BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Maybe I’m just old fashioned…

Then again, maybe not.

I just haven’t quite figured it out yet.

But old fashioned or not, here’s my thing – There was one room in her house that always remained locked… It was… The garage.

No… Wait… That’s Keys To Her Ferrari by Thomas Dolby. Great song, but not where I was headed with this. Besides, we don’t have a garage and the only room E K keeps locked is her “play room” in the basement, and she only does that so her “toys” can’t escape.

Let’s see… Where was I? Oh, yeah…

Here’s my thing – There’s one room in the house where I absolutely refuse to talk on the telephone. It is… The bathroom.

Now, I realize this might sound odd. I mean, after all, there is a wide and varied history of telephones in bathrooms. I’ve stayed in many a hotel over the years where a telephone was stuck to the wall right there next to the stool. Hell, I once stayed in a hotel in New Orleans where the phone was positioned in such a way as to be usable from  the stool, the bidet, and/or the tub itself. I actually took a picture of that, although I can’t seem to find it at the moment. Of course, I was probably just as fascinated by the fact that the room had a bidet. Yeah… I know what they are for, but I was hard pressed not to do a Crocodile Dundee impersonation just for the hell of it. And, since the hotel happened to be in the French Quarter (Yeah, I know, French… Bidet… I can add) there would have been plenty of folks down on the street to hear me yelling from the window.

But like I said, I’ve stayed in plenty of hotels where there was a telephone in the crapper. Not just in NOLA.

Of course, I should probably take a moment to note that  I absolutely despise talking on the phone at ALL, and will avoid it at all costs.  Besides the fact that I just don’t like the damn thing, due to an injury during my EARLY teens my hearing has been substandard for the better part of my life, and in recent years has grown much worse… MUCH worse. Literally to the point that talking on the telephone is a rather painful chore for me even under the best of circumstances, because I simply cannot understand the person on the other end of the line.

But that really isn’t my point.

You see, when necessary I will talk on the phone. By necessary I mean it had damn well better be a dire emergency. Seriously. But not when I am in the bathroom.  For me to do that it would need to be a dire emergency squared. Of course, there’s no way for me to know that because I won’t answer the phone when I am in the bathroom. For the record, no, we don’t have a phone in there. However, we ARE in the era of Cell Phones, and I pack one around on my belt just like most everyone else. I use it for emergencies mostly. And I text. I didn’t used to text, but now I do. My eyes still work as long as I am wearing my glasses, so we’re all good there.

But you know what? I won’t even text while I’m in there.

There’s just something about the sanctity of the porcelain throne room that precludes me from chatting with anyone. I just don’t see a reason for telephone conversations in the bathroom. Sure, now that I am getting older I can certainly understand the idea of the classic, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up,” sort of communication from inside the tiled closet, and that can certainly come in the form of a phone call to 911 or something.

But why in the world would I want to carry on a convo while I’m doing my business?

Chirp-Ring-Chirp-Warble…

(sigh) (reach) (flip) “Hello?”

“Hey, Murv. This is your broker. How are you today?”

“Ummm… Okay, I guess.”

“So, do you have a minute?”

“I guess so. I… umm… well… I have some paperwork I’ll need to get after here rather shortly.”

“Ahh, working eh? Writing a new book?”

“Well, not right at this very moment… Actually I’m getting rid of last night’s dinner.”

“Oh, I see. Cleaning the fridge.”

“Not exactly. More like… Umm… Well. Taking a dump.”

“Your fridge broke?”

“No… Not taking it to the dump. Taking a dump.”

“Ohhh, okay, I get it. Well since you’re sitting down…”

More to come…

Murv

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