Tomorrow morning, during FirstNews, I will be doing the weather from the American Royal Barbecue! It is always a great way to start a Friday...one of those times you may wish there really was such a thing as "smell-o-vision." (Believe me, most mornings be happy that feature doesn't exist.) I admire the men and women who are able to create such delectables on the grill. You see, I must confess, I've never been a very good BBQ guy. In fact, just about anything with fire is a problem for me...that, plus the fact that I'm a gourmet the way a duck is a biochemist, makes my culinary efforts borderline dangerous.

One of the biggest problems for me regarding barbecuing is getting the fire going. I have never been able to do it. In fact, my abilities in this regard are so lacking that even Jim Morrison wouldn't ask me to light his fire. If fate had required me to be the caveman who discovered it in the first place, we'd still be in the ice age having to watch TV in total darkness...instead of Alley Oop, I'd be Alley Oops! Even fireplaces are problematic. When my wife and I first had a house with a fireplace, I decided to use the gas starter to get a little holiday hearth action going. Well, I started the gas too early and lit the match too late. I heard a "whoosh" and the next thing I knew I was about four feet from the fireplace with singed eyebrows and toasted bangs. I didn't have to shave for about eight months. I looked a little bit like a homely seal. I was very lucky it wasn't worse but it did scare me away from fireplaces for awhile. The next time I tried to start it the old fashioned way with paper, kindling and logs. I know I had the flu open, but all the smoke still came into the living room. If I was in charge at the Vatican, there'd never be a new Pope. It got so thick in the house it was like walking through the streets of 19th century London. In fact, I'm pretty sure I saw Nigel Rathbone stealing cheese curds from the fridge. After this second fireplace fiasco, I was asked by officials of the EPA to cease and desist.

Getting a pile of charcoal to start outside...in the wind...with so many little vents on the grill which I have no idea how to use...is nearly impossible for me. I am a huge failure in the manly art of grilling and an embarrassment to the memory of my father. He once told me that the only way he could imagine me successfully having steak on the grill is if I hit a cow with my car. He was a master on the patio. He could get a fire started just by looking at the coals. Then, using Sundrop (a lemon-lime soda pop) and paprika, he created chicken that would've made Colonel Sanders drop his tail-feathers. I'm not sure what the secret to his success was but I always thought it had to do with the paprika. It seems just saying the word "paprika" makes you seem like a good cook. Paprika seems to make almost anything more palatable. I even sprinkle it on the weather computers when I get in every morning in hopes of spicing up my forecast. (I used to use the Sundrop, too, but I kept shorting out the machinery.)

Despite my genetic predisposition to a-one grilling, I fail to get a good, hot fire going. There are few things as sad and demoralizing as making the walk from the grill back inside to the microwave carrying a plate of cold wieners. Sure, they have the little grill marks on them because the grill is filthy but they are chilly dogs. They look like tiny, tubular convicts taking that last mile. Even when I get a briquette (or is that brickette?) to light, it burns cold! Once I thought I'd finally gotten a real roaster going...we put the poultry on and closed the lid. When I returned, the birds were actually wearing coats and scarves. It was like the March of the Penquins in there.

When we go to a cabin, my wife insists on starting an outdoor fire and making s'mores. Frankly, I am willing to shove a Hershey Bar, four marshmallows and two graham crackers in my mouth and then wait for a warm day, but she says it's not the same. The first, and only, time I tried to start one of these mini-bonfires, the only thing that got burned up was my family's patience. All around us at the campground, you could hear the other peoples' fires crackling and smell the goodies roasting. Meanwhile, I was sitting on the ground with a pile of matches and a DuraFlame log that was, I swear, laughing at me.

I can't really blame the equipment. We have a decent grill...everytime you open it you hear Memr'y from Cats! It's an Andrew Lloyd Weber Grill. In fact, we got a new grill for our second son's 15th birthday last year. It was what he wanted. He's an odd boy. His grandparents gave him a collection of grilling utensils that look just plain dangerous. In fact, they are WMDs...Weapons of Mass Deliciousness. The simple truth is, just as my father could BBQ...now, my son can BBQ. But I still can't BBQ. And, I know, by some accounts that makes me a little weak in the Macho Man sweepstakes. That's why I love going to the American Royal Barbecue, like I will tomorrow morning. For the rest of the day, I will walk around smelling like I know what I'm doing when it comes to outdoor cooking. Women will swoon...small children will stare at me in awe...men will want to shake my hand. For one day a year, I am a major-league BBQ guy. I smell...therefore, I am!