Beef Stew, BeerPup

My friend K-Bear asked for my beef stew recipe. She was very busy and stressed last week, so I made some for her and the fam.

She asked for the recipe. Here it is:

2 pounds (beef) stew meat, cut into 1-inch cubes (or smaller)
1/2 cup flour
1 Tablespoon salt
1 teaspoon black pepper
2 Tablespoons vegetable oil
1 large onion, diced
1/2 Tablespoon (3 or 4 cloves) minced garlic
1 bottle Shiner Bock (optional)
3 cans Campbell's beef broth concentrate (2 if adding beer)
1 Tablespoon Kitchen Bouquet* browning sauce
1 Tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
1/2 Tablespoon dried thyme
1 bay leaf
2 cups diced (1-inch) peeled potatoes (maybe 5 large)**
2 cups diced (less than 1-inch) peeled carrots (a 1-pound bag)
1/4 cup flour
1 Cup cold water

Mix 1/2 cup flour, salt and pepper in a bag or bowl, and add stew meat. Toss to coat.

Meanwhile, heat vegetable oil (med-hi) in a stock pot. When hot, add floured meat to brown for about 10 minutes. Add onions and brown 5 more minutes. Add garlic and brown 2 minutes longer.

Add liquids (beer and/or broth), Kitchen Bouquet, and Worcestershire. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat, add thyme and bay leaf, and simmer for, oh, an hour or so.

Add potatoes and carrots. If not completely covered in liquid, add water. Simmer until potatoes and carrots are tender.

Remove bay leaf. If you remember ;-)

Separately, mix 1/4 cup flour and 1 cup cold water with a whisk. Pour into stock pot and stir as it thickens.

At this point, you can add other favorite frozen or canned veggies like peas and corn; heat through.

That's it!

*If you don't usually cook with Kitchen Bouquet, it's in a small brown bottle with a yellow label, and sold near the beef and chicken bullion cubes, or near the Worcestershire sauce, or both. Maggi brand liquid beef flavor concentrate (often in the kosher section) also works well.

**You can also add peeled, diced rutebega but if you do so, decrease the about of potatoes. Buy a SMALL rutebega; they've got a lot of flavor.

If you make this and it turns out crappy, let me know.

Another archive selection: A good rant.

I'm trying to imagine my life if the conservatives ever actually got the world the way they want it. Really, how would life be different?

First, I wouldn't be allowed to smoke in any building, ever, even if I were, say, in the middle of an S&M club with a fine display of chips, dips, chains, and whips around me. After all, I wouldn't want to endanger the life of a she-male having their ass paddled by their master. That would be horrible, thoughtless, and irresponsible of me.

I would probably have eight kids, because it's immoral to use any kind of birth control (since it would prevent the birth of a baby, and that's murder, don't ya know), and besides, life begins in a man's scrotum after two beers.

I could never be sure my vote counted in any election, because after all, as long as it's kinda known who would probably win if the votes were counted correctly, why bother to count them correctly? And why bother to figure out what problems we might have had with valid but uncounted (or counted but invalid) votes in past elections? Hell, we don't have to worry about another election for another few months. Why bother?

I would never be allowed to look at naked breasts. Even my own. However, I would be required to buy really boring, expensive underwear to cover them.

I would be able to spend more time with the Jesus of Cheese, because those violent, shoot-em-up video games he loves would be illegal, because they promote violence to young, impressionable minds. We would have to spent our time watching wholesome sports like baseball, basketball, and football. And NASCAR. Okay, I could live with that.

And in the end of my life, if I'm diagnosed with terminal cancer, I will not be allowed to use marijuana for nausea and pain, because it's bad. It's evil. Even though it would make more sense physiologically than giving me a lot of shots of morphine, I won't be allowed. Nope. No way. Even though I'm dying, I can't have access to a substance that is LESS harmful than alcohol.

I think I'll go hug a tree now.

These pipes are clean!

Ah, the terminally mundane. I finally got my kitchen sink clog taken care of. It was only four days of sewage smells and heading my kids off at the pass before they decided to "help" me do dishes.

I tried to fix it myself. On Sunday morning, I totally dismantled the pipes under the kitchen sink, then put them back together, discovered I'd done nothing about the clog, dismantled it again, and got out my trusty drain snake.

*Important safety tip to any home owner: buy one drain snake plus a plunger for every bathroom. A little quick thinking will save you hundreds in plumbers and carpet replacement. Well, yeah, you can make an insurance claim, but you've still got those sewage smells going on...

