Help us grow our following and stay up to date on all the latest BBQ Outlaw news! I used one this afternoon to hold my single barrel John J. Bowman bourbon from A.
Smith Bowman Distillery while blowing leaves. Call us at - - to order some of our favorite local products for curbside pickup. Today, we are open from 10 am - 5 pm. Brisket 2 is on. This is a A lot of people ask us for recommendations about cookers, so we like to be familiar with the different types and try out the newest models. I'm a big fan of Weber grills and smokers in general, so I was excited when they announced the new series of SmokeFire pellet grills last Fall.
They finally shipped the first batch last week, and I was lucky enough to score the first one that arrived at Twins Ace Hardware - Fairfax. Below is my post from my first brisket cook today. I'm definitely impressed. I'm very happy with my first brisket on the new Weber EX6 pellet grill. Out in the dining hall the tables had all been set, though not a single soul was present eating.
Above his table was a mural of the last supper, though the head of Jesus Christ had been crudely slashed out, and the word Penniless had been etched on his forehead. That you! Nancy sat across from Lanius, elegantly sweeping up his napkin and placing it on his lap. Nancy grinned from ear to ear, two stainless rows of white teeth simmering under the candlelight that lit the room from on high; his eyes encapsulated a wildfire, spread out across the entire southern Unites States.
Nancy had long side burns running along the outskirts of his cheeks; his hair shaved all but down the middle of his head, where his hair became loose and fluffy, necessitating it be slicked back or fear obscuring his vision. His left leg crossed over his right, showing off a pair of crisp, brown leather shoes that looked like they were ripped straight from the Kongo.
Made from what looked to be the most expensive silk ever devised by man, Mr. Nancy was clad in a purple, green, and red checkered suit, with a pink pocket square; purple tie, and a white and blue undershirt with the collar turned up. Ha, ha. You seem… distraught. He was unable to tell whether or not Nancy was probing him about the meat locker, or if he actually cared. Either way, Nancy wasn't the type to favor dissent.
This time it had been a Zeppelin, last time it had been a battleship. Though where, in the middle of a desert, he would have any use for a battleship, was undisclosed information. Honesty is such a… rare, commodity these days. To each other, to themselves. And it. I know honesty can hurt monster, but lies, lies are just a cleaner form of suicide. A waiter than came over with two sparkling glasses and a bottle of white German wine.
Lanius clinked their glasses together. Not a damn thing. He is not vi-o-lent, for the sake of vi-o-lence. None of this, pacifist, nonviolence bullshit. Those who are, incapable! Nancy was talking about beginning to blur. Inclining to believe him is, like trusting a crying crocodile. You should never put your faith in blind men, they are destined to lead you astray.
Have some sympathy, oh yes! Taste has become a matter of, objectivity. Take the room we are sitting in. I do so enjoy some, flair.
How boring would life be without a little, excitement, every now and than? However, he just couldn't bring himself to do it. We ain't in no fucking church boy! This ain't no Sunday fucking mass! We are not working out of a goddamn red cross chapter! Stalin didn't run the fucking lollipop guild! Kindness got us absolutely fucking nowhere! And it was NOT! But what I have found, is that hatred, is a unifying force that no amount of love and friendship can break.
Kindness is an uphill battle of endless attrition, one that neither of US can win. Nancy holstered his pistol and straightened out his suit; sitting back down and nonchalantly taking a sip of his wine.
It all used to mean something. The Strip used to mean something. You just stood by and watched, and sulked, you never said, or did, a goddamn thing to stop any of it! You see that, that brother, is your fucking problem. Your taking all of this too fucking personally! Life isn't about you! You want to talk about meaning.
The meaning ain't never changed. It has, and it always be, about, making money. Motherfucker wants to get rich! Money, they make money. Be content! A gift for the object of your undying affection. Nancy snapped his fingers and had a suitcase brought out to him by one of the Paddy-Whackers.
As Lanius serpentined in between the uniform tables and chairs of the Gourmand, Mr. History is being written- right here! Make sure your on the right side of it! On the side of the road was a young couple and their two boys. The father had waved them down and beseeched them for assistance in restoring their car to drivable condition. Gustavo had insisted they comply, making pleasant and idle conversation while Lanius went to work on the engine.
