from Brave New World

I want God, I want poetry,
I want danger, I want freedom,
I want goodness, I want sin.

— Aldous Huxley

Get Your War On

Rockin' out since damn near day
one of Operation Enduring Freedom,
Get Your War On is still going strong.

Check it out!

from Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates

All depression has its roots in self-pity,
and all self-pity is rooted in people
taking themselves too seriously.

The key word here is roots, the roots of
depression. For most people, self-awareness
and self-pity blossom simultaneously in
early adolescence. It’s about that time
that we start viewing the world as something
other than a whoop-de-doo playground, we
start to experience personally how
threatening it can be, how cruel and unjust.

At the very moment when we become for the
first time both introspective and socially
conscientious, we receive the bad news that
the world, by and large, doesn’t give a rat’s
ass. So there’s a tendency to slip into rage
and self-pity, which, if indulged, can fester
into bouts of depression.

Now unless someone stronger and wiser can
josh us out of it ... can elevate us and show
us how petty and pompous and monumentally
useless it is to take ourselves so seriously,
then depression can become a habit, which,
in turn, can produce a neurological imprint.
Gradually, our brain chemistry becomes
conditioned to react to negative stimuli
in a particular, predictable way. One
thing’ll go wrong and it’ll automatically
switch on its blender and mix us that black
cocktail, the ol’ doomsday daiquiri, and
before we know it, we’re soused to the gills
from the inside out.


Once depression has become electrochemically
integrated, it can be extremely difficult to
philosophically or psychologically override
it; by then, it’s playing by; physical rules,
a whole different ball game.

[We] might be every bit as important a the
President or the pope or the biggest prime-
time icon in Hollywood, but that none of us
is much more than a pimple on the ass-end of
creation, so let's not get carried away with
ourselves. It's preventive medicine ... self-
esteem is for sissies. Accept that you’re
a pimple and try to keep a lively sense of
humor about it. That way lies grace — and
maybe even glory.

— Tom Robbins

Shitty Nonpareil books reviewed by me

Check out my reviews of these Nonpareil Publishing "books."

Red-headed soul-sucking vampire bitches

SSVB Kate
Look at the crazy
in those cold,
dead eyes.


If I haven't told you the story of how your dear narrator
used to have the most bizarre habit of getting himself mixed
up with the most demonic, self-centered, needy bitches in the
universe, then let me begin by saying this is not a simple
one-off tale like so many others I might tell. Oh no, children.
You see, in order for me to properly explain to you why and
how it is that I, an otherwise good-hearted and prayerful
individual who wants only good and decent things to prevail
in this universe, has routinely been sucked in by walking,
talking (ceaselessly, I might add) black hole daddy issues
like the one seen above, I would have to start way, way
back in the beginnings of my own neuroses.

But fuck that!

You will hear only what I want you to hear and
even then only when I want you to hear it. My problems with
women stem from the fact that so few women have ever been
nice to me. I have two grandmothers, neither of which is
worth a shit.

[yeah, I know it should 'neither of whom is worth a shit,' but whom's tellin' the story here, me or my 8th grade English teacher, and what's she ever written?]

Ever heard anyone speak of their own grandmother
that way? Of course not. Why? Because in 999 out of 1,000 cases,
grandmothers are good and decent people who care for and love
their grandchildren with an irrational fervor that makes maternal
instinct look like cold-hearted abuse.

Kids fucking LOVE their grandmothers and, mostly, grannies
deserve it. Even those poor bastards with one nasty ass bitch
of a grandmother can usually count on grandma number two
to do her job. I, on the other hand, was like the rarest of
dromedaries, the two-humped camel. I was saddled twice
with bitches.

My mother's mother, Francis Browning Carrier Coffelt, had six
kids. By most accounts, her son, Richard, committed suicide after
calling Francis in dire need of a moment, just a brief piece of her time.
She couldn't be bothered to speak to him. She had "chores to do."
She let him die. So far as I and everyone else is concerned, she might
as well have pulled the trigger herself. What kind of twisted maternal
instinct does it take to hang up on your own son who, cursed with inherited
depression, could only be reaching out to you because you are the
last possible hope he has of NOT killing himself. Click.

[tears must be shed for dear uncle Dick ... I never met you, my man, but I know you too well]

She used to give my mother a subscription to Reader's Digest
every year for Christmas. Who the fuck reads that shit? My grandma
did, and she took full advantage of their special Christmas subscription offers
every year.

