BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Yes… “STAFF” infection, NOT Staph Infection. That was what the monstrous, hyper-infectious, killer strain of “walking death influenza” was dubbed at this years Samhain Florida Pagan Gathering. Primarily, because patient zero infected several members of the festival staff, who then unwittingly shared it with other staff, then attendees, then speakers, etc. I just happened to be one of the lucky masses to be infected with extreme prejudice. Somewhere around late morning on Friday last I started feeling like crap. By that evening, I was pretty much laid up with a fever and hacking cough that was threatening to send one or both of my lungs flying across the room at supersonic speed. Not a good thing.

Even so, a good time was had. I bunked in with Dorothy Morrison and her husband Mark on one side of the cabin, along with my wife (Evil Kat) and my offspring. On the other side of the cabin was my dear friend Kristin Madden and her son Karl, as well as another set of great buds, Z and Hardee. Even with the attack of the “Staff Infection”, we still got to visit and have a great time. I had a chance to visit with another dear friend, Chuck Cook. Unfortunately, his wife and kids weren’t able to make it this go around, but hopefully we will catch up with them in the not too distant future. I also got to visit with, and even square dance with, my old friend Ann Moura. And, of course, I spent some time with my buds John & Brandie (aka THAT Moonfire!) and their crew. To top it off, I got to meet and kibbitz with Kirk White, an author I had heretofore only known via email.

The fest was well attended, as usual- rumor has it they even broke a record. The workshops were great and we all signed tons of books for festivalgoers. Other than the staff infection I only had two regrets – one being that Paul, our beloved guardian and firetender was not present, as he had just had surgery to remove a brain tumor. Fortunately, we received news that he is doing great, healing quicker than expected, and that the tumor turned out to be completely benign! (Yay!!) So, I’m looking forward to seeing him next go around. Just to make things right, however, someone produced a life size cutout picture of Paul’s face, and we all had pictures taken with it in groups, individually, at at various events throughout the fest so that he could be there with us, even if he wasn’t. My other regret would be that I didn’t get to make my annual pilgrimage down to Rowangrove, which is Druydess’s camp. She’s a lovely gal, tremendous hostess, and her whole crew is a blast to hang with. Every year I make sure to stop by for a few drinks and an hour or two of intelligent, witty, innuendo filled banter. Unfortunately, being laid up with the “infection” I was in no condition to drink, I wasn’t particularly witty- nor intelligent- and I would have hated to spread the virus any farther than it had already gone.

So, FPG was a blast, even with the infection and regrets. I do feel it a moral imperative to say the following- Rayne, of guest services was fantastic! She took care of us like you wouldn’t believe, making sure that we had our cabin cooler filled with goodies and ice, extra blankets (yeah, there was actually a cold snap in Florida, can you believe it?), food, etc. She even had her minions cart our cases of books back and forth between the cabin and tables. As far as we were concerned, she was the Guest Services Goddess! And, as wonderful as the rest of the staff was and is, I also must single out my favorite Guardian, Trauma. She is an absolute sweetheart, and she saw to it that I was well taken care of from the medical standpoint. (Of course, prior to becoming infected, she also tagged me with her infamous “Flaming Dr. Pepper”, but that’s a whole ‘nother story…)

Now…On to some other stuff…That being, “Nasty Rumors”…

When filling out my speaker info packet for FPG, as a joke I put a few notes under “special requirements”… The notes were something to the effect that Dorothy Morrison was old and decrepit and would require a wheelchair. I also added that Kristin Madden is a whiny diva who would demand that she get anything Morrison got, and therefore they should have one for her too.

Now…The staff of FPG knows us well, and they knew this was a joke. They posted it on their official website, as a joke. Some of you may even remember Dorothy, Kristin, and me blogging back and forth at one another about this, and generally having a great time with it.

Unfortunately, someone who doesn’t know us read the blurb on the FPG site, and took offense. They felt that Kristin was being seriously disrespected, and were worried that Dorothy was on her deathbed.

So…Let us quell the rumors. Dorothy Morrison is like my big sister. Kristin Madden is like my little sister. Yeah, I’m the middle child…guess that explains it, eh? (Grin)….Either way, we pick back and forth at one another all the time. It is all good natured fun, and it is how we interact. If you see us in person, all together, you will see one hell of a show. And, if I do say so myself, we are pretty damned entertaining– Well, we amuse ourselves, so hey, what more can we ask… Suffice it to say, there was no disrespect toward Kristin “Don’t Call Me Kirsten” Madden, nor is Dorothy “Older Than Dirt” Morrison in ill health. It was just us kids joking around with one another. End of story.

Trust me, if we ever get mad at one another you won’t see us bickering. There will just be three smoking holes left where we each once stood. But, I can pretty much guarantee you that such will never happen, so no worries there.

Okay, I need to go check on Evil Kat since she is now dealing with the Staff Infection. I’ll leave you with a few pictures…

Thought I was kidding about the square dancing, didn’t you?

More to come…

Murv

Being on a book tour is hard work.

On the outside, looking in, it probably doesn’t seem that way to most folks. But, trust me, it is. Take, for instance, this most recent tour.