Within minutes the car was made road worthy, and when the mother went to give Gustavo a hundred dollar bill, he had declined. The mother thought this meant he wanted more, so she took out another fifty. Gustavo turned that down as well, stating that for the repairs, he would accept no money.
Instead, he wanted the family to remember this kindness, and bestow it upon someone else worthy of it in the future. As the family had drove off, Gustavo had waved and smiled merrily. Once they had got back in the car, Lanius commended Gustavo, as he himself would have absentmindedly just taken the cash. If you have a gun, you can rob a bank.
But if you have a bank, you can rob anyone. He just did, so he drove on. Never once second guessing the man siting next to him. Never once questioning a thing that he did. Lanius had taken every word that Gustavo said as Gospel. When Lanius had first glimpsed it, walking down the Lonesome Road from Boulder City, his mind ached with the possibilities that could await him inside.
The future had held a realm of infinite possibilities. Two remained. Neither sounded all too preferable over the other, and either way Lanius knew that eternal damnation was waiting for him at the end of the Lonesome Road, so it didn't so much matter how he got there, only how soon.
Walking past The Tops casino, Lanius felt a catch in his throat, remembering all too vividly how petty their actions had been. He supposed Nancy had been right about that, Gustavo couldn't care less whether he ate out of a five star restaurant or the trash; whether he wore fancy suits or rags; whether he lived out of a paper box or a mansion. None of it was consequential to him. Next Lanius passed by Gomorrah, and Mr. That time had long passed. House had run The Strip for decades like a pristine clock.
It had never looked so difficult from the outside; twist a few gears, polish a few knobs, dust for cobwebs once or twice a year. How hard could it really be? Gustavo was a remarkable business man, and surely he could keep a simple clock running. In retrospect, Lanius concluded that The Strip was destined to fail. It was almost as inevitable, if not more so, than the sun rising in the east and setting in the west.
Though as Lanius came to this realization, he couldn't help but immediately begin pondering who would wind up taking the fall for it all. It certainly wouldn't be Gustavo. Maybe it would be Le Quack. Maybe it would be Nancy. Maybe it would be him. Whoever it was wouldn't change the fact that come the next sit down, there would be quite a few smug faces around the table, all glaring at Gustavo with unparalleled derision.
Upon finally arriving at the Lucky 38, Lanius stood for a long moment just staring up at the tacky, red and black neon sign that hung above the entrance like a parasitical viper, just waiting for someone like him to walk under it. No one would even notice. However, when Lanius did finally muster up enough willpower to enter the Lucky 38, no cosmic anvils descended from on high, as Lanius had no more life left to give to the preverbal snake.
By comparison to Mr. Nancy's acid trip though wonderland, the Lucky 38 was relatively bland. Nothing stood outright to bring offense to the ocular senses, and were it not for the man rhythmically tapping his fingers in the high castle, the Lucky 38 would be the safest place on the entire Strip. At the hour of a quarter past eight, the Lucky 38 was firing on all cylinders. Guests bustled around cheering at the roulette table and booing at the blackjack table; drinking from tall frothy mugs fashioned with tiny little orange umbrellas for dexterity.
Lanius had never quite understood the fascination with gambling, which given where he worked was probably a bit disingenuous. Lanius was well aware of why people gambled, he just never understood why they were so passive aggressive about it. Debt was all some people had. At least, Lanius assumed it had to be, otherwise an extreme allergy to maintaining some small semblance of wealth was the only alternative.
Lanius had never seen a man win anything more than a hundred dollars and not immediately lose it. A tournament had once been held at the Lucky Some prepubescent kid, probably fresh out of college, had won almost three hundred thousand dollars. Lanius had wanted nothing more than to tell the kid to cash out then, while he still could. Later that night, Lanius had been woken up at about four in the morning to find out the kid had tried to break into the vault.
He hadn't made it but ten feet before Vulpes Inculta, the only person breathing six feet above ground that gave Le Quack and maybe even Gustavo nightmares, threw him to the ground and snapped both his legs back like they were toothpicks.