But I digress.

My trusty drain snake wasn't long enough. Now I know how Napoleon felt. I gave up and called the plumber.

I liked this plumber. He didn't question me. I told him to change the works in one of the toilets, and even though it could have been rigged to work correctly, he did what I told him to. Because I didn't want to call him a year from now and have him do the same job all over again. When I told him that the kitchen sink clog was not under the sink and was much further along the pipe, he didn't re-do what I'd done on Sunday; he just cleared the drain from the outside access. Which I didn't know about until today.

So, two plumbing jobs done for one hour's labor. Efficient and effective.

You know how we housewives love to have our pipes cleaned.

The world became a very dark place

And it wasn't in my mind, for once.

I went to pick up Stick Girl today, same as always. Simian Boy decided at the last moment to ride along. There was "weather" predicted, so I took the UrbanTruckster, as opposed to the convertible. I'd be very happy if we got hail dents in the UrbanTruckster.

The carpool line was longer than usual. The crossing gards looked like lonshoremen. And the golfers...

Well, I must admit, I never before noticed that there's a green just to the right of the crossing guard area next to the school. A pond--excuse me--water hazard, I've noticed, but I never looked for a green. Obviously, I don't golf. I only noticed the green because a guy came running through the crosswalk without the benefit of the guard (GASP) which was no big deal since traffic was at its usual 2:55 standstill. Then he came running back through with a golf ball in his hand, like Bruce Jenner on the Wheaties box. "I got it!" Then I finally noticed the other three golfers who were still out, despite the lighning.

Goin' for the Caddyshack moment, boys?

After Stick Girl was safely delivered to me through a mild rain shower to the car, we started the 1.2 mile drive home.

Plink. Plink. plink plink plink Plonk plonk plonk PLONK PLONK PLONK PLONKPLONKPLONKPLONKPLONKPLONKPLONKPLONKPLONK.

And then it sounded like the buildup to the Fonze jumping all those barrels just before he crashed.

Two cars stalled, water hazards running over, no visibility, and the street was all of a sudden--full. Yet, we made it home without incident.

IT WAS SO COOL!

I love rain.

Paws for a moment

Today, the BeerHound's cat Lindy died. The cat's name was officially Lindy the Lindberg Baby. Since she was a rescue cat, my sister got to choose a birthday for Lindy and so she chose Yom Kippur. (Yes. She knows Yom Kippur doesn't fall on the same day every year. That's why it's funny.)

This was pretty sudden. As in, she was talking to me on the phone and said, "Something's wrong with Lindy. Gotta go!" *click*

The BeerHound is devastated. Heartbroken. Some of you know what I mean by being heartbroken at the loss of a pet, and the rest of y'all can just take my word for it.

I was devastated when my cat died a couple of years ago, and damn it, that cat and I didn't even like each other. But as the song sort of goes, I'd grown accustomed to his whiskers.

So, bye, Lindy. Thanks for taking care of my sister.

Archival delusion from 2004

I just attended my first meeting of the Hedonistic-Operative, Technical Covert Undercover Neo-Theocratic Secret Reconnaissance subUrban Sisters (HOTCUNTSRUS), Frisco Branch.

Great group of women. Plus, our kids get to play together while we plot our objectives.

First and foremost, we think people should make love, not war. If that doesn't work, kick some ass. The actual details of our operation are confidential, but if y'all see a bunch of women in your neighborhood with machine guns and strollers, sleep well knowing we've got things in hand.

We're also doing a book club, so that should be fun.

Our arch-rivals are the TWATS (Totally WAy Too Suburban) group from Plano. We're in competition to see who can take out the ice cream trucks first. A win-win situation.

Sofa shuffle

We donated some furniture to the local charity today, http://www.friscocenter.org/. Two desks from pre-computer days that just didn't work for us any more, a Jordache suitcase I somehow inherited from The Jesus of Cheese's grandmother, some kid clothes, two chairs which I originally bought from the Frisco Resale so it's a double donation, and most importantly, our sofa.

The sleeper sofa. The green thing. The sofa I bought because I thought The Jesus of Cheese would enjoy taking naps on it, and it was a deal. I bought it pre-children, when we lived in Carrollton, Texas in an apartment with our white cat and white dog and were just only beginning to consider procreation.

