I love making up titles. Sometimes I twist around a post just to get at the title angle.
When I look back at those first two sentences, they seem like something Darrell Hammond as Sean Connery on SNL Celebrity Jeopardy would mangle in a most inappropriate manner. But that's just a happy accident.
There's one title that keeps harping at my subconscious. A title that has no concrete theme. But then, most of my writing starts out like that anyway. It's like making soup. You toss everything in a pot, let it simmer, and fine-tune it before serving. Which probably makes you vow never to try my soup. Or throw up a little bit in your mouth.
Here's the title that keeps yanking at its leash, chomping at the bit, revving its engine, tearing around the house like a cat given a taste of Aunt Polly's medicine by Master Tom Sawyer:
The Battle for Bitchin' Stadium
There are no Iron Chefs in this proposed story. Only me. And Hick. And our battle of wills over such bones of contention as towering bowls of soup, almond vs. stainless steel sinks, the clandestine washing of ONE dish, the spraying of Stove Top Stuffing like so much blown-in insulation, and the benefits of auction meat.
It's still coming together in my head. Still a gossamer web of culinary conflict. But it won't let me rest.
And wouldn't you know it? I have title block.