BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

“With the success of shows like Millennium and Profiler, I suspect the Rowan Gant series should do very well…”

The above is a quote from a literary agent with whom I had dealings way back when I was searching out a home for the first RGI novel, Harm None and its then “proposed but not yet written” sequels. I will admit the sentence is slightly paraphrased because that was many years ago and I truly have no idea what happened to the original letter. Still, I can pretty much recall this particular quote because it really had an impact on me.

Why?

Simple. Because in that one sentence he put my works in the same class as Millennium. To me, this was the ultimate compliment… You see, I was – and still am – a huge fan of that series. And, yes, I also watched Profiler, but Millennium was the show that got under my skin and stayed there.

So, let’s look at that comparison for just a second…

The RGI novels are a dark, gritty, police procedural type series about Rowan Gant, a reluctant paranormal investigator turned police consultant who has uncanny insight into the crimes and serial offenders he helps investigate.

Millennium is a dark, gritty, police procedural type series about Frank Black, a former FBI Agent / Case Investigator, (AKA “Profiler”), who now works as a consultant and has uncanny insight into the crimes and serial offenders he helps investigate.

See any similarities there?

Now, I do need to point something out – I wrote Harm None before the first episode of Millennium ever aired. Granted, HN wasn’t published until 2000, but the long and painful road to publication is another story entirely, and one that many authors know all too well – and, yes, it really took that long to find a home for the RGI series… Yeah, I know… Seemed silly to me too.  Suffice it to say, there were plenty of rejection slips to be had before Harm None ever made it to bookstore shelves, but the above quote from a Lit Agent is what kept me going each time I hit a brick wall… Eventually, those walls started to crumble, and there was even a good deal of time spent negotiating with an acquisitions editor at Penguin-Putnam. Again, another story entirely, because I ended up with a different publisher.

However, my point here is that Rowan Gant is not based on Frank Black. And, before anyone gets in a tizzy, I’m not claiming the converse, either.  That would be pretty hard to accomplish unless Chris Carter, creator of the TV series, was sneaking into my house in the middle of the night and stealing my manuscripts. And, while I love a good conspiracy as much as the next person, I don’t think that one is very likely.

I do believe, however, that maybe Mister Carter and I happen to think quite a bit alike. Still, he took one fork in the road and I took the other – even if the two paths ended up running “kinda sorta” parallel in a sense.

For instance, while the two characters have these amazing, vision-like insights, Rowan Gant embraces the magick and mysticism behind his abilities, whereas Frank Black for the most part eschews the mysticism and embraces the science. There are many other points where they diverge, but I’m not going to prattle on about that… The reason being, I’m not really here to make a comparison.

I’m here to talk about Millennium and its fans…

Like I said earlier, I am one of those rabid fans. Just like Browncoats, those foaming at the mouth, done the impossible, die-hard fans of Firefly who managed to create enough noise to get Serenity made, a movie based on that particular prematurely canceled series. (As my regular readers know, I’m a Browncoat too.)

But, back to Millennium… I have the entire series on DVD – which includes the X-Files episode that gave us addicted types a glimpse of where Frank Black was heading once the series itself had been canceled after only three seasons. I’ve watched the whole set several times, and will watch  it several more times in the future. It just never gets old for me.

In addition to the series, I also have the soundtrack on CD at home, in my truck, and even a few ripped MP3’s on my computer and MP3 player.  (Mark Snow – great music…) I can’t tell you how many times I have used that MP3 player and more specifically, the extended version of the Millennium main title theme to drown out a chatty wingnut seated next to me on a long flight.