We didn't conceive either of our children on it, though. Just sayin'. However, the day I found out the first time I was pregnant--the one I miscarried--I found out I was pregnant on a day almost entirely spent on that sofa. For some reason, Ed (AKA Skrog) spent the night on the sofa. It must have been because of a bachelor's party; since the Jesus of Cheese rarely drinks much, he would have driven Ed as far as our place, but not allowed him to drive home.

That next day, Ed, The Jesus of Cheese, and I drank leftover beers and watched the extended version of The Blues Brothers. And Ed ditched a condom in our sofa. Unused and still packaged.

You'll have to ask him why he did that. When I found it while cleaning, he was the only suspect. He's confessed, also.

Most of my family's slept on that sofa. They tried to tell me the sleeper sofa was comfortable but I never believed them.

After the kids, the sofa issue was spills. And pee and poop and vomit.

With little kids, that stuff's just inevitable. But you know, being such a horrible housekeeper, it's not like that sofa was healthy.

I washed the cushions and the pillows. A lot. But we--the Jesus of Cheese and I--decided we didn't like the sofa enough to try and clean it so it was healthy, and then keep it that way.

But how to get rid of it? Charity! And while we were at it, we gave them back two chairs that ironically I had originally bought from the charity resale. And two desks we now hate.

I was a little sad today when the charity came to take it away. I commented to The Jesus Of Cheese that we should have had sex on it one more time. He was embarrassed like he always is. Because, you know, there were other people in our house. And stuff.

Now there's nothing in our living room (which is, according to our official floor plan, our dining room) except a big screen tv, the components, and two papasan folding chairs.

We really should have fucked on the sofa one more time.

Happy Anniversary

I wrote the following post three years ago, and I'm re-posting it because it is now the 10th anniversary of the Really Big Flood. So from the archives, March 2004:

It's the 25th anniversary of the Pretty Big Flood up in the Red River Valley of the North. Bet you didn't even know there was such a place, huh?

The river's elevation only drops, on average, one foot every twelve miles. So while it flows North, it's in no hurry to get there, and who can blame it? If I knew I was destined for termination in Canada, I'd move pretty slowly, too.

It floods every spring. The people who live up there and endure this refer to themselves as "hearty, Scandinavian stock." Pretty much everyone else refers to them as either insane or stupid. I prefer insane, myself.

Before you start wondering why anyone--insane, stupid, or Scandinavian--would ever live somewhere that always floods, I'll point to your refrigerator. There's beer in there, right? Possibly Shiner? Well, these are the people that grow the barley that goes into your beer. Because of the river and its annual flooding, the soil is of the quality that makes high-malt-content barley. So these people endure annual floods so you can have quality malt beverages.

In 1997, there was an even larger flood. Volunteers were sandbagging along the river at the Louie Murray Memorial Bridge. This conversation was overheard:

BRIAN the Norwegian: This is okay, but it was more fun in '79.

TODD the Swede: What do ya mean, fun?

B: Well it's this alcohol ban. Our mayor, she's doing good and all, but back then the volunteers got all the free beer they could drink after their shift.

T: Weren't you only 15 then, Brian?

B: Ya got a point there, Todd?

T: Well, no. [Pause] So that was Louie's doing then?

B: Yeah, good old Louie. He knew how to motivate a guy. Knew how to motivate the liquor stores into giving their stock away, too. One o' them deals.

T: Louie had a lot o' them deals. Didn't he do some time in prison for one o' them deals?

B: Yeah, but they named the bridge after him anyway. Good old Louie. Wish he was here. He'd like this.

T: Maybe we should go dig him up and bring him over so he can enjoy it too.

B: Yeah, let's prop him up on his bridge over there. We need to leave town to get us some beer, though. [Pause] Yep, it was a lot more fun in '79.

So this spring, please raise a toast to Louie Murray: mayor, criminal, beer lover. A heckuva guy.

I'm not speeding. I'm qualifying.

A couple of months ago, the BeerHound was having issues. Work issues, mostly, and I won't go into them, but also, she just wasn't into NASCAR like she usually is.

During the California race, I was watching the pre-show. Actually, it was the pre-pre show on the Speed network. And I had this overwhelming feeling that I SHOULD BE THERE. I needed to be wandering around with a beer in each pocket and one in my hand, looking for crap to buy that will advertise crap made by companies that already have plenty of money. I should be accosted by hoochie mamas trying to get me to sign up for credit cards I don't need, just to get a blanket or duffel bag. I needed people to hand me aspirin powder and toilet paper samples. I needed to really get back to my white trash roots. I needed an excuse to put on Daisy Dukes and a tank top and know that even 20 pounds overweight, I'm still one of the better-looking women there.