My father's mother, Helena Wiltfong Jerrett Babe Miller had 13
kids. The first died in childbirth and the others envied it at
least once a week for the rest of their lives. The last time I
saw my father's mother in 1996 she was in the company of her
oldest and fattest daughter, Carol, whom I hadn't seen since I
was 4. It went something like this:

Carol: You need to lose some weight, Buster, and fast.
[first words out of her mouth, by the way, not hello just blah blah blah]

Me: Yeah, well, must run in the family.
[what the fuck else was I supposed to say?]

Helena: Yeah well it must be from your mother's side of the family.
[first words spoken to me since 1981]

Ta DA! This coming from a woman who has produced more junkie
whores from her cooch than Rome has Popes. She slags off my
mother like my parents just got divorced and it's my fault.

[That's what she and most of dad's relatives did when my parents got divorced too, by the way, they treated my sister and I like perpetrators. No sympathy, just daggers. Fuck you all.]

To top it off, what does this slag do? She corners my dad and
tells him I was rude and disprectful to her. How she managed
to convey this without mentiong any of the offense she gave
is beyond me. I would have been happy to ignore her or leave
it at 'Hello.' I was, after all, trying to watch the final episode of
Star Trek and didn't need her bullshit.

I remember being sick at her house once when I was a kid.
It had to have been a bacterial infection of some kind. I'd shit
myself silly and puke my guts out violently every time I drank
water. [??] She gave me bits of toast in warm milk. Try it some
time. That's how I feel about Helena.

Not having anywhere to turn for maternal comfort or guidance
hereself, my mother has thus been free to do as she fucking
pleases as well since no mothers who give a toss are out there
telling her how to do her job the way she is telling my sister
how to do hers. A great many bits of neglect have found their
way into my psychological make-up, people. I spend a portion
of each day just trying to wrangle these ticks so I can function.
I'm not like you. I'm like the Capt. Hook of emotional problems
and like most people with emotional problems, it all goes back
to the fact that my mommy and daddy didn't love me enough.
But it isn't their fault, their mommies and daddies didn't love
them enough either.

Boo hoo hoo, right? Somebody in this world has to be fucked
up enough to do some creative thinking for the so-called
normal people in this world whose minds are like big bowls
of vanilla ice cream filled with love and happy memories of
church and getting everything they wanted for Christmas and
new clothes to go to school in that let the teachers know they
weren't a piece of shit.

[Of course, by vanilla, I don't mean the good kind of vanilla ice cream either, I mean that New York vanilla shit they sell at Hy Vee stores in the gallon plastic containers with the wire handles on it. The only thing that ice cream is good for is melting and collecting eggs in the buckets. I'm the guy who has routinely come along and said things like "hey, how about throwing in some chocolate chips or maybe crumbling up some cookies on that nasty shit. This is a metaphor of course, but it stands to reason that so long as there are good, decent unweathered people out there with no ideas, they will always come-a-lookin' for a guy like my with a rich and rugged interior life that they can exploit. Assholes!]

So here is how we set the stage for routine abuse by leeches
in my life, the worst variety are the soul-sucking vampire
bitches. SSVBs are usually women with daddy issues of some
kind. Maybe their daddy doesn't or didn't love them, maybe
their boyfriend is cheating on them or maybe they just don't
have a boyfriend and they need a surrogate who won't soil
their sheets. They need attention BAD and often dye their
hair various shades of red to make sure no one can
ignore them. I've encountered no less than 5 in my life
since 1994.


Being a fat guy, they believe me to be the perfect candidate
for having my soul sucked. Because even if a need-freak and
I DO get into some serious talkie-talkie they will be able to
resist any kind of bouncie-bouncie. Well hell, that's great for
them isn't it? Great that I am so easy to resist. I must be their
lucky day when I walk in, a MAN ... who LISTENS! How novel.
I'm like a big girl or something.

My life's goal has always been to be a good listener, you know,
especially one no woman feels obligated to screw for the trouble.
The one thing I love more than anything else in this unkind and
unjust world is being treated like a ball-less listening post [eunach]
whose human needs are unworthy of notice or service [freak].
I'd be happy to fulfill your gaping emotional needs without trying
to fill anything else you got tucked away even if it means spending
time in the Blue Ball ward of my local Spankatorium.

