A very wise, albeit fictional (and dead) man once posited, “What’s more chickenshit than fucking with a man’s automobile?” And while it was clearly intended as a rhetorical question, even a strongly worded one, it’s one I’ve found myself asking with similar vigor since this weekend.

All I wanted was to do my laundry. I woke up late Sunday morning with a bit of a headache and a scratchy throat, products not just of my trip to the (outstanding) Badger hockey game the night prior and the ensuing celebration, but also of the cold, rainy walk home at well-past bartime. My clothes lay piled in a sopping mess on the hardwood floor, and I felt inexplicably certain that if I washed and dried them, my headache would clear up too.

Fresh out of bed and plenty bamboozled, I went out to my car to grab the roll of quarters that had been riding in my center console since my trip to the bank earlier that week. The warm temps that had prompted the mid-January monsoon the night before were beginning to take a turn for the subfreezing, but everything was still fresh and wet.

I opened the car and right away saw the quarters weren’t where I thought I had left them, but climbed inside and tried to cipher my way out of the predicament anyway. I opened a few compartments and the glove box before determining this was a mystery best solved after I’d had my morning coffee. I locked the car back up and wandered inside, having lost the battle but not conceded the war.

After poking around inside to make sure I hadn’t already brought the ten-dollar roll of quarters inside, and with another half-hour of consciousness and two cups of double-black sharpening my senses, I returned to the car in the street. An initial inspection revealed that, nope, those quarters definitely were not in fact sitting in plain sight where I had (in hindsight, stupidly) left them. I rolled back the driver seat and scratched amid the clutter underneath, then opened the passenger side door to do the same.

But when I touched the passenger seat, I recoiled a little sickly. It was just as sodden as the pile of clothes on my floor inside (still waiting, still unwashed and undried). I shrugged it off at first, still preoccupied with the notion that I needed to find the damn quarters and everything else would fall into place, but when I touched it again, I realized that is was more than just wet. It was soaked, and not just the casual soaking one finds occasionally in an aging ragtop convertible either.

Utterly puzzled, I turned my eyes to the sky in search of answers, and my stomach sank.

Now, I don’t drive the finest automobile in the city of Madison. She’s nearing 190,000 miles, and the rickety, very occasionally leaky pushbutton convertible top stopped working within months of my purchasing the vehicle for what I assumed to be a steal at the time. She’s accumulated her fair share of dings, dents and scrapes in four years of full-contact parking on the mean streets of Madison, and the antenna is perpetually being broken off by drunks or sheered off by passing plows or bent sideways by supernatural forces that just seem to haunt material possessions that come under my ownership.

And don’t even get me started on the current state of her suspension.

But, damnit, there’s gotta be a line out there somewhere, and this crosses it. In spite of my slightly antagonistic relationship with this car, I’ve grown quite fond of it over the years. Not to mention I have neither the time, patience nor especially the money to sink into proper roof repairs, which the internet tells me could run a grand or two. Call me a poster child for the insurance industry, but there’s no way in hell you’d catch me carrying a comprehensive plan on a vehicle the resale value of which is at best quadruple the deductible I’d pay to fix this mess.

Of course, while all of this should have been occurring to me at the time, I was instead busy getting healthily enraged about the fact that all signs pointed to my not getting to do laundry on this particular Sunday. After a momentary introspective double-take, I straightened out my priorities and directed all my karmic indignation at the knife-wielding fucktard that had slashed the top on my ride.

With some quick detective work, I established a motive for the crime, simultaneously solving the mystery of the missing ten dollars in quarters and proving someone determined enough could unlock the door through the unconventionally converted top. I then formulated a working psychological profile of my perp, but quickly abandoned the exercise as fruitless when I realized I couldn’t conceivably go around punching homeless boozehounds and 14-year-old thugs until someone coughed up my change.

Instead, I put my mind to work inventing a scheme to prevent any more precipitation from penetrating the interior of the vehicle. This temporarily proved to be too much for my overstrained psyche to handle, so I went back inside, put my feet up, drank some more coffee and read some Douglas Adams.

An hour later, I went to the hardware store, and settled on a heavy canvas needle, some 20-pound-test fishing line, vinyl sealant and vinyl tape. Then I set up in the alleyway next to my house and got to work on what I’m affectionately calling the Frankencar.

I stitched her up satisfactorily, then slapped the sealant and tape over the repair work.