Most of all, I needed to be feeling the vibrations and smelling the burnt rubber and screaming a lot, just because a bunch of guys turned left in front of me for three hours.

I've had a whole plane ticket's worth of frequent flyer miles for a while. I was kinda saving them for the next funeral I'll have to fly to Minnesota for. And I decided, fuck that. BeerHound needs a vacation. So I booked her a ticket. I got race tickets. I made sure she had the time off.

All so we could say, "Put your shoes on. We're goin' to NASCAR."

TBC

Lost luggage

American Airlines lost the BeerHound's luggage. Again. This is aproximately the 6th time, but only the fifth in a row.

It's gotten bad enough that we nearly went strait to the baggage minion to file a complaint, rather than even looking on the carousel.

We filed the trace. The minion was helpful and efficient.

Then at 4:00 AM this morning my phone was ringing. Assuming it was about death, since we've already got a war and taxes aren't due until Monday, I groggily answered.

"Hello?"

"Ma'am, I'm sorry about the lateness of this call, but I'm standing at your front door with your luggage." I was impressed. She got to the point. She kept me from getting pissed off. This woman was a pro.

I walked the few feet to the front door and signed my illegible scrawl where my sister was supposed to sign, and quickly checked that the suitcase had balls.

My sister likes her suitcase to have balls. It makes it easier to find on the carousel. You know, if it ever makes it that far.

It had balls. There was much rejoicing.

Then I hefted it inside--it was quite heavy since it was mostly beer--and put it where the BeerHound would see it.

It takes a special kind of person to wake people up in the middle of the night and give them luggage, and do it graciously.

They should just require people to fly naked these days

I get to go to the airport today.

I've spent a lot of time in airports--totally unnecessary time. Usually, I had no control over the situation, like in 1980 when my entire family had to spend 12 hours in the Fargo, North Dakota airport when my grandma went missing during a flight delay in Great Falls, Montana. Or was it Billings? Oh, who gives a fuck. Anyway, that was my grandma's fault and I was only 12 so it's not like I could either A) Get in a car and just go home, or at least to the mall or something, or B) Sit in the airport bar and wait it out.

So now with the advent of cell phones and high security at airports, the above incident would never have happened today.

Here's an old airport story that I put up on NRWP in August, 2004:

Saxygal gave me a ride to the airport. My flight was at 6AM so we both had to get up at 0-dark:30. I changed planes in Chicago. I had to book it from one extreme end of one terminal to another terminal. Times like that, I'm really glad I used to hike and bike a lot; strap a backpack on me and it sends a signal to my feet to move fast and ignore hills.

Not that there are any hills in O'Hare, but still.

I only rushed because I thought my next flight would be boarding by the time I got there. Since I rushed, of course, it didn't board for a good 20 minutes.

So I sat down, only slightly out of breath, between two ladies who were chatting with each other: one, a total grandmotherly type, complete with ass spread, over-curled perm and orthopedic shoes. The other was probably of a similar age, but she was a really classy looking black lady.

I started chatting with them. They wondered if my backpack was heavy, and I diplomatically told them that some would think so, but I was used to hefting toddlers so it didn't bother me.

We chatted about children in baby seats on planes. We chatted about the Concorde. We chatted about all manner of innocuous things, they way you do when you don't have a good book while waiting for a flight.

When I got off the plane, they were cleaning the women's bathroom. No pee break for me! My ride Skydog was about to walk in to the airport as I was coming out. He commented that Koko Taylor's limo was out front and I might have ridden the plane with her.

I said, "Yeah, I did. In fact, I talked to her."

"What about?"

"Baby seats."

The BeerHound and her friend Paddy-Cakes were still an hour away due to unforseen drunkenness, so SkyDog and I went to his house for a kick-ass cup of coffee.

It felt good to breathe fresh air.

Exurbia

It's strange, what we can see through our little windows into other people's lives.

My neighbors across the back? They're too busy to actually live in their house. They must have gotten a good interest rate, because otherwise, apartment living would have made better sense.

Why do I think this? First off, they both work 40+ hour weeks. When they moved in, only the husband was working, which I learned from conversation #1 with the wife. Also, they have a son the same age as mine. But shortly after that, the wife was also working full time, which I learned from conversation #2. Which is the total number of conversations I've had with my closest neighbors.