[If I sound callous, misogynistic or vulgar, I don't mean to. It's just hard to talk nice when you've been emotionally abused for years. Forgive me, I am not worthy of your polite society.]

Say what you want to about men only wanting one thing, I
admire their purity. What the hell else SHOULD men want?
Men don't need women to listen to their problems over and
over and over again. Men don't need women to lie/tell them
that the guy or girl who doesn't like them is a bad person who
doesn't realize what he or she is missing out on. We don't give
a fuck. Most men know these things inherently. If this one
doesn't dig me, I can find one who does OR I can go put EVERYTHING
in perspective and pay a stripper to treat me like I'm the fuckin'
king of the world for two songs and it's JUST AS GOOD.

Your love is cheap, ladies, because it is conditional.
Get it?

My problem was [and only recently ceased to be ... for now]
that having been ignored by women most of my life, I wasn't
conditioned like most of my brethren to ignore them whenever
they said anything other than 'dinner is ready!' Having found a
man [me ]who actually listens when they talk, the SSVBs I've
known have decided it was time to see just how much care and
compassion they could drag from a guy they had no intention
of fucking. It's their equivalent of seeing how many chicks they
can nail.

[Bad men driven by instinct like to see how many women they can fuck]
[Bad women driven by insticnt like to see how many minds they can fuck]

Take this psychotic freak up top. No father to speak of.
No boyfriend at the time I met her working in my college newspaper,
but she really really really liked our sports editor who couldn't stand
her. Before him she really really really liked another writer. So five
times a night for about 9 months, I'd get called and asked, "Do you think
he likes me? How do you know? Give me a percentage[???]. What's that mean?
Daddy?"

I didn't learn until late in life that if you want people to respect you,
you have to not give a fuck if they respect you or not. It's a bit tricky
if you think about it too much. How can you NOT think about something
that you actually want? Every other man I know just does it. Of course,
I was pretty much raised by women who ignored the shit out of me and
then chided me for not spending any time with them watching TV and in
soul-murdering silence. So it goes.

Weakness is what it comes down to and weakness is never anyone's fault, but
it is entirely the burden of the weak. Nature abhors weakness and does
everything it can to force the weak to become strong or to die and let
the strong have the big piece of pizza.

SSVBs are the crucible God has chosen to test me and by 34, I think
I finally managed to do through conscious effort what other men can
do as naturally as a they stand to piss.

Long story short, see the eyes on this broad? See how they're dead looking
like a doll's eyes, like a shark's eyes? That's the crazy leaking out. A slag
like this will come over to your house to apologize for standing you up
for the umpteenth time then fuck her boyfriend outside your dorm room in
her car THEN make sure her boyfriend brags about it to you the next day.
Why? Because after months of listening to her bitch and moan and whine while
giving nothing whatsoever in return, this little drama queen decides to see
just how raw and vile she can be to the one person who put up with her shit
when no other man or woman would.

She once lied to me about having lost her virginity at 15 to a guy who raped
her just to see how I'd react. I've had three real friends, friends I cared about
confide in me about having been raped; how do YOU think I reacted? How do
you think I'll react the next time?

She could and would cry on cue and then point out that she was crying just
in case you didn't notice it.

She was once rushed to the hospital because she thought she lost a tampon ...
up there. Of course, she hadn't.

She was once rushed to the emergency room because she said she woke up deaf in
one ear. It was wax.

She claimed to be pregnant for three months once just so every day people
would ask if she got her period yet.

She drooled on me once while reading over my shoulder, probably to engender
sympathy because that's just not normal. It's also a side effect of anti-
psychotic medication, but the chances of her being on that are pretty slim.
I'd guess she is just untreated.

She would fake anxiety attacks weekly at the slightest provocation,
usually having to do with fears that her boyfriend was cheating on
her with the girl he was in love with when she tried to bang him
the first time. He had no recollection of the event because he
was passed out drunk. A man would have been arrested for sexual
assault.

Here's how it started: They were on a conference trip to Omaha. This
crazy bitch tried to get on this dude while his paramour was asleep in the next
room, the adjoining room. It was a recipe for all sorts of drama that did
indeed last for a year. I mean, how much better can it get than to hook
up with an alcoholic. Every time the guy got drunk, if you didn't tell her
she was better than this, she'd ask if she wasn't. I'd get called at 3 am
from a fitful sleep to go help her pick him up from some place he didn't even
need picking up from. Who hasn't passed out on their friends couch in college?
It's not like he'd been arrested.