Each day, Morrison and I would get up at the buttcrack of dawn. As in 4AM or even a bit earlier. Sometimes a bit later, but not by much. This would immediately be followed by us complaining about how we were too old for this crap. Instead of giving up and going back to sleep, however, we would take our turns getting a shower, then stuff all of our “possibles” (as Morrison calls them,) into our respective suitcases, and then spend a few minutes disassembling and reassembling the 3 dimensional puzzle that was the trunk and back seat of the rental car. Once we had jumped up and down on the trunk lid a few times, finally getting it to latch, we would hop into the vehicle and hit the road. Our first stop would usually be the office of the motel for a cup of coffee and a stale donut. If no such comestibles were available to us, we would find a Dunkin Donuts, local diner, or even a stop ‘n shop where we could grab the aforementioned caffeine and carb fix.

Then, Jane, AKA “the bitch in the box” would bark her orders at us as we navigated the streets of unfamiliar cities, eventually making our way to an unfamiliar highway, then striking out on the next leg of our journey. The drive could be 4 hours, or it could be 7. It all hinged on where we were expected to be next (as outlined in the sacred blue folder, which lived for 15 days tucked behind the sun visor on the passenger side of the car…) Sometimes we had to be in one place by 11AM, only to turn around and be in another place by 6PM. Somewhere in that mess we also needed to check in to our motel, freshen up our road weary faces, and do what it is that one does when your job is signing books and entertaining workshop attendees.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. Both of us truly enjoy going on book tours and meeting folks. I’m simply pointing out that this is NOT the glamorous life you see depicted in movies. It’s work. It’s tough work. And, it involves long, long days and nights. Typically, our work day is 14 to 16 hours.

You will notice in the above diatribe that nothing is mentioned about lunch. Just the stale donut and coffee at 5AM or thereabouts. Why no lunch? Because, when your schedule is that tight, and you are zipping across entire states going from bookstore to bookstore, lunch isn’t always an option. That stale donut/bagel and weak coffee is your primary sustenance for the day.

By the time you get finished with the appearances for that calendar date, it is almost certainly close to being the next day. As in, 11PM or after. You climb back into the car and head for the motel…or to the home of a friend where you are going to crash…and set out again. Sometimes the friend or motel is close. Sometimes it’s two hours down the road so that you are just that much closer to your next gig. It’s just the way of things. When you get where you are going, you suddenly realize that the donut and coffee are fully digested, every single nutrient that could be gleaned from them has been and has been used to its full potential…It also dawns on you that your adrenal gland, which has been keeping you upright for the past 8 hours is now tapped out. So, before you climb into bed to get your 3 to 4 hours of sleep, you roll into a diner and get a hamburger…or a cheese sandwich…or you even drop by the Quick E Mart and toss down one of those not so appetizing, pre-made, pre-packaged chicken salad sandwiches. (Well, I ate a sandwich, Morrison had M&M’s. I think she was looking for comfort food that night, and the Quick E Mart didn’t have a steak.) Anyway, the point is that you dump some kind of fuel into your system so that you can keep going.

So, what does this have to do with Pizza? Glad you asked.

After one of our gigs…I think it was in Rehoboth, MA, but don’t quote me, because I really did lose track of where and when I was (this is not unusual)…we had a one and a half hour drive to get to our crash point. We were staying with some friends who happen to live in Salem, MA. Since we had never been to their place before we had some directions with landmarks. A few minutes outside Salem, Morrison mentioned to me that one of the landmarks was the fact that their apartment building had a pizza joint on the ground floor.

Neither of us had eaten a thing since that morning. The magical word PIZZA had been uttered. We both looked at one another and said, “Pizza!” Our stomachs began to growl. Our mouths began to water. And, we said PIZZA! yet again. The monster was out of the proverbial closet.

We arrived at our destination, and with the help of our friends Kim and Alec, carted our luggage up to their spacious and exceptionally cool apartment. Kim called downstairs to order us a Pizza, primarily because we crawled out of the car and didn’t even say hello. We just kept saying, PIZZA and sighing wistfully. Fortunately, Kim and Alec are very bright and on the ball, which meant they were both able to quickly decipher the inane ramblings of two wiped out authors on tour.

The Pizza place was getting close to closing time so they told her they were only serving slices, and not making whole pizzas. Alarms went off. Eyes watered. Emotional breakdowns were on the verge of ensuing. Pizza was what we needed. Pizza was the only thing that would sustain us at this point. Without pizza we would wither and die. So, we all marched downstairs right into the pizza place. If nothing else, we were going to get a slice.

That was when Morrison gained a momentary spark of lucidity and genius. She looked at the girl behind the counter and said, “Are any of those pizzas back there whole?” The girl said, “Why yes, we do have a whole cheese pizza.” Morrison waved money at her and said, “Give it to me.” Note, she did not say “please, may we have that one,” or “would you be willing to sell us the whole pizza.” No, she said “Give it to me.” Obviously, since she was waving money she didn’t mean that the girl should literally “give it to her,” but it was obvious to everyone in the place that Morrison wasn’t leaving without that pizza.

I was reaching for my wallet. At that point we were both willing to toss all of the green we had onto the counter in order to obtain the sacred pizza. Fortunately, they were scrupulous folks and didn’t take advantage of us in our deteriorated states. We got the pizza, went back upstairs then stood in Kim and Alec’s kitchen, a slice in one hand, and a nice, cold, hard cider in the other. And we ate.

And we ate…

And we ate…

All in all, I can guarantee you that the pizza was pretty much average as pizzas go.

But, that night…Well, let’s just say on that particular night, it was the best damn pizza either of us had ever eaten in our lives.

More to come…

Murv

PS. In a day or two I’ll tell you about round two…New York style pizza (actually, they call it “pie”) purchased in New Jersey…