They have a pool, but they never use it. They both work, so their son is in day care roughly 9 hours a day. They mow their own lawn, but it's about every 10 days to 2 weeks or more, so I'd guess it's an Issue for them. They rarely have both the regular garbage and the recycle garbage out for pickup at the same time. Strangely, it's usually just the recyclable.

Maybe they can't cook.

They are what the Jesus of Cheese and I would have been, had I not quit my job when my daughter was born. If I couldn't cook--except I can. Very well, thank you.

I can only imagine it. Well, all except the pool, which we don't have, though our yard begs for a pool. I would have kept working, put our daughter in day care, and she would have been essentially the same person, but...not. Probably jaded. She wouldn't be the kid who thus far this year in First grade, has had perfect daily behavior ratings thus far. I don't know if that's good or bad, but I think it's good. Or freaky. You choose.

I may or may not have kept my same job and if so, probably I would now be working for IBM and my commute would be shorter. WaFuckinHoo.

Mostly, I think, had I kept working, we wouldn't have had time to conceive my son. I've seen no evidence my neighbors have procreated once again. I see little evidence they are even home at the same time.

By the way, my son's a riot. If one happens to be his parent, that is. I'm not going to tell stories because they would bore you.

But I think he's really funny.

Anyway. So we really live in our house.

My neighbor's house probably looks great. Mine looks like shit.
Literally. There are stains on my carpet that...well, never mind. We're replacing that. Soon. As soon as we don't have to pay private preschool tuition. June. July. August, latest.

Right now I don't know whether to do the Superior Dance or hide behind my bottle of Shiner.

Well, the bottle of Shiner's right here, but so's my music. Guess I'll do both.

Go away. I'm in a bad mood.

I'm very mad at God today. My friend K-Bear (my daughter's brownie troop leader and room mom at school) had a miscarriage. It's just like what happened to me before I had my daughter, which is medically referred to as a "silent abortion," where the baby dies and you've got to have a D&C, so that you don't hemorrage later when your body finally rejects the baby.

This is my friend's second miscarriage in a year. And it really PISSES ME OFF that irresponsible, drug-addicted parents get to have perfectly healthy babies while my friend, who's a wonderful person and a great mom, gets her child and her heart torn away...

I'm really mad at God.

She should have tried to sell me double glazing while she was at it

One time I was at the doctor's office, waiting for my name to be called. There were several other people in the waiting room. I was listening very closely for my name, like waiting for the checkered flag at Talladega. The desk lady called something, then called it again, and I checked out the rest of the room to see if someone had fainted or something and couldn't answer; no one fit the bill. Then the desk lady called my last name in a really annoyed voice and I went on up. This is what followed:

Desk lady: I was calling your name!

Me: I didn't hear my name.

DL: I called it a bunch of times!

Me: Did you call my first name or last name?

DL: And you just sat there!

Me: What did you say? Were you calling my first name?

DL: (Glare and silence)

Me: How were you pronouncing it? Because I didn't hear anyone call my first name.

DL: (More intense glare and a wolfish glaring of teeth)

Me: Wait, you were calling something like "Jah-NEE-kah." My name is Janice. Is that what you were trying to say? How was I supposed to know that was supposed to be my name when you mispronounce it like that?

DL: I CALLED YOUR NAME!

Me: No, you called some other name and expected me to answer.

Nurse who could read and also negotiate well: Ms. BeerPup? If you'll just come back here please...

Then they gave me a shot of Imitrex for my migraine and told me I probably had salmonella. It wasn't the best of days.
The woman was out of a job three days later, unfortunately not due to rudeness or incompetency, but even so, some people get what they deserve.

Bitch.

Not Much to Tell

Somethinkorother asked in one of the comment sections about Nick booting me and SFChick from his site. I've been kind of expecting someone to ask about that eventually.

The truth is, y'all know as much about the reason as I do. I've e-mailed Nick about that to say "Oh. Okay," and other issues since then, basically about administrative stuff, but I didn't ask him to explain himself further. And of course, he's a loyal reader and commenter over here; y'all could take a lesson or two from him on that score.

Most alcoholics know and try and follow the AA mantra, even though they still drink. You know: accept the things I can't change, change the things I can, wisdom to hide the bodies of the people I had to kill because they pissed me off know the difference?

I can't change Nick's mind, nor would I want to. Therefore, why would I ask for a complete explanation? I don't want to know. However, posting over here means I can ignore the primarily male sensibilities of Nick's readers. (Yes, guys, I could have gotten EVEN MORE mega-mommy than I used ta could. And I will. Be warned; I'm entering pre-menopause, and it won't be pretty.)