People like this should be strangled in their cribs. Too bad we can't identify
them earlier; we'd save the world a lot of trouble.

Never eat anything bigger than your own head

For the graduating class of 2005,
a few words of advice:

Don’t use the word “ironic” when
all you mean is “weird” or “coincidental.”
It’s not ironic that you ran into
your friends at the mall.

Only when the literal meaning is
the opposite of the intended meaning
or when a series of dramatic events
results in circumstances incongruous
with the expected outcome is something
“ironic.”

And dance. Dance like you haven’t got
a brain in your head ... unless people
are watching, then act like you just
tripped.

Never support a Constitutional amendment
to make something illegal that isn’t a
problem in the first place.

“Facetious” is not the same as “funny.”
“Facetious” is ill-timed humor. You
aren’t being facetious when you tell
a bad joke at a party, you are being
facetious when you tell a joke at a
funeral and no one laughs. A joke that
goes over well is never ill-timed.

Enjoy your body, but don’t ever let
anyone else enjoy it. There is no
such thing as “a good touch,”
especially at a fraternity party

Don’t move to a big city just to be cool.
That doesn’t work. Cool people are cool
no matter where they live. Move to a big
city for economic opportunity, better
entertainment, a great view, 24-hour clubs,
diversity, great restaurants, people who
"get it" and to see celebrities.


Don’t wait to be discovered. Instead,
make a huge ass of yourself until
you are totally dismissed or accepted
as bold.

Vanilla Coke. It’s Coke and vanilla.
Don’t get excited. Besides, have you
tried Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper? It
rocks!

If you THINK you might like skydiving,
you probably won’t. If you KNOW you
would like skydiving, you definitely
won’t.

Why buy used when new smells so much
better?

Fashion is for pop culture victims.
Never do anything just because everyone
else is doing it. If you can afford to
shop at Hot Topic for punk outfits,
you’re not really punk.

Don’t think too much about being popular.
Popular people don’t.

A simple box fan quiets the voices in your
head ... for a little while any way.

When writing your manifesto, a shack in
the woods is as good a place as any to start.
It offers privacy and mystique.

Never believe that serious issues can only
be addressed seriously. Comedy is the
greatest weapon we have against tyranny.
Guns help, too.

Don’t hate people because they are different
from you. Hate people because they are just
like you and reflect your inadequacies.

If a train leaves Lincoln heading east at
60 m.p.h. at the same time a car leaves
Des Moines heading west at 75 m.p.h. does
anyone really care?

Margarine no, butter yes.

Never put off until tomorrow what you can
do today unless you are absolutely sure
you can get away with it.

Nobody knows the trouble you’ve seen if
you don’t tell them about it every chance
you get.

“Star Trek II: The Wrath of Kahn” is the
single greatest science fiction movie
ever made right behind “Bladerunner,”
“2001: A Space Odyssey,” “Soylent Green”
and “Westworld.”

Travel as much as you can. See the world
in all its glory. You never know how long
it or you will be here.

Cats are not smarter than dogs just because
they use a litter box. That’s ridiculous.

The less a person has to say, the louder
they are likely to say it. Listen more than
you speak. Don’t assume loud is right. That’s
just fascism.

You don’t need all that sugar. Have a piece
of fruit.

And dance. Dance like your tip depends on it.

Spanking ... ain’t nothing wrong with that!

“Made in America” means something again with
no small thanks to the Japanese. Makes you think.

Nine times out of 10, if you are the same but
everyone else is different, you just crossed
over into The Twilight Zone.

Why run when you can walk? Why read when you can
see the movie? Why cook when you can eat out?
Why stand when you can sit? Why try when giving
up is so easy?

Don’t be linear. Come on, we’re operating in a
post modern pastiche here. Let's get with the
program, already.

The greatest minds in history had the messiest
desks ... and the best looking girlfriends.

Tacos can be soft or fried, but that crispy
shell thing you get in a box is an abomination.

Sometimes doing the right thing takes great effort.
Sometimes doing the right thing takes no effort
at all. Knowing when to act and when not to act
is the key.

Everything is better in moderation except for cheese.

Credit cards are the devil’s plastic.

Listen to college radio every chance you get.

There is no such thing as a stupid question,
just questions asked by stupid people.

