BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Once upon a time, many, many severals of bunches of years ago, when I was but a “baby author,” I had this bizarre experience. This is not to say that I don’t have bizarre experiences now, because I do. In fact, I have experiences these days that are even more bizarre than they were back then, but hey, we aren’t here to talk about today. We’re here to talk about yesterday. No, not the Beatles song… No, not the Tommy Shaw – Jack Blades song either.

Sheesh… And y’all claim that I’m the one who chases random chickens. Maybe you need to look in a mirror, ya’know?

Anywho, let’s get back to the story… Way back umpteen years ago, I was scheduled to appear at a local Science Fiction and Fantasy Convention. It was called, Name That Con. Yeah, a little weird, especially since folks would submit names for it and a winner would be selected, but they would still called it Name That Con. Not the winning name.  Not any other name. Just Name That Con. I kinda think maybe they should have just called it, This Is The Name Of This Con, or something of that sort… But I digress. Sort of…

You see, being a new kid on the block as authors go, exposure was the thing, and I was out to get myself a big ol’ slice. Unfortunately, I wasn’t doing a very good job of pacing myself. I would arrive early, stay late, and volunteer to fill in on panels wherever needed, all in the name of getting my… well… name, out there to folks. It’s what you’re supposed to do. But, as I said, I wasn’t really pacing myself. These days I’m a lot older, and slightly wiser – but only slightly. I pace myself quite a bit. In fact, when at a convention when I am not at a panel or autograph session where I am scheduled to be, I can usually be found in the hotel bar – Yes… Pacing myself.

So anyway, Saturday afternoon rolled around and there I was, sitting in the lobby next to the registration tables, signing books for all three or four of my adoring fans. Actually, there were a few more than that, but remember, I was new on the scene, so while LKH, who was immediately before me, had a line around the block, I had not quite as many. No worries. I’ve been working to change that, with a modicum of success.

But, anyway, there I was. I had already been going full tilt since Friday afternoon and I wasn’t done yet. As if that wasn’t enough, about an hour or so after my book signing was supposed to end, I was scheduled to be at Union Station downtown (the con was being held at a hotel out in the burbs) in order to be a guest on a paranormal radio show called, Shaowworlds. (Good show… Too bad it’s not around anymore. I was on there a few times actually, but this particular instance was the first.)

And so, the book signing ended, and I milled around the lobby of the hotel for a bit, chit chatting with my publicist/personal assistant Scott (aka Chunkee), who was ferrying me about and making sure I was where I needed to be, when I needed to be, and how I needed to be.

This is when things started to go South. By that I mean I was suddenly approached by Vampirella…

Now, given that this was a Sci-Fi/Fantasy Con, you would probably surmise that I am talking about a long-legged, buxom, raven haired beauty with crimson lips and sharp fangs, who is wearing a skimpy costume. After all, costuming and SF Cons go hand in hand. And, had this been the case, things probably wouldn’t have gone South [it would have (insert your own gratuitous erection inference here)], provided I kept in mind that I was a married man.

However, this was not the case. Not about the married man part.  I mean about the babe in a vampire costume part. You see, the Vampirella in question was none other than a lovely young lady who worked in some capacity or another for the Red Cross. It seems the convention was running a blood drive and they were behind in their goal of 12 Quadrazillion Pints of bodily fluid extraction.

And so, Vampirella cajoled and charmed me into surrendering a pint of the red stuff. I have to say, she was a hell of a salesperson, or, ummm, whatever-person I guess, because she wasn’t even a redhead, nor was she wearing leather and stilettos – therefore I really had no reason to fall for her pitch. However, being younger, less wise, and not pacing myself, I agreed to the exchange – blood for cookies and OJ (In retrospect, that must have been how she roped me into this whole thing.) So, off to the Blood Mobile I went, promising my publicist that I would most certainly be finished in time to make it to the radio station. Why would I make such a promise? Well, because Vampirella told me I would be.

