Yeah, yeah, yeah…I know that 99% of the people reading this already have a blog. And to those people, what I’m about to say will be 100% worthless.

But the fact remains that a number of VTB Chat Loungers and lurkers have not yet entered the 21st century. That’s right…they have no blogs of their own. We’ll call these people, “the Amish.”

And the Amish are simply not carrying their weight around here.

So…I’d like to briefly enlighten the Amish on how they can quickly, easily and *anonymously* create their own blogs.

Step 1: Go to www.blogger.com

Step 2: Click that big orange arrow that says something like “Create a Blog.

Step 3: Follow the instructions and you’ll have your own blog up and running in three minutes. Literally.

That’s it! A whole lot easier than driving a horse and buggy. And a lot less messy, too.

Have you ever found yourself wondering, “Why hasn’t Sal ever written about cocktails that are set on fire before drinking?”

Well, stop wondering…because now I have.

My scholarly dissertation on the flaming Galician cocktail called “Queimada” is now published in The Spirit World.

Check it out by clicking HERE.

Support for our proposed “2007 Expat Reunion”—which I hereby rename “Expatapalooza 2007,” per Pam’s suggestion—has been overwhelming.

So overwhelming, in fact, that I felt that the event needed its own song. So, I wrote one.

I mean, I wrote the lyrics. The music is lifted from the classic pinko folk song, “Little Boxes.”

Click the YouTube video above to familiarize yourself with the music. And then, start memorizing the new lyrics below.

Why? Because *everybody* attending Expatapalooza 2007 will be expected to sing along as Pam and I play our ukuleles.

Learn it!

Live it!

COCONUT!

We did it!

Through the magical, mystical forces of peace, love and COCONUT…the VTB Chat Lounge now has its very own Estonian!

Recall that in yesterday’s maiden voyage of the good ship, “Out That Lurker,” we made a desperate plea for the introverted Estonian who religiously checks this blog each day to step forward and join the party.

And he did!

Or she did.

Quite honestly, I’m still not sure about our new friend’s gender. But it really doesn’t matter, because most people in blog chat rooms don’t tell the truth, anyway.

So, let’s hear what our new friend has to say:

I’m sure that I speak for the entire VTB family–and of course I do, because I’m the dictator around here–when I say, “Tere tulemast!”

Anyone who can mention Hannibal Lecter, Fish Murderers and COCONUT in the same four-paragraph e-mail message is certainly welcomed with open arms and open wines bottles.

A “lurker” is a person who habitually reads a blog, but never comments.

In a sense, he’s the digital equivalent of that creepy guy behind the one-way mirror in a WalMart dressing room.

Now…in a perfect world, being a lurker here at the VTB should be a secure, relaxing activity—with said lurker being comfortably wrapped in the warm, cozy cloak of his own impenetrable anonymity.

But alas, the VTB world is far from perfect. Why? Because that little Site Meter box at the bottom of my blog knows all…and tells all.

What does it tell me?

Well…it tells me the city and country in which every reader of this VTB sits, how long was his visit, how many pages he viewed, and which Google search words got him here. And let me tell ya…that latter nugget of information can be pretty darn interesting. 😉

So…with that background information in hand, I am pleased to announce a new VTB segment called, “Out that Lurker!”

That’s right…every now and again, I am going “out” whichever lurker has grabbed my attention of late. And today’s outting victim is…

THAT GUY OR GIRL FROM TALLIN, HARJUMAA, ESTONIA!

Yeah, that’s right. I’m talking to *you*! Stop looking over your shoulder! There’s only one person from Estonia who ever reads my blog. So…if you’re reading this and there’s a snowmobile in your driveway with Estonian license plates, then congratulations! You’ve just been outted.

Now, get your ass over to the VTB Chat Lounge and introduce yourself. No need to give your name or political affiliation, but at least tell us what is your favorite candy bar and whether you have a tattoo.

And don’t worry if English isn’t your native language. Here at the VTB, we speak only the language of love.

And COCONUT!

I hate Sundays. I’ve hated them throughout my entire life.

I hated them as a kid, because it meant that my two sacred days of watching late night TV had ended.

I hated them as an adult living in the US, because it meant that I had to return to work the next morning—and, cruelly enough, it also meant that work-related stress would return right around bedtime.