I had an Ouroboros screen saver with a progressive countdown to the Millennium… Back in the day, when I turned my computer on it would display, “Good morning / afternoon / evening, Murv. There are XXX days remaining…”

Every now and then you might even notice that I pay homage to Millennium in my blogs, either via a mention in the text, a reference, a quote, or even by the title of the entry itself.  For example, the upcoming installment, “Somehow Satan Got Behind Me…” While that particular post doesn’t actually have anything to do with Millennium, the title is borrowed from the title of episode 21 from season 2 of the show. The title for this entry is itself  a paraphrased line of dialogue from the classic tongue-in-cheek episode, “Jose Chung And The Doomsday Defense,” (episode 9, season 2)…

And, yes, I will admit it – I even have a limited edition Frank Black action figure, (produced by Sideshow Toys), still pristine in the box, that I hope to have Lance Henriksen autograph for me some day. (In case it isn’t immediately obvious, Mister Henriksen is the actor who portrayed Frank Black in the series). If I’m lucky, since I tend to get booked in to do signings at SF/Fantasy Conventions, maybe our paths will cross. Trust me, if I am ever scheduled for a con and I see that he is a guest there as well, I will definitely be packing the action figure in my suitcase. If it gets searched and the TSA folks laugh at me for being a grown man who is packing around a glorified GI Joe doll, so be it. I mean, after all, it’s Frank Black we’re talking about here…

And as an aside, on the note of dolls, I really wish they had also produced a Katherine Black action figure too, based  of course on Megan Gallagher. But then, as I’ve mentioned before, I have sort of a “thing” for Ms. Gallagher – nothing weird,  sicko, scary, or stalkerish, mind you… (and trust me, with the research I’ve done for the RGI novels, I know more about that sort of Psychopathology than I ever wanted…) The real deal is pretty simple… Of all the celebrity types out there, I just happen to find her exceptionally appealing. Probably because she – and moreover her character, Katherine Black – remind me of my wife, E K. Yeah, I know,  a character is a character. Trust me, I am intimately familiar with the whole transference thing. I can’t count how many times I have had people think that I am Rowan Gant, and I just write the stories. No acting involved.  And, I also know that Miz Gallagher and E K aren’t dead ringers for one another or anything of that sort, but they are both absolutely gorgeous, IMHO. However, as I’ve also said before, if I were to ever meet the woman in person I’d probably be so tongue-tied that I would look like an utter moron. So, it’s probably a good thing they didn’t produce a Katherine Black action figure, because if I had one, then had an opportunity to meet Miz Gallagher, I’d probably stand there stammering like a fool.  Therefore, she’d most likely run the other direction as quickly as possible and I’d never get it autographed.

Yeah, like I said, I’m a die hard Millennium fan…

So, at this point I am sure you are wondering why I am babbling about all this? Well, that’s simple. I know that some of you who read my books are Millennium fans as well. And, those of you who aren’t already familiar with the show would probably become fans right from episode one if you ever saw it. So, I would recommend picking up the DVD boxed sets and having yourself a Millennium marathon. It’s definitely more than worth it.

But, wait, there’s more…

Come on… You knew there would be.

Some time back I was “friended” on Myspace by “Back To Frank Black“… Most likely because Millennium is listed under “favorite TV shows” on my profile.  I gave their page a cursory look as I always do when I receive a friend request, but since I was in the middle of meeting a manuscript deadline I didn’t have time to really get into it. Now, while I’m deeply involved in a manuscript, my deadline isn’t looming as close as it was then, so I actually had an opportunity to look a bit closer.

Back To Frank Black turns out to be not only a fan created Myspace page, but a website and blog as well. What’s more, it is a fan-based movement. The page features interviews with Lance Henriksen, and others from the series such as Kristen Cloke and Sarah-Jane Redmond… Maybe they’ll interview Megan Gallagher sometime soon… Hey, a guy can dream can’t he?

But, let’s not digress in that direction…

The BTFB movement actually has a mission – that being to reach out to fans and create a groundswell of demand for a Millennium Movie, or even return of the series. While the original storyline was threaded with the coming Millennium, (at the time – it originally ran Fall 96 – Spring 99), it was truly based in the psychopathology of the hysteria stemming from that impending event. Such sociopathic behaviors have not disappeared simply because Y2K has come and gone. If anything, they may be worse.