After signing the paperwork, getting poked, prodded, stuck, interviewed, inspected, detected, and otherwise abused by Vampirella’s assistants in the traveling exsanguination chamber, I was directed over to a cot and told to lay down. Soon after that, Vampirella’s chief henchwoman, we’ll call her Hildegard Renfield for lack of a better name, wrapped a bungee cord around my arm fourteen times, slapped me repeatedly, then drove a hollow railroad spike into the same arm, and attached a garden hose to it. As the precious red fluid drained from my person, she began to serenade me with a litany of things I was not allowed to do for the next 12 to 24 hours. Honestly, had she been a redhead I would have thought it was just another day at home with The Evil One, but she wasn’t, so I didn’t.

Still with me on that one? Good, because I almost lost myself there in that last turn…

So anyway, as Hildegard Renfield neared the end of this list, she informed me that I was not to drink any alcohol for at least 12 hours. Now, this might not seem like a big deal to you, but I’m an author. Alcohol and coffee are pretty much what keep me going, and for very good reason. Therefore, I said to her, “Wait. What do you mean no alcohol?”

“No alcoholic beverages,” she replied.

Being the sarcastic ass that I am I said, “Honey. I’m a fiction author. I require alcohol in order to function.”

“Why?” she asked, obviously puzzled.

“To stop the voices in my head so I can get some sleep, that’s why,” I told her.

This didn’t seem to convince her. It didn’t seem to amuse her either. No big surprise, I don’t guess. After all, she’s like some kind of undead assistant to the undead or some such. Although, I don’t remember seeing her eat any bugs, so who knows…

So, I asked, “What’s the deal anyway? Wouldn’t I just get drunk quicker?”

“Yes. Exactly,” she replied.

“Well hell, that’s a good thing,” I announced so everyone could hear. “I can get trashed and it’ll only cost me half as much.”

“But, you can’t do that,” Hildegard replied.

“Why not?”

“You just can’t.”

“Whaddaya mean?” I pressed. “Are the blood police going to come and arrest me or something?”

The lady being exsanguinated across the aisle from me thought this was hilarious. Hildegard, not so much, nor did she have a reply.

Eventually, when I was officially a pint low (although, I still maintain that she took an entire quart), the railroad spike was removed from my arm, I was patched up with an Amazing Spiderman band-aid, and I got 1/16th of an ounce of orange juice along with some cookie crumbs as they booted me out the back door and right smack into my publicist who was standing at the bottom of the fold out  stairs…

Vampirella, however, was nowhere to be seen. Seems she had already crawled back into her coffin.

More to come…

Murv

To Be Continued With: Is This Thing On?

For the title of this blog entry to actually make any sense, we really need to jump into the “wayback machine” and set the dial for 2008.

Well… I suppose that would technically make it a “recent back” or maybe “near back” machine…

Suffice it to say, we have to take a short jaunt back in time.

Ready?

Okay, here we go…

Kerchunk, flumminerp! Glorp. Chonk. Chonk. Glorp.

And, here we are…

In 2008 I attended a wonderful little gathering called “OstaraFest.” It was held in Killeen / Fort Hood, Texas, and sponsored by Sisters of the Earth and Sea, a fantastic little spirituality store there in town. The owners, Joyce and Lolly, brought Morrison and me in for the event, and were not only by proxy, but by self-assignation, our handlers. This meant Joyce took care of Morrison, and Lolly took care of me – as in, seeing to it I was where I needed to be when I needed to be there, that I had a ride to and from the hotel, and very importantly, that I ate.

This is where the fun began. So much was happening at the 1 day festival proper, that Lolly forgot to “feed me.” Not for the whole event, mind you. Just lunch on Saturday during the event. It was really a comedy of errors to be sure, as it went something like this –

Lolly: “Murv, have you eaten yet?”

Me: “No, but I’m giving a workshop in 5 minutes.”

Lolly: “I’ll get you some lunch as soon as you are finished.”

2 hours later…

Lolly: “Murv, have you eaten yet?”

Me: “No, but I’m giving a workshop in 5 minutes.”

Lolly: “I’ll get you some lunch as soon as you are finished.”

2 hours later…

Lolly: “Murv, have you eaten yet?”

Me: “Nope…”

Lolly: “Ummm… the vendors ran out of food.”

In all honesty, it wasn’t a big deal. Seriously. I hadn’t even thought about eating, plus I’m a fat guy. I could probably go for a week without food, no worries. Still, the entire debacle became a running joke.

