (please!), but you can’t take the Minnesota out of Minnesotans. It’s a little like toe fungus, I’m afraid.

Editor’s Follow-up: This letter in no way is an admission that Duane Hawkinson, owner of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, is a Minnesotan. This much can be admitted: He does tend to identify with oppressed groups, such as those Germanic/Scandinavian hybrids that are largely responsible for the Minnesota dialect/accent/idiosyncratic use of the English language. For his protection, no details may be disclosed concerning his whereabouts, except that his production facilities are located in a state adjacent to the Canadian border—probably somewhere between Washington and Maine. More cannot be said since Hawkinson has a tremendous facility for acquiring new enemies. (He’s just that sort of person. What a jerk.)

46. A Quick Review of the Stories in this Blog to Catch Everyone up to Date, including the Primary Writer (AKA--Hawkinson, who has a hard time remembering what happened the day before yesterday)

Editors’ Note: Since this blog started last August (as Hawkinson’s attempt to gain worldwide notoriety without much effort), several events and personal stories have been jumbled together (to put it kindly) in an incoherent, rambling mess. Since Hawkinson claimed in post #45 to be too tired to catch the reader up to date (when he was in fact hung over by trying to learn the major wine varieties in a single afternoon while not having the good sense to spit out each mouthful, because he’s too unsophisticated to know of such things, also because he’s not too bright overall, but you’ve probably noticed that about three dozen posts ago, so we won’t harp on the issue), we will assume that responsibility and list below the major threads running through Welcome to Salsa’s Me, Home of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa. 

If we forget any, we welcome you to e-mail the owner and explain yourself: duane.hawkinson@gmail.com. (This is a real e-mail address, we have lawyers, we have the smartest tech people, we have the most advanced equipment money can buy—now you know. You’ve been warned if your message is less than civil. (We judge civility on a very strict scale.))

Let's review . . .

1.       Hawkinson has an ongoing feud with Canadians, even though he hired one, Krista Von Matisse,   to be his new head of security, the same Canuck who had earlier attacked him and caused great bodily injury. How can this possibly end well?

2.       Hawkinson’s neighbor (the one with the showering wife) is recruiting members in a neighborhood-wide coalition to shut down his operation and force him to relocate at least ten miles from the outskirts of town, “for the good of the children, hell, for the good of everyone!”

3.       Freida S., Ph.D., and dog-hater, has hired a graduate assistant to investigate Hawkinson’s correspondence trail in an attempt to reveal incriminating evidence of any kind, although she’s now to the point where embarrassing information will suffice. Will her strategy ultimately succeed or backfire? Will she bask in the glow of self-righteous victory or simply run out of grant money?

4.       Will Hawkinson’s grandmother come back to life to seek vengeance against him for telling that awful story about her in Post #3?

5.       Will the FCC ever sanction Hawkinson for that terrible bidet commercial in Post #4?

6.       Will Audrey Burning ever put her cat Poopsie down? Or will she break her hip on more of Poopsie’s puddles?

7.       Will the bartender in Post #7 ever learn how to speak without piling on the obscenities?

8.       Will Hawkinson actually ever write a joke that more than three people consider funny?

9.       Will the Mission Statement for Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa ever be finished? Should it have ever been started in the first place? Either way, does it advance the plot?

10.   In an ironic twist, will the critters play a role in saving Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa. Short answer: Not likely. But stay tuned. This may be a false lead. Or not. Or maybe.

11.   Will Hawkinson finish The Secret War . . .  or will he find his own life somehow inextricably locked into it in kind of a meta-world reality? Would Hawkinson know a meta-world reality if it slapped him in the face?

12.   Mr. Leonard Elsewhere has been surveilling the premises of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa. For what reason? And will Hawkinson’s former head of security play some sort of heroic role in counter-intelligence?

13.   Will Vladimir Putin ever show up in this blog? Will he ever take off his shirt again in public—or is once enough?

14.   What will ever become of Absinthe and Cliff? Will they also play a heroic role in Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa?

