BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

There’s this terrific Joe Walsh song called, “Shut Up.”

It starts out telling you about how he gets invited to a party by some folks who are friends he never even met – this is something that happens to celebrities I’m sure, because it happens to me on a regular basis, and I don’t even consider myself a celeb. Just, “kinda maybe possibly known to a few folks who happen to read.” At any rate, the second verse goes something like this:

Well I followed their directions and arrived a little late
I had a couple Chardonnays and started feelin’ great
I said I hate to interrupt, I’ll be right back I gotta pee
30 people in the bathroom started talkin’ to me
They could not shut up (can’t shut up)
(can’t shut up)
I said HEY…shut up (can’t shut up)
They could not shut up

As it happens, this particular verse strikes somewhat close to home…

You see, everyone makes an assumption that I am Pagan. I understand why, I mean, after all, I write a series of suspense thriller novels about a Witch and I include real, live Neo-Pagan dynamics in the stories. I do book signings at Pagan festivals and bookstores, and… well… I did used to consider myself Pagan. For better than 25 years, in fact.

However, I haven’t self-identified as such for a handful of years now. There are some very specific reasons I no longer identify as Pagan – and none of them have to do with religion – but that’s a whole different blog. Maybe I’ll write it some day when I feel up to dealing with the ridiculousness that will ensue.

Suffice it to say, while I don’t call myself Pagan these days, I’m still Pagan friendly and really doubt that will ever change. After all, when I did call myself pagan I was friendly with people in other religions, and still am. No reason for that to be any different.

Oh, and before anyone starts spreading rumors, no, I didn’t convert to some mainstream Judeo-Christian path either. I simply identify as a Free Thinking Secular Humanist where “religion” is concerned. But, as I said, that’s another blog.

This blog is about people in the bathroom…

You see, I do a lot of book touring, a good segment of which involves pagan festivals and stores. 95% of them are absolutely wonderful. 5% of them are unbelievable horrors. Believe me, I have stories… Some of you may have even heard a few of them.

However, even with the 95% that are wonderful, things can happen. These things are generally not in the direct control of the event organizer or store owner, and fortunately, can tend to be funny in retrospect.

For instance…

There’s a great – and I do mean great – store in Newark, OH called Violet Flame. Heather, the owner, treats her visiting authors like royalty. You have a nice private place to sleep, access to a steam bath, she is an amazing cook, and on the last night you are there she holds a shindig in your honor – usually with a band, BBQ, and booze. Guests come and join in for a chance to visit and mingle, as well as a chance to have a laid back, informal convo with the guest author/authors.

It’s a blast, and by far one of the best gigs I do. I love going there. But, even there things can happen.

Back to that “for instance”…

There we were at the shindig. The band was playing and I had even spent a little time behind the mic, crooning with them. They are great guys, because even though I can’t carry a tune in a bucket even if I have help,  they let me get up there with them anyway. Probably because it’s fun to watch me make a fool of myself, but hey, it’s become a tradition…

So, as with any party where one is swilling 14 oz cups of  fermented malt beverage from an iced down keg, I had to go to the bathroom. Unfortunately, I was pinned down in one corner of the deck – figuratively… I mean, I was blocked in, but not really pinned down if you get my drift – by a couple of oddballs who had wandered into the party from a house nearby. It was obvious that they had already been partying plenty themselves. At any rate, they found the free beer, and then found the “famous author.” My ear was being bent and my legs were starting to cross as I did the potty dance.

Eventually, the need became great enough that I pulled a Joe Walsh. Yes, I did in fact say, “I hate to interrupt, I’ll be right back, I gotta pee…”

And, with that, I made a bee line for the bathroom inside the house. Now, that should really be the end of the story. I mean, I had escaped the drunken wingnuts, and I was also about to empty my bladder.

But no… If that was the case this would be a boring blog.

The way Heather’s bathroom is set up, there is a shower room, and a toilet room. I entered, closed the door, then went into the toilet room and closed that door as well. All good, right? Wrong. No sooner had I unzipped, unfurled, and begun to unload, the hinges on the toilet room door creaked.

Figuring it was someone unfamiliar with the setup, I called over my shoulder, “Occupied! Just a minute!”

This was when I almost watered the magazine rack. I didn’t, but I came close.

You see, the female of the wingnut team that had cornered me on the deck  had followed me into the bathroom and she now slipped her arms around me from behind and began to hug me, whereupon she announced in my ear, “I want to be pagan with you.”