Vulpes had found the whole experience delightfully charming. Lanius walked up to Victor, the cowboy, complete with red scarf, straw hat, and tangy, deep fried southern accent, and handed him the briefcase. I will not let he r see me like that. Got it, partner? Which wasn't long, as he abruptly found himself encompassed in the warm embrace of dazzling wings. Making my way back to you.
The soft taste of cherries was almost more than his meager heart could bare. Lanius stood stock-still, the entire lounge seemingly stopping under a sheet of invisible ice. We have no idea what any of your fancy latin words mean. The little one wrapped her hand tightly around his, kissing him lightly on the cheek.
The answer to that question was unequivocally, no. Lanius was in no way, shape, or materialistic form, okay. By any standard or definition he was the complete and utter opposite. The angel perched next to him, with her halo glowing brighter than the sun at midday, deserved to be lied to.
Were she to know the truth, that halo would turn pitch black and promptly fall to the ground and shatter into a million pieces. Lanius couldn't let that happen. A world where that halo didn't exist was a world that Lanius would no longer be able to draw breath in. It wasn't even a very convincing lie, at least to himself.
The little one seemed to buy it though, for the time being at least. Or, perhaps, not always. The Lonesome Road was one of them. For just a beat, he was convinced that he was still a good person. See the end of the chapter for notes.
From the New Vegas Strip the road to Nipton isn't that long. A few mile markers due southwest and your there, not even a little worse for wear, you don't even have to talk to anybody, because the road to Nipton is as barren as the wasteland that runs alongside it. Legate Lanius had resolved, in an unusual spur of the moment decision-left or right as it were- to traverse the road to Nipton by foot.
Sometimes, the thick Mojave air just does wonders for the soul. Silence always had something interesting to say. Silence is always courteous, always sympathetic, and always tasteful, as Lanius was sure Mr. Nancy would agree. Mile marker ninety five had a dent in it towards the northeast quadrant, and Lanius took a reprieve to stand mystified looking at it. The strangest things tended to spark his curiosity. Who would punch a mile marker? So Lanius kept walking down the road to Nipton.
A few stray coke bottles drifted past him, rolling across the road in a John Wayne western type fashion, like just off to the left somewhere a documentary was being made about the last of the coke bottles, who may or may not dance with Pepsi bottles. Lanius never did. We Open In Venice , was the title. Vinny said that, if Lanius wanted, he could join him.
It'll treat you right. Mark my words. As the coke bottles disappeared beneath the sand and ruin, Lanius felt the overwhelming sensation that he was the King of the Road, and that was a lot of responsibility for just one guy. Coming up on mile marker ninety four, Lanius noticed a four leaf clover spray painted onto the asphalt, with a little message beneath it that read: Free drinks that a way.
There was an arrow below the message pointing towards Nipton. Lanius figured, seeing as how he was already headed that a way anyhow, he might as well follow the sign. The free drinks were a lie, he surmised, nothing out in the Mojave was ever truly free.
Another marker came up on his left, this time not indicating a mile, but rather that, should he veer from his current course and move eastward, he could pay a visit to Hoover Dam. Lanius had been to Hoover Dam before. Saw a man coated in pitch and feathers before being set on fire and thrown off Hoover Dam. He had no desire to go back, not that his desires amounted to much by the way of net worth.
Don Gustavo had designated the dam as the sight for the next sit down. The Don was flying in some of his Pacific Island contacts, a group of privateers one notch in the morality for hire belt away from being a full fledged private military company.
They oversaw a mining contract that seemed to sink more money into the earth than it spit out diamond encrusted ores. It was all run by a man named Hoyt Vulgar, or maybe it was Volker, his accent was hard to pin down as it seemed to, at any given moment, take a walking tour of the entire United Kingdom. All those conveniently ethnic types that couldn't speak a word of the English language shackled in the hull of his commercial cruise liner stood out, but of course, Hoyt hadn't the faintest idea how they could have possibly gotten in there.
Or so he swore on the graves of his unborn children. Hoyt took to standing before his accusers with a shocked expression on his face that was manufactured on a conveyor belt in the middle of some market place in Singapore, that Hoyt had absolutely no affiliation with what so ever.