Throughout history there have been a plethora of “doomsayers” and prophecies to fuel the fires of the unstable. This most certainly has not changed. For instance, we have 2012 on its way. Supposedly the end of time as we know it… And, trust me, that’s only the tip of the proverbial iceberg where End Times Prophecy is concerned. A quick search on the internet will show you that much… So, the story fodder here is endless…

Therefore… If you are a Millennium fan, do yourself a favor and run by backtofrankblack.com to check it out. If you aren’t yet a fan, then surf on by there anyway and have a look. The interviews are great, as are the fans.

And, if you are an RGI fan, I’m betting you’ll be all about Frank Black, and you’ll want to see his return as much as I, and countless other Millennium fans around the world.

To borrow from the series itself…

The time is near… The time is now.

This is who we are…

Murv

Part 6 of 12

Continued from: Mahwage: Goin’ To The Chapel…

So, in the previous installment we established that Tom Hanks wasn’t available for my bachelor party. Neither were Tawny Kitaen nor Adrian Zmed. I’ve never forgiven any of them for that, and it is largely why you will never see us together in public, or private, for that matter. Well, that and the fact that we don’t know one another, but that’s just one of those small details… On with being “mobile”…

As all men are born knowing, there is a certain code that must be followed with regard to bachelor parties… really… it’s built right into our genetic makeup. But, anyway, all men know if you are tapped to be your buddy’s best man when he takes the plunge you have been telling him not to take ever since you were old enough to understand the ramifications… (Whew… that was a mouthful… Deep breath…) You know, inherently and without any outside influence, it is a moral imperative that you take your buddy out and get him completely and totally f*cked up. Preferably, the night immediately before the wedding.

Now, women have caught on to this in recent years. No doubt because they are generally a whole lot smarter than men give them credit for… (yeah, I know, ending in a preposition… it’s a blog… cut me some slack)… To be honest, women are generally a damn sight more intelligent than men, period. But let us not digress into a discussion about my submissive side and E K’s collection of handcuffs, leather items, and stiletto he… Err… umm…

Just ignore that last part, okay?

So, anyway, since you ladies know what’s up with that crap, you have had a tendency to put the brakes on the time honored tradition, insisting instead that the bachelor party be held a week or so prior to the event so as to allow for recovery time.

Well, Kathy didn’t do that. It’s not that she was oblivious to anything. I mean, after all, she’s friggin’ brilliant and it’s virtually impossible to get anything over on her. It requires an entire government conspiracy, unmarked helicopters, tranquilizer darts, and James Bond to pull even a shred of wool over her eyes. (Although, if the 007 in question happened to be the Pierce Brosnan incarnation, E K would probably be going by some “Bond Girl” name like Kitten McSharpclaws, and I would most likely be finding myself suddenly single and crying in my beer… Yeah, E K is all about that guy. I have no idea what she sees in him… I mean, it’s not like he’s insanely handsome, intelligent, philanthropic, faithful to a fault…Oh wait… he is… never mind.)

So, anyway, E K didn’t put her foot down on anyone’s neck. Not right then anyway. She’s definitely stepped on her share since, but not without just cause, believe me. Even though she has nicknames that seem as though they belong to some kind of psycho woman, they are really and truly all in fun. She is one of the most even tempered people I know, and I’m not just saying that to score points with her. Trust me, scoring points with E K requires a hell of a lot more than a handful of pretty words…

And, speaking of points, (like how I did that?) the point here being, she allowed Scott to plan the bachelor party for the night immediately before the wedding. October 31 was falling on a Saturday that year, so Friday night was on for the festivities. Kat was going out with her Matron of Honor, (remember Erin?), and some other ladies for a nice dinner, and whatever women do at Bachelorette parties… yeah, I know, I’ve seen some home videos… But, as it turned out E K and her friends didn’t go that route. She was exhausted and after dinner and a couple of drinks she came home and went to bed. Or so she maintains…