In the end: It was Nick's site, it's his choice, and it really is better this way.

(But y'alll can blame it on nekkid pictures of Ewan McGregor if you want to.)

Les Chateaux de la Loire Montrichard

Originally posted Tuesday, 12/14/2004, message on a postcard I received in 1991:

"My friend:

The revolution is worsening.

Robespierre is whacking off heads like he was shopping for melons in the farmers' market. The tennis courts are all booked up for constitution signings and the Restaurant Bastille couldn't whip up a decent croissant if the revolution depended on it.

Besides, the Mrs. is out de-robing monks and demanding the return of Napoleon. He's been dead five years now.

Next thing you know, they'll take away my wine. I can't live without my wine.

I hope all is well with you and...what's his name? Ah yes...Thor.

I hope the revolution end soon. You know how naked priests upset me.

Oh, look at that. An angry band of women are discombobulating the Bastille maitre d'.

God save the people. The aristocracy is swine. Vive la France.
Yours,
Patrick"

Martinsville NASCAR recap

Jimmie: Well, I liked the bottom. I stayed on the bottom. It was totally fair for me to stay on the bottom.

Jeffy: I tried to fuck him. I bumped his ass a bunch of times, but he wouldn't let me in. I hired an asshole who won't let me...oh, never mind.

Denny: I'm tramuatized.

Junebug: Y'all REALLY want me to comment on that shit???

Smoke: Where's my moneky?

*For those of you who are totally confused, it's a NASCAR thing. If you really want me to explain, I'd need charts and graphs and an easel. And beer.

Blue Laws II: Electric Boogaloo

As opposed to Minnesota liquor law, Texas is just as puritanical but much more confusing.

Alcohol sales are determined by both county and city ordinance. This determines whether or not you are legally allowed to quench your thirst at any given spot on the map.

Here's what Wikipedia has to say about it:

Of Texas' 254 counties, 44 are completely dry and 169 are partially dry or "moist". The patchwork of laws can be confusing, even to residents. In some counties, only 4% beer is legal. In others, beverages that are 14% or less alcohol are legal. In some "dry" areas, a customer can get a mixed drink by paying to join a "private club," and in some "wet" areas a customer needs a club membership to get liquor-by-the-drink, reports the Fort Worth Star-Telegram.

The newspaper demonstrates how variable the alcohol laws can be, even within small geographic areas. "Move from Fort Worth to Arlington and you’ll be surprised that you can buy beer but not wine at the grocery store. Move to Grand Prairie and you can’t even find beer there, but you can buy alcoholic drinks at restaurants in both towns. Then move to Burleson, which has alcohol sales in the Tarrant County portion of the city but not in the Johnson County side of town."
This meant that in grad school, we had to leave the city of Denton to buy our tequila, Southern Comfort, vodka, and some cinnamon liquer called Hot Damn! that my roommate Elly quite enjoyed one evening in the Fall of 1994.

It also meant that when we moved to Frisco, which is mostly in Colin County--the county was wet, the city was dry, so I'd have to cross highway 121 (which was Plano, which was moist) to buy beer. Since my daughter was a baby, this required that I shop somewhere that I could bring her into without feeling like a horrible mom. So I shopped at the grocery store in Plano and bought beer while I was there.

At the time there were lobbyists camped in the parking lot, looking for people buying beer. They'd ask if the person was a Frisco resident, if they were a registered voter, and if so, they asked them to sign a petition to make beer and wine sales legal in Frisco, to be voted on in the next election.

I quickly changed my voter registration to Frisco. It was easy because the lobbyists gave me a voter registration card. Pre-stamped.

The law changed in 2002. One month later, the grocery store I used to shop at in Plano closed for business. Shortly after that, the crime rate went up in Frisco, but the tax money from beer and wine more than offset it.

And now I don't have to cross Highway 121 to buy beer, which is a huge relief because the route of Highway 121 forms the sigil odegra in the language of the Black Priesthood of Ancient Mu, and means "Hail the Great Beast, Devourer of Worlds." The thousands of motorists who daily fume their way around its serpentine lengths have the same effect as water on a prayer wheel, grinding out an endless fog of low-grade evil to pollute the metaphysical atmosphere for scores of miles around. It has taken years to achieve, and has involved three computer hacks, two break-ins, one minor bribery and, on one wet night when all else failed, two hours in a squelchy field shifting the marker pegs a few but occultly incridibly significant meters.

So we've got that to combat the puritans with, which is nice.