Despite his name being on all the paperwork, and his face being plastered on every wall in what had to be the most egregious display of homemade, workplace propaganda ever constructed in the timeframe of human existence. Hoyt didn't even try, yet it worked for Gustavo, because his product was universal. That was good, universal was good, because universal made money no matter the border. Just like a contact lens.
Mile marker ninety three had Lanius staring down the barrel of smoke and ash, raining down from black clouds above the town of Nipton. He had only ever been to the town once before, and only in passing. Nipton was a small town, a different kind of small compared to Barclay Mills. Where Barclay had more people and not enough places to store them, Nipton had too much space and not enough people to fill it. As Lanius sat, cigarette perched between his thumb and index finger, he closed his eyes, and took it all in.
He came upon a large pole used to connect telephone wires, and stapled to every square inch was a poster asking if Lanius had seen a man named Quentin.
Quentin was about five nine, fifty one years old, had a slowly receding grayish black hairline, and bright hazel eyes. Below the description and chalky sketch of Quentin, was a phone number. Across the street from the parlor was a payphone. Lanius looked back towards his Uncle Vinny, who was in the process of adding a a sizable amount of sprinkles, enough to make even the likes of Pablo Escobar tell him to slow down a little, to a cone of mint chocolate chip ice-cream.
Then Lanius looked back at the poster, and the payphone. Just as Vinny slid Alexander Hamilton across the counter of the parlor, Lanius tore the poster from the large pole used to connect telephone wires, crumpled it up, and tossed it in the garbage.
In front of the town hall were two bits of wood, methodically erected together to resemble a cross. Lanius deduced that from the fire kissed beard and the coal dust under his finger nails, that whoever this man may have been, he was an Irishman at heart. Not that it mattered much anymore. Though there was still an indistinguishable expression lingering on his face beneath all the grime and blood stained tears: he had thought the drinks were real.
When he was younger his dad had probably lifted him on his shoulders and sold him a ticket to the moon. His mom had probably told him everyday that he was special, and that he was destined to do great things.
Vinny had once told Lanius that the worst word in the English language was: S. Vulpes was hunched over, holding her knees to keep them steady, laughing so hard Lanius thought she might pop a vein. The laughter was immediately cut, as if it had been running on a track. The kind that didn't have anesthesia, but a whole lot of whisky, and damn fine whisky at that. Her hand rummaged around in the rubble.
She was humming something, a song, and Lanius couldn't quite make it out. When he graduated from high school, Vinny had taken him out to dinner. It was some real fancy I-talian restaurant with a guy to take your coat as you walked in and a guy to shake it after you pissed. The waiter presented Vinny with a choice between red and white, and he choose red, then the waiter snapped his fingers. The entire wine cellar was seemingly rolled out to the table, and it took Vinny a moment to pick out the perfect bottle: an Opus one, a blend Lanius recalled, aged to perfection over almost half a decade.
The waiter filled their glasses to the brim. The man who was, and at the same time was not, Dino, snapped his fingers. Then came the realization that he was falling over.
There was a brick within a few inches of his periphery, coated in what he could only imagine was his blood. Vulpes towered over him. Vulpes took a silver pocket watch from around her neck. Whaddya hear, whaddya say? He saw only a dulling ebony blur: vultures. He outstretched both his arms and pushed himself up, salt and grain boiling in between his fingers.
His mask fell to the earth amidst a fit of blood splattered coughing and desperate, eleventh hour gasps for air that seemed to exist in another plane of existence, opposite the one in which Lanius found himself unpleasantly residing in. Vulpes sneered imperialistically, wiping away the minute film of sweat along the bridge of her nose. Lanius rested on his knees, staring down Vulpes as defiantly as one would a firing squad-she found that rather quaint.
Lanius experienced a strange amount of difficulty in being able to discern whether or not the spider pitter pattering along his spine was going to, or from, Vulpes. To , meant that every putrid word dripping from her sparkling, clear lips held no more meaning than the spit of a leper. While from , meant that every putrid word dripping from her sparkling, clear lips should be chiseled down on a stone tablet and submitted to the Vatican as pure, unadulterated gospel.