But above all, I hate them in Spain. Why? Because a Sunday in Spain means that everything is closed and there is NOTHING to do.

It’s for this reason that I woke up this morning in a panic.

“Sunday! Nothing to do! Dangerous! Very dangerous!”

Believe me, folks—I really, REALLY don’t relax well. In fact, I can’t even begin to fathom what other people find so relaxing about relaxing.

My body tenses like an over-tuned violin string. My teeth start grinding like a mortar and pestle. And my mind starts wandering into neighborhoods where no mind ought to wander.

“Must occupy myself! Must occupy myself!” I cried as I leaped from bed and bounded down the staircase.

I started rifling through cabinets. I tore through magazine racks. I scanned the neighborhood for any signs of life. It was all for naught. Until…I opened the refrigerator door.

And there—staring me right in the face—were a leg of lamb, a whole chicken, a sweet potato and a COCONUT.

My trapezius softened. My head tilted back. I let out a long, drawn-out, quasi-orgasmic breath. And then—refocusing my gaze on those four objects sitting on the refrigerator shelf—I snarled, “You’re smoked!”

Enter The Salivator.

We all know the procedure by now. I fired up the charcoals (Minion Method, for those who are interested), and turned my attention toward prepping the food.

The first order of business was to name the meat. This is important, because Q’g can take anywhere from five to fifteen hours. And given that I live alone…I need someone or something to talk with during that long haul.

I named the leg of lamb “PATCHES” and the chicken “CORKY.” There was no need to name the other items, because—as we all know—lambs and chickens have a tendency to dominate conversations.

PATCHES had been marinading overnight in a mixture of one part Kikoman Soy Sauce and two parts vegetable oil. CORKY was in a brine of 6 T. table salt, 3/4 cup of sugar and 1 quart of water.

I removed and dried them both. I dusted PATCHES with a dry rub called “Magic Dust” (recipe can be found in the book “Peace, Love and Barbecue” by Mike Mills).

I washed the as-yet-unnamed sweet potato and jabbed it several times with a fork.

And then, I sawed the COCONUT in half. If you think sawing a COCONUT is easy, then think again. It took ten minutes and I’m damn lucky to have escaped with all my fingers.

I somehow squeezed all this food on The Salivator’s top grate, shoved a digital probe thermometer into PATCHES, and closed the lid.

And then I sat down, and commenced a conversation with PATCHES and CORKY that ran the gamut from middle-eastern politics…to animal husbandry…to the best method for making hats out of yarn and empty beer cans.

I removed the COCONUT after three hours—which was probably an hour too much, because it was a bit dry. But interesting, nonethless. Smoky COCONUT is very niiiice!

At hour four, CORKY’S breast was at 160F and her thigh was at 170F. Time for her to come off!

She was so beautiful, I almost didn’t want to shred her. But shred her I did, because CORKY gave her life so that my daughter can have chicken salad for dinner tomorrow night. Sorry, CORKER. I didn’t invent the food chain. I just follow it.

At hour four and a half, PATCHES hit 170F. He was drop-dead gorgeous. I wrapped him and the sweet potato in heavy-duty aluminum foil, and put them into an empty beer cooler. They sat in there for another hour…keeping toasty warm while PATCHES re-absorbed his juices.

Finally, I sliced and then chopped PATCHES into little bits, served him on Wonder bread and drizzled with an Owensboro, Kenucky-style “black sauce” (i.e., Worchester sauce, white vinegar, lemon juice, brown sugar and garlic).

And, so…I successfully navigated the pitfalls of another Sunday. All thanks to PATCHES, CORKY and COCONUT.

In case you’re wondering, I’m going to have a salad for dinner.

Congratulations to my much bigger little brother, FrankenFeet, for achieving his life’s dream.

For each of the last ten Novembers, he has travelled to Michigan to hunt deer…and returned with nothing more than a chest cold and a case of foot fungus.

But this year was different, he–to quote Ted Nugent–“whacked” two deer during his first morning. And one of them was a six-pointer.

[For the benefit of any confused Europeans reading this, feel free to write me privately and I’ll explain what a “six-pointer” means.]

Yes…most American families will sit-down next week to a Thanksgiving meal of roast turkey with stuffing.

But at FrankenFeet’s house, the menu will proudly feature roast venison with stuffing.

COCONUT stuffing!