15.   Will the paperboy’s tingly feelings ever go away?

16.   Will turtles continue to be a recurring theme in this blog—and if so, why, why for god’s sakes, why?

17.   Will Grace Kellinski and Audrey Burning ever hook up?

18.   Will the newspaper reporter win a Pulitzer Prize while becoming the head of a biker gang?

19.   Will the two Eds in this story ever be able to distinguish between themselves? Or are they simply a flaw in Hawkinson’s recollection?

20.   For some strange reason, two Vancouver women, Anise and Kookie, take time off their busy broadcasting schedule to review Hawkinson’s recipe. Does this elevate the recipe to an honored position in cooking history? Or does it suggest Anise and Kookie have driven their careers straight into the crapper? On a related note, could Kookie and Kristina Von Matisse be related somehow--other than their shared Canadian citizenship? More importantly, will they be back for more reviews?

21.   Will Hawkinson be violently killed yet again, only to be rescued by turtles and faulty reporting?

22.   Will the artwork in Secret War . . . ever improve?

23.   Will the Salsa-Fest of 2016 end in a fiery inferno? Will anyone bring chips?

24.   And will there be any more Civil War re-enactments in which cheap beer is sold and combatants accidentally shoot each other?

25. Finally, will the process of salsa making ever be discussed again, or should consumers buy a jar of Tostitos and call it a day? (Why is there a . . . chest . . . in the middle of that brand name?)

      These are the main issues that Salsa’s Me, Home of Duane’s pretty good Smokehouse Salsa will attempt to answer in the months ahead. Which ones will be first? Hawkinson isn’t saying. For some reason, he took offense at some of our comments.

45. An Update of Sorts

Update: Well, if you’re a regular reader—and my numbers suggest otherwise (in fact, they suggest I have the occasional stray reader who accidentally stumbles upon my blog, Welcome to Salsa's Me, Home of Duane's pretty good Smokehouse Salsa, probably hoping to find a legitimate recipe (and if you are, you can always look at post #3, which gives a detailed recipe for making the salsa named after me) and then wondering what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into with this blog that seems to be all over the place, which would not be entirely wrong, although if you stay with me, you might find a fascinating and satisfying and even oddly mesmerizing confluence of unrelated stories (but I digress)—now seems the appropriate time to review the various subplots, both fictional and otherwise, and catch you up to date—if you don’t mind.

Anyway, that was my intention—in fact, only moments ago. And I will accomplish my goal of updating you. But I’m tired now.

Come back later.

No, I can’t say how much later.

Norway (or Red) Pine--a big tree in my neck of the woods.
Now you just learned something, despite visiting this blog.
You should walk away feeling good about that. (If
you're wondering what it has to do with this post, just
keep in mind that this particular tree is always lurking
in the background when my characters are up to something.)

44. The smartest riddle ever written

From the Editors:

While the writing has slowed down to a grinding halt--Hawkinson's approach to writing is neither disciplined nor generally very good--we on the editorial board (which, as you have noticed, occasionally interjects to provide some context and clarity to Hawkinson's ramblings) were noodling and spitballing, trying to be productive when Hawkinson is not, and came up with, what we believe in all modesty, the world's most brilliant joke/riddle/bit.

Here it is. Read slowly to catch all the nuances:

Question: When is a Q an O?

Answer: When it suffers from a prolapsed vowel.

-----

Hawkinson's Note: Didn't I hear that joke somewhere else, possibly earlier in this blog? Are we plagiarizing internally here? What's the deal, editors? By the way, you didn't tell the joke right, either: It's supposed to be, When is an O a Q? If you're going to plagiarize, at least do it right . . .

At any rate, this is to announce that the blog will continue shortly.

Editor's Note: The joke's still not funny . . .

Hawkinson's Note: It depends on the delivery.

Editor's Note: Yours sucks.

Hawkinson's Note: Consider yourself uninvited to the Christmas party.

Editor's Note: Thank you.

Hawkinson's Note: I know it sounds harsh--

Editor's Note: No, seriously, thank you.

Hawkinson's Note: Can notes have a conversation? This is getting weird. If it were e-mail, it would be text messaging.

Editor's Note: You're drunk.