It ain’t pretty, but it’s only temporary and it seems to keep the elements out. It only has to last until it gets warm enough for me to do some more respectable repair work, or I trade the car in for an upgrade, or some further unspeakable act of Godforsaken fate finally kills my freakin’ car for good. So far it’s held one day and counting.

In the meantime, if you see some knife-wielding hoodlum doing laundry or playing games in an arcade with what seems to be suspicious enthusiasm, sock him in the gut for me. I’ve got my own laundry to do.

That’s it, I’m putting my foot down. I’ve had it with the teen-vampire craze, particularly the Twilight novels and movies. I propose an immediate Madison police policy of threatening any eyeliner-sporting pale-skinned guy with a wooden stake to the heart.

Think my reaction’s a little extreme? I bet you the jogger in this Madison police report would agree with me:

You read it here first — either some member of the lunatic fringe is convinced he’s a character in one of these crappy vampire stories that are suddenly everywhere, or the daywalkers are really among us. Either way, sound public policy dictates that we hunt down anyone who looks suspiciously emo, whose skin is just a bit too pale or whose clothing is too strategically disheveled, and we stake ‘em.

As for this poor jogger’s mystery assailant, I’ve rounded up the usual suspects and put together this lineup. Male? White? Twenty-something? Slender? Spiky brown hair? Gray T-shirt? Propensity to hiss? I think we have our suspect.

Stake 'em. All of 'em.

Democrat Louis Molepske, the state Assembly Representative from Stevens Point, gets my “Sconnie of the Week” award today — and deservedly so. It’s these little quirks in Wisconsinites that make the snow, the sleet and the cold all worthwhile.

Molepske’s Sconnie cred was on full display this afternoon when, in an interview with me on some legislation he’s drafting, he referred to a Chicago native as being “from Down South.” It made my day, because I do the same damn thing.

If you’re interested, Molepske is drafting a bill that would create more uniformity between the state’s drunken driving laws and drunken sporting laws. The DUI reform recently signed into law was a good step in tightening down on a flagrant problem, but Molepske wants to close what’s basically a blatant loophole.

If you’re convicted of DUI in Wisconsin, you’re written a traffic ticket — the first time. On second and subsequent offenses, you’ll face mounting misdemeanor and then felony charges, along with growing jail or prison sentences.

However, right now, if you’re caught driving a boat, a snowmobile or an ATV, even if you’re so drunk you can hardly sit upright, it’s just a ticket — every time. Those tickets are not counted against your driving record, they won’t get your driver’s license suspended and they don’t stop anyone from offending again.

Molepske wants to change that. Watch for this bill.

What started as a week off from the blog for the holidays turned into a month off, somehow. Yikes.

The blogging will resume next week. My apologies for the flighty attention span. There’s been a lot going on, and most of it has been exhausting.

Character flaws — I have my share. Among them, I can be boastful and I’m very, very, incredibly stubborn. But those factors combined do have an interesting side effect, and it’s both a blessing and a curse. I always follow through on a bet, no matter the level of inebriation nor the absurdity involved at the time of the wager.

Case in point my latest foray into the culinary dark arts: the Onion Dog. Before you pass judgment, let me explain how this aberration came to be, and my role in facilitating this process.

A crime against nature

For those of you keeping track at home, yes, you are in fact looking at an onion, pierced by seven hot dogs, wrapped in bacon, skewered and grilled. And yes, it’s perfectly natural to be repulsed by this. But no, I cannot take credit for the evil, maniacal genius needed to conjure such a thing out of the mind’s darkest recesses. That distinction goes to one Adam Schabow.

It must have been about a month ago now that Schabow’s band the Shabelles and the band I was drumming for at the time performed a moderately successful gig at the High Noon Saloon. Following the show, I invited members of both groups over to my place for the customary grilling of meat/imitation-meat-for-those-who-prefer and drinking of beer. Schabow attended, as did keys player Nate Tredinnick, and we consumed vast quantities of each commodity.

The coup de foudre of the evening occurred as Schabow was loading up yet another hot dog, heaping it with diced onions. When I commented on the abundance of his onions, he replied, “Man, I love onions on hot dogs so much. If I could just take a hot dog and, like, infuse it through an onion, I’d grill it and eat it like an apple.”

Nate was incredulous. He insisted Schabow’s idea had no grounding in reality whatsoever. When I pointed out it would be possible for one to use a drill to hollow a suitable-sized hole in an onion, he scoffed at the notion, claiming onions lacked the structural integrity to withstand that kind of manipulation.