Back into the “way-near-back-forward machine” we go…

Prolg. Knohc. Knohc. Prolg. Prenimmulf, knuhcrek!

And here we are, back in 2010. Morrison and I were invited back to Texas for the second OstaraFest (they had to skip 2009 for a variety of reasons). Again, Joyce and Lolly were our defacto handlers, but this time they also enlisted the aid of their husbands, AND everyone else within a 25 mile radius. It seems Lolly was dead set on making sure “Murv gets fed.”

After the harrowing experience of the Flight Attendant from Hell, not to mention being up since 3AM and hanging out in airports, I was ready to relax when I arrived. Lolly hauled me off to their house, where they set me up in a guest room with my own private bath – complete with a huge faux fish tank and flamingos – see photos…

Then, once I was settled in her husband Doug began providing me with beer. Now, I already liked Doug to begin with. We had met during my previous trip and he’s a really great guy. But, now he was giving me beer. Therefore, we was instantly elevated to best friend status. That evening we had Beer Butt Chicken, Brisket, Baked Beans, and Cole Slaw. And, of course, more beer.

But, that was just the beginning…

The next morning, Lolly had to head off to the festival early to do setup. I wasn’t due there for a while, so I became Doug’s charge. Apparently he had been told not to feed me beer for breakfast, so we drove over to Joyce’s, where Butch, her husband, was tasked with preparing breakfast for Morrison and me. Upon entering the house it became obvious that all would be good. Not only was there coffee, but pepper bacon, sausage, biscuits, cantaloupe, sliced tomatoes, and even chocolate muffins; Butch was simply waiting for us to arrive so that he could find out what we wanted in our made to order omelets. Nope. Not kidding. See photographic evidence on the right…

So, after having a breakfast that simply couldn’t be beat, we were off to the festival itself. This is where things became a little crazy – if I was asked by one person, I was asked by thirty-five of them, “Murv, has Lolly fed you yet?” Well, as it happens, a young man with a menu had searched me out and taken my order, then delivered lunch right back into my hands. Therefore, I had been the recipient of an utterly fantastic Brisket Sammich with all the trimmings. Of course, as soon as I finished it I was asked by Joyce if Lolly had fed me yet. I told her “Nope,” to which she immediately went into a tizzy and told me she would see to it that I was fed. Unfortunately, Morrison stopped her and told her I was lying before I could get my hands on another sammich. Ahem… Curse you Dorothy Morrison… Of course, it was probably a good thing I didn’t get that second sandwich because that evening Butch and Joyce hosted us for dinner and we were treated to both Chicken Gumbo and “Sweep the Swamp Gumbo” (crawfish, shrimp, and alligator). And, I have to say it was probably even the best gumbo I’d ever eaten – maybe even better than any I’ve had in NOLA over the years – of course, Joyce is from Louisiana, so I don’t suppose I should be surprised.

Fast forward to Sunday morning. Once again, I was shuttled off to Butch and Joyce’s for breakfast. This time, in addition to all of the original fixin’s, Butch was preparing pancakes and fried eggs.

Now… I suppose you are wondering at this point why I have all of these pictures of said food items. Trust me, everyone there was wondering why I was pulling out my cell phone and snapping pictures.

Well, what’s a blog entry from me without a few pics, right? Besides, since there was this running joke, it was pretty much a moral imperative that I see to it there was photographic evidence of the chow.

And again, after another incredible breakfast, we were off to the store to do seminars and sign books. Near the end of my workshop, the door to the room slid open and a hand slipped through. It belonged to Lolly of all people, and in it was a dressed hot dog. It seems that after everyone else had seen to it I was fed, Lolly wanted to make up for having NOT fed me at the last event. And so, she has her own photographic evidence of having “fed the author”…

Yep, that’s MY hand in there grabbing the plate… I was hungry!

That evening, we were hustled off to Ernie’s, a local bar with utterly fantastic burgers. During all of this, whenever I would sign a book or simply be on my way to the restroom, people would ask me, “Murv, has Lolly fed you yet?”

I think maybe I put on elebenty-twelve pounds while I was there. But, I think we’ve finally answered the ages old question – How Many People Does It Take To Feed Murv?

Half the state of Texas, apparently…

More to come…

Murv