Me however… well, that was a different story. Scott arrived in a rented 12 passenger van. He had already picked up a few of the guys, and we made the rounds to pick up the rest. In the back of this van was a cooler… In the cooler was beer… something on the order of 48,000 beers… No kidding. The damn thing never became empty and, at Scott’s direction, neither did my hand. What I mean is the moment I would finish a beer, someone would reload my hand. If I wasn’t drinking fast enough, they found a way to get me to slam whatever brew I was holding so they could… Yeah, you guessed it.  Reload.

Once everyone was on board, we made the rounds of several bars in the Saint Louis area. As would be expected, these bars all featured scantily clad, young, busty, leggy, flirtatious waitresses. And, at each stop the mantra became, B-52!

Nope, not the Love Shack,  Rock Lobster, Channel Z folks… I’m talking about the drink. A triple layered shot of Bailey’s, Grand Marnier and Kahlua… sometimes set on fire. AKA a Flaming B-52…

So, at each and every bar we would begin the stay with a round of B-52’s… Although, to be honest, I think it was less of a round and more of a pair… I was always presented with one, and whoever else in the group got tapped to drink with me that “round” to make me think everyone was getting trashed, and not just me.

Now, so you understand, Scott is a responsible guy. After all, a year later he officially became a cop and is probably one of the best cops around… So, he wasn’t drinking booze. He was staying sober so that he could drive, and watch out for everyone else, in particular me, as you will see later…

And so, the B-52 chant continued… with help from the outside. You see, these characters were not at all shy about telling everyone in the bar that I was a “dead man walking,” so to speak. Therefore, I became the object of much fawning by waitresses. (Believe me, I know they were well tipped. I saw the dollar bills flying.) And, there were extra drinks, courtesy of other patrons in the establishment: usually a B-52… Or 3… Or 4… Yeah. Go figure. Although, I must admit, I do vaguely remember something about Kamikaze’s and Purple Hooters. Thinking back, it’s a wonder I didn’t end up in a hospital detox ward…

By this time it was relatively late, and I had not yet had anything to eat for dinner. But, they had a plan there too… On the way to our next stop on the “get drunk in St. Lou” tour, we swung into the drive-thru of White Castle. Now, I know they don’t have White Castle everywhere, but they have equivalents I believe… For instance, in the south the closest you would find would be Krystal’s… However, if you have no equivalent, and no idea what I am talking about, White Castle, (and the equivalents,) serve these little, square, steam grilled with onions burgers. They have a unique taste, and are a staple for drunken binges. Since they are small, a grown man will generally eat around 4 to 6 of them. Sometimes more, if he’s really hungry. If he’s drunk, usually quite a few more. You have probably heard these burgers referred to as Sliders, or the ever popular Saint Louis moniker, Belly Bombers.

Well, they get the nicknames honestly… You see, they have a lingering effect on one’s digestive system. Especially if one has been drinking heavily. The thing is however, said effect usually doesn’t roll around for about 6 to 12 hours after consumption… See where I’m headed with this?

I couldn’t begin to tell you how many of those things I ate that night…

So, anyway… Eventually, as all Saint Louis based bachelor parties tend to do, we ended up across the river in Illinois, smack in the middle of what is called the “East Side”. This is where you find the bars where the waitresses are not scantily clad. Well, actually, the waitresses are scantily clad… but, the other women who work there are mostly naked and swinging around shiny poles… Or wiggling around on your lap… Or sticking your face in their cleavage… Or… Well, you get the picture.