I thought about it for a moment, putting my engineer’s-brain-two-generations-removed to work and turning the design around in my head, then remarked, “No, I bet if we drilled holes in it like the cylinder on a revolver, we could fit up to… five hot dogs in a good-sized onion.”

The gauntlet had been thrown. Schabow’s love of onions on hot dogs, Nate’s doubt and my lust to achieve the unachievable formed a perfect storm of male testosterone, and we established the terms of the bet. Nate refused to take odds in his favor, insisting ours was a fool’s errand, and ten dollars was established as the winning party’s take. I was to acquire three onions (for three attempts, though only one was needed), a power drill and a suitable bit, and we would reconvene at a date to be determined later.

I don’t know about the other guys, but I had no doubt in my mind the final showdown would occur. Eventually, we settled on last Saturday for a date with destiny.

For the record, a good-sized onion can hold five onions, drilled and mounted parallel to each other in a circle around the outer edge of the onion. In fact, a good-sized onion can hold  seven hot dogs if the holes are drilled precisely. While it’s a figure I’m sure can be topped, and I welcome anyone to try, I’m confident in saying seven was my best effort on that particular night. Between my rusty carpentry skills and the copious tears brought on by the powerful reek of onion hitting me like pepper spray from the project two feet in front of my face, I’m just happy to have completed it with all my fingers intact.

Drill, Baby, Drill!

Upon completion of the drilling, we stuffed the hot dogs into the onions. And then, because the project had suddenly taken on a vile and malevolent life of its own, we wrapped the newly formed “Onion Dogs” in bacon and skewered them for grilling. Then we sat back and wondered at the horrific abominations we had created.

Grill, Baby, Grill!

A very smart, albeit fictional, man once said, “Now I know what it feels like to be God!” And while my desire to see this project come to fruition was very powerful, it was similarly, purely academic. I didn’t actually want to eat the thing (though I felt obligated to try it), and I certainly wasn’t in it for my share of the ten dollars. I did know what a pieced-together, unnatural terror I was unleashing onto a very vulnerable world, and I simply didn’t care. I wanted to prove that it could be done, and I wanted to claim this ugly accomplishment as my own.

I don’t yet know if I will feel any remorse for what I did. There’s a muted sense of awe, coupled with a dash of perverse pride and a dollop of indigestion, but no remorse yet.

Awestruck

One thing’s for sure — witnessing the genesis of the Onion Dog had a profound effect on everyone who was present. I watched the color gradually drain from Nate’s face as the project progressed. I think it had more to do with his sense of right and wrong than it did with his vegetarianism or his fear of losing ten dollars. Reem was so appalled, she documented the whole thing and posted it for the world to see on her blog, to which I owe credit for these lovely pictures I borrowed (Thank you!). Others in the room expressed varying degrees of discomfort or nausea.

And of course Schabow documented the whole thing on video. If you gird your loins and say a little oath, you can watch the complete genesis of the Onion Dog at Dane101.

So, I guess if there’s a moral to this story (and rest assured morals were not used judiciously in the creation of the Onion Dog), it’s that I don’t make a bet I can’t win. And I always follow through.

Finally, since I know everyone is headed home for the holidays and it’s often necessary to bring a dish to pass, here is the recipe for the Onion Dog. Use it responsibly.

Madison Onion Dogs

1        Good-sized Onion

5-7   Bun-length hot dogs

2        Strips of bacon

1        Pat of butter (optional)

1        Kebab skewer stick

1        Power drill with 13/16″ wood drill bit

Barbecue sauce, ketchup or other condiments as desired

1. Peel outer layer from onion. Use drill to make 5-7 parallel holes through the onion, making a ring around its outer edge.
2. Insert hot dogs into holes, using butter if necessary as lubricant.
3. Wrap the onion in bacon, and secure with the kebab skewer
4. Grill for 20-30 minutes, keeping hot dogs perpendicular to the flames and turning every five minutes.
5. Brush with barbecue sauce or dip in ketchup. Have a friend or family member dial nine and one on the phone, then stand-by. Eat as you would an apple.
6. Dusty Weis and Adam Schabow are not responsible for stroke, heart failure, stomach rupture or brain explosion (from sheer terror) associated with the consumption of the Onion Dog.

Happy holidays, everyone!