You cannot succeed if you do not try, but on the
other hand you can’t fail either.

No one likes a whiner unless she is an extremely
attractive woman, then no one seems to mind that
much.

Six of one, half dozen of the other.

Being folksy is a good way to make people trust
you.

Being rich is a good way to make sure people do
what you want whether they trust you or not.

Never say “I love you” unless you really mean
it or if someone says it to you first. You can
always take it back later and accuse them of
pressuring you.

And dance. Dance like a monkey with its tail on
fire.

This just in: Council Bluffs kids 'tear shit up' at APS World Year of Physics-2005

COLLEGE PARK, Maryland — The American Physical
Society is pleased to announce that a science
class at the St. Albert Catholic Schools in Council
Bluffs, Iowa has won the grand prize in the
Society's PhysicsQuest contest.

PhysicsQuest is a World Year of Physics 2005
educational outreach project that celebrates
the centennial of Albert Einstein's 'miraculous
year' of discoveries in 1905.

Teacher Julie Mooney will travel with her
winning students to Princeton, N.J., to participate
in a treasure hunt on the grounds the Institute
for Advanced Study, where a set of prizes is to
be revealed 50 years after Einstein's death in
1955.

The World Year of Physics 2005 marks the 100-
year anniversary of three of Einstein's biggest
discoveries, including the Theory of Special
Relativity (and the resulting famous equation
E=mc^2), and is also the 75th anniversary of
the founding of the Institute for Advanced
Study.

"We are shocked, so excited, so thrilled,"
said Mooney. "I am in awe of Einstein. It
is unbelievable that that my students will
get to walk on the grounds where he did his
work."

Her students were likewise startled and joyful
upon learning they had won the grand prize trip.
"I'm really excited. It doesn't seem real," said
15-year Danielle Cain.

Seconding this feeling was 15-year old Amanda
Burkey. "When I started the experiment, I didn't
think we would win," she said. "So when I found
out I was just in complete shock."

Mooney and class were among the 1,362 teachers and
their combined total of over 69,000 students from
all 50 states who signed up for the PhysicsQuest
project. They were subsequently chosen for the
grand prize through a random drawing of the classes
that successfully completed the contest.

The PhysicsQuest project is a set of four experiments
designed to illustrate basic physics principles
including pendulum motion, shapes of bubbles, laser
light diffraction, and magnetism. It is organized
as a treasure hunt to find the exact spot -- using
a map of the Institute for Advanced Study's 800 acre
grounds -- and time the prizes are to be revealed.

Mooney has taught math and science for 14 years
starting out in Denver, Colorado and then in Iowa,
and she hopes to incorporate the background material
into her curriculum next year.

"You would not believe how much we are looking forward
the trip," Mooney said. "I've never been out East and
I don't think many of my students have been, either."

-30-

Vicente Fox: World Leader and Huge Bigot

Vicente Fox
President of Mexico
black player hater

Mexican President Vicente Fox said Friday, "There's no doubt that Mexican men and women ... full of dignity, willpower and a capacity for work ... are doing the work that not even blacks want to do in the United States."

This, of course, pissed off a lot of black folks in the United States because they don't like it when people assume THEY are the ones who should be doing all the work that white people don't want to do. It even made a few white folks turn red but mostly those were the ones all in favor of letting mexicans stream in to do their gardens and roofs at bargain rates.

Personally, I love it when the blatantly racist president of a country that is no rose garden of human equality says something so effed up then refuses to apologize or spin what he said even though it is clearly in his best interest to do so. The comment is apparently "no beeg deal" in Mexico because apparently, Mexicans don't like black people much. Hmmm, I did not know that.

Frankly, Fox should just come out and say, "Look, all I meant to say is that blacks and Mexicans both got it rough in the U.S. but Mexicans are much more willing to be exploited by the white devils because we don't even know what the rules are. Black people know ALL the rules and how to get by wihout working for more than a few weeks so ... it's kind of a compliment when you think about it ... you black bastards. OOPS, I deed eet again! Ay dios mio! Lociento mucho!"

According to the AP, "Fox's spokesman, Ruben Aguilar, said the remark has been misinterpreted as a racial slur. He said the president was speaking in defense of Mexican migrants as they come under attack by the new U.S. immigration measures that include a wall along the U.S.-California border."