While Vulpes could be branded a great many things, sparkling and clear stood out in a rather peculiar fashion under the light she painted herself, a leper or figure of the cloth suffered a tremendous strain clicking into place. Lanius felt every blood cell in his head rush down to just below his ankles, like they were fleeing an impending strike of bright, sparkling clear lightning. Some small, and some large.
Vulpes Inculta left what at one time, seemingly ages ago back before man possessed the ability to wield fire, appeared in passing to be the town of Nipton. Her only parting sentiment a snicker.
He carried himself north, back to the New Vegas Strip; past mile maker ninety four, and the invitation to once again visit Hoover Dam, and maybe do a few people a favor and kindly jump off it; past mile marker ninety five, and the gas station that only served to remind Lanius it had been nearly five hours since a single drop of water had relinquished the thirst currently pulling a coup on his oppressive ability to see, think, and walk straight.
Vinny sat across from him, grazing over the paper, swearing indiscriminately in a hushed whisper upon reaching the sports section. Which Stephano did, Vinny assured, and like a proper man, didn't even break a sweat. Vinny closed the paper and yawned, tapping on the frosted window of the train. Tastes like lukewarm piss. With the sliding door to the breakfast car in arms reach, Lanius went to open it, only to be staggered back as it was abruptly ripped open from the other side.
Or whatever the fuck your supposed to be. Holy Roman Empire fell two goddamn centuries ago and yet here you are, looking like an abominable twat, esquire. The train to Arstotzka left four hours ago. Behind Buck was a medium sized cargo truck stuffed full of T. You should bottle the stuff up, sell it over the counter like vitamins. You some kind of communist? He looked at Buck, and his teeth were far too clean for there not to be a six inch serrated blade in his back pocket. Lanius took the case in one dry cracked hand, and wiped the grain from his hair with the other.
Vinny had always wanted to go to Venice, and so did Lanius. It sounded perfect. Maybe a little too perfect, but that was alright. Lanius sat in a near empty terminal at LAX when he got a call.
Uncle Vinny had a heart attack. I want to give a shout out to my own incredibly I-talian uncle for giving me the inspiration for this chapter. How sweet the sound. That saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see. The view from the Presidential Suite of the Lucky 38 wasn't that bad, and Lanius didn't want it ever to be said that he didn't give credit where credit was due.
From on high the Mojave Wasteland looked like the contents of a snow globe, except one filled with little grains of sand and not cutup Styrofoam.
Lanius wondered what it would be like to shake the Mojave. To watch all the sand go flying up towards the sky and then come crashing down in a hailstorm. He wondered what lay buried beneath that wide, far as the eye could dare to comprehend, abyss.
They are over-produced. The judges play archetypes and the contestants seem to be chosen for viewership. The judging truly seems to be more realistic in terms of setting the rappers up for success whether they make it big or not.
It shines an authentic light on the background of where hip hop and rap are born and celebrated all over the country as well as how it is deeply woven in the pockets of urban neighborhoods. Social injustice and layers of oppression squeeze the folds of society with a heightened sense. What D Smoke provides is not an answer to injustice, but an expression and release in the form of conscious rap joining the likes of Common, Kendrick Lamar, Kanye West, Chance the Rapper and more.
But at the heart of it all? Growing up in Inglewood he explains the amount of oppression his city feels. Andre In an interview with Vibe, he explained why he stopped using drugs around that time. I actually looked in the mirror and saw myself deteriorating. Way too much. Christian-rapper Lecrae refrains from smoking and drinking, yet that has not always been the case.
I was out there. Iggy Azalea. In an interview with EntertainmentWise. Young Chop. Macklemore has struggled with remaining sober his whole life. In a recent interview with MTV, the platinum-selling rapper revealed he developed a drinking problem at the age of thirteen. In his past, oxycontin and syrup have caused him near-death experiences. Eminem has been sober since April of In his younger years, Eminem had a serious pill-popping addiction, something which is generally well-known if you're a fan of the MC.
In he experienced a near-fatal methadone overdose.Tracks 21 & 22 are by a different band named Smoke (39) with no connection to the Geoff Gill-Mal Luker-Mick Rowley-Zeke Lund group. The liner notes contain a number of discographical and historical errors, attributing recordings made by other artists with similar names to this act.