Guess what? We didn’t go into one of those bars. No kidding. I remember it had to do with one of the guys in the group not wanting to go in, and I was so drunk at that point that I backed him up, slurring my way through, “If he ain’t goin’, I ain’t goin’…” He didn’t make any friends of the other guys that night, trust me… Fortunately, they didn’t hold it against me that I backed him up, because they knew I was so trashed that I had no clue what I was saying. Besides, they also knew that it was all their fault that I was out of my head drunk in the first place… Well, not all their fault I don’t guess, but that they had been the primary contributors, that’s for sure…

Instead, we grabbed a table at one of the big dance club type bars and sat  there drinking beer. At least, that’s what I think I was doing. Everything was kind of moving in slow motion, including the music and sound around me. It was much like that part in the original Terminator movie when Arnie comes into the techno dance club on a mission to off Sarah Connor…

I do remember that at one point I hauled myself off to the restroom to unload some of the drink my kidneys had finally managed to process, and while becoming acquainted with the urinal someone stuck something in my back and demanded my wallet. Being trashed I just replied, “Yeah right. Very funny.” (Although, I suspect it probably came out more like, “Nyabnigh, furrvffblee nubby.”) Still, in response to my slurred words, whatever it was in my back went away, and that was the end of it.  However, I later found out that some fool had watched me bob and weave to the restroom and decided I’d make a good target, and that unbeknownst to me I was actually being mugged. However, unbeknownst to my mugger, Scott,  (remember him, the 6 foot 6 cop?) had followed him. So, when the whatever in my back disappeared and life went on without incident for me, what had actually happened was that Scott yanked the idiot up and bounced him off a wall.  All without a word. Kind of like Chuin rescuing Remo at the statue of liberty… Yeah, more obscure movie references… I just can’t help myself…

But, see, I told you he was looking out for me…

By now, it was oh-dark-thirty… really… I have no friggin’ clue what time it  actually was. All I know is we left the bar, dropped off some of the guys, then went back to Scott’s place with the crew that was left, and had Pizza. Yeah… Pizza. Don’t ask me. It was there and I ate it. Oh, and there was more beer involved. Yeah… a lot more beer.

At some point in the wee hours of Saturday morning… well, I think they were actually beyond “wee,” because we weren’t all that far from sunrise… Scott drove me home.

Now, here is something I didn’t mention earlier: All I had in my pocket was my ID. No wallet, no keys, no cash, no nothing. Scott knew this.

He helped me out of the van, dragged me up to the front door of the house, propped me against the porch railing, then rang the doorbell and ran just like a kid who had just set fire to a sack of dog-poo.

However, he didn’t go far… He stood in the front yard to watch the show.

A few moments later a very sleepy E K pulled open the door and just stared at me with one eye. Without a word, she turned and headed back to the bedroom while I literally crawled into the house…

No matter how many years have passed… And I do mean to this very day… I can still hear Scott laughing his ass off out in the front yard…

At a later date, E K made it perfectly clear to Scott how she felt about my condition upon being returned, and moreover, the method by which I was deposited upon the doorstep. She takes a very dim view of her possessions being mistreated whenever someone borrows them. I think it hearkens back to her high school years… Something about her Drill Team Uniform never being returned by the girl who borrowed it… (And believe me, I’m not real excited with that girl either… I mean just imagine, E K in a drill team  / cheerleader uniform… But, I digress…)

It was after the evil one had delivered her cold and calculated admonition that Scott fessed up, and told her the original plan had been to wait until I passed out,  strip me down to my skivvies, tape a quarter to my forehead, write his number on the back of my hand, and put me on a Greyhound Bus bound for Chicago… Of course, part of his plan also involved driving to Chicago so he could be there to watch me get off the bus and wander about aimlessly, before he finally loaded me up and hightailed it back to Saint Louis, arriving just in time to deliver me to the wedding…

Good thing I never actually passed out, until arriving home that is, because there were some unforeseen events in our very near future, one of which was only a few points shy of being catastrophic in relation to the upcoming festivities.

Besides, 6 foot 6 or no, E K would have killed him and fed his carcass to her cats. Guaranteed…

More to come…

Murv

… NEXT: Mahwage: The Wedding Suit…