Well no sh!t Sherlock, but I don't think anyone MISinterpreted anything, I think they got it pretty accurate. In defense of Mexicans and Fox, though, I think they are very much aware of racial distinctions, notice them and will talk about them, but I don't think they necessarily mean anything by them. For example, everyone in Mexico is mixed to some extent. Fox is clearly more Spanish than Indian, but he's got some in him. Many Mexicans are clearly much more Indian than Spanish, but they still have the language and Spanish names to tie things together. In any given family, some Mexicans will look more white than others and they don't ignore those things. But I've never noticed Mexicans to be very hateful about them. At least not the good Mexicans straight from Mexico. The ones who've been here awhile are just as nasty as the rest of us.

My mom lost her construction job. She was making $13 an hour as a laborer. She was very good at it too. There are any number of Mexicans doing her job now, but she didn't lose her job to Mexicans. No, she lost her job to a boss who was so greedy and crooked that he realized he could not only "pay" Mexicans less to do the same job, but he could work them like slaves and then screw them out of their "pay" and THEN find some more Mexicans to fall for the same old tricks. E.G. 8 Mexicans come to you with the same SS#, do you A) tell them up front before you start working them that you can't process their paperwork or B) Let them put in a few days or a couple of weeks THEN tell them you can't pay 8 different guys who all have the same SS#?

The answer is C) just "happen to notice" outloud that everyone is using the same SS# after three weeks of work, turn your back for a few minutes and BAM! problem solved and you don't even have to feel guilty or worry about reprisals.

Days of beef and thunder; the night of the iguana

Like most good and decent Americans, my best memories involve beef in some fashion. It may sound like hyperbole, but it is quite true.
In 1988, I was a wee slip of a lad celebrating my second Veishea as a student at Iowa State. This was back when ISU students still went to Veishea. It was also the infamous year of the so-called “first” Veishea riot. There had been a previous “riot” during the ‘50s — which probably started as a protest over the House Un-American Activities Committee not going far enough to root out splitters and blackball them — but that one was typically not referenced alongside the ’88 riot because of the relatively lax moral climate of the Reagan-Bush years.
The drinking age had been changed from 19 to 21 just the year before, so I spent my day at the Battle of the Bands, eating gyros and hot dogs while sipping on lemonade. The dogs were 100 percent beef and the gyros were 80 percent beef and 20 percent lamb, but I think we all know it was the beef part that tasted better. As far as I could tell, the lemonade wasn’t more than 1 percent beef if that. It’s always amazed me how just a little mustard on a beef frank is enough to make both me and Patty Duke lose control. You just don’t get that effect with a turkey dog.
A great many innocent bystanders found themselves trapped on Welch Avenue that night at 2 a.m. The funny thing about street festivals and riots is that there isn’t a great deal of notice regarding the transition. Both look like a bunch of people standing around on the street having a good time and without advocating the whole riot scene, the latter does tend to look just like a more successful version of the former until the police, fire department, state troopers, CNN and Johnny Orr show up. At that point, it’s too late to leave unless you like mace on your beef frank.
Well, I did manage to slip quietly away eventually without damaging or flipping anything. I went home like any other upstanding citizen around 3 a.m. and I can tell you this much: I have never been so grateful for the advent of the 24-hour supermarket in my life. My roommate, Pete, and I had a mad craving for steak that night. It was almost savage in its intensity. The thing I’ve noticed about beef is that the more of it you eat, the more of it you want to consume. Or maybe it was the hint of lawlessness in the air that night that hung alongside the scent of sweet beef juices wafting about the carnie concessions. Or maybe it was the flames that rose from the center of Welch Avenue that night put us in the mood for fire-grilled beef; who knows? The point is, we found ourselves figuratively ransacking the meat counter of the old Ames Sav-U-More (now defunct).
Pete had a special method for cooking steaks that to this day cannot be topped or repeated with any degree of safety. It was one of those recipes culled from the stupidity of youth. Pete always cooked steak in the oven on the top rack underneath the heating element set on broil. Many people do this, but the difference in Pete’s method was that he never put anything under the steak to catch the drippings. You see, Pete (at all of 20) believed it was the smoke created by the drippings that made his steak taste so good. Open a few windows, turn the fan on high and when the smoke alarm went off, you knew those charcoal steaks were done. Served with a side of crème fresh with horseradish, bleu cheese sauce or even a generous dollop of Heinz 57 and those Riot Steaks were a meal fit for a head of state.