At this point I had tied a square knot in Wee-Willy-Winkie in order to halt the flow of used beer, and was trying to stuff things back into my pants as fast as I possibly could.

“Lady, I’m trying to pee here!” I shouted. “What the hell are you talking about?!”

“You Pagans are all about orgies and sex, right?” she slurred. “Well, I want to be Pagan with you.”

By now, even though my tank was only half empty, I had retracted my hose and was twisting out of her grasp, while simultaneously closing the pod bay door (please, Hal).

I didn’t shake, I didn’t flush, I didn’t wash my hands. I just yelled, “Not happening!” as I bolted for the door and rushed through the house.

Drunken wingnut chick was yelling, “Come back,” (seriously) as I exited onto the deck and made a beeline into the yard. I located Heather and immediately told her what had happened. By now, frootloop girl is coming out the back door looking for me, but luckily I didn’t have to deal with her anymore. In that moment, Heather muttered, “fuckin’ chica,” as she stalked off, and that was the last I saw of crazy bathroom woman.

By the way, did I happen to mention that besides being a bookstore owner, festival organizer, and fantastic cook,  Heather is also an ex-cop?

Nope. I’m not kidding…

More to come…

Murv

I’m sure the title of this post leads one to think I am talking about a festival where spaghetti is celebrated by pasta lovers from around the country –  maybe even from around the world. Honestly, looking at it right now, that’s pretty much what it says to me. However, as I am sure you suspect from the fact that I am rambling about such a thing, I am going to talk about something completely different. It’s just that I’m apparently too lazy to change the title – go figure…

Well, lazy AND my brain is still a bit fried from 3 1/2 days at PUF in Tennessee. Good fried, yes, but fried nonetheless.

So, let’s talk about PUF, because when you get right down to it, that is what this entry is really all about. You see, this year was the 13th PUF, and it was my 10th year of headlining same. In fact, I was their very first out of town “big name talent” ever. The fest has grown over the years, bringing in big names from all over the country, but no matter what, I am always on the schedule. I’ve been told that even if I die, they will dig me up and make sure I am at PUF. And, you know, oddly enough, that doesn’t bother me at all, because I absolutely adore the folks and the fest.

But, what does all this have to do with spaghetti?

Okay, I’ll tell you. One of the staples at just about any festival – pagan or otherwise – when trying to feed the masses is pasta. It’s inexpensive, quick, and just about everyone loves a good plate of spaghetti. If they didn’t, then you wouldn’t have all of these “Lodges” and Churches holding “Spaghetti Dinner” fundraisers. Therefore, PUF serves spaghetti. Not for every single meal, mind you. They actually have an amazing feast on Saturday night that is so beyond compare that I can’t even… well… compare it to anything. Suffice it to say, there is food for miles and I’ve never had a single thing that I didn’t like. PUF provides a portion of it, and then the rest is from “food donations” – that being various “covered dishes” brought by attendees.  The lunches  themselves are most excellent brown bag type fare. Breakfasts are cereals and fruits – although, I have to say, Rachel the Kitchen Goddess (aka VIP Chef) does up a major breakfast for those of us in the author cabin. However,  getting back to dinner, Thursday night is soup/stew night, and Friday night is spaghetti/pasta night.

“So what?” you ask.

Well, I’ll tell you.

At a PUF four or five years ago, the kitchen was short staffed during dinner on Friday night. Now, while it has always been customary at PUF for the staff to wrangle the “VIPs”, bring us in the back door, and run us through the chow queue before anyone else, on that particular occasion I saw a line of hungry people waiting to get in, and a frazzled half-staff that was trying to figure out how they were going to keep the line moving fast enough to avoid problems. For me, it was a no brainer, and over their objections, I put down my unfilled plate, rolled up my sleeves, and took up a position at the serving line. Suffice it to say, the attendees were surprised to see one of the Headline Author/Speakers slopping their choice of meat sauce or marinara onto their piles of pasta, but by the same token, they really enjoyed it.

And, so did I.

You see, sometimes folks can get the wrong impression of headline guests at festivals. They see us being pushed to the head of the line, dining at a private table – sometimes on display in a sense. We get the “VIP” treatment while they stand around and wait. For the most part these folks understand the situation, although there is the occasional person who doesn’t. Of course, I have to admit that when you get a VIP who carries about an attitude that matches the treatment, then folks aren’t getting the wrong impression, they are getting shafted. But, we won’t talk about those “big names,” because I already have to deal with them enough at events and I’ve come close to slapping the snot out of them on many occasions.

So, moving right along… The attendees generally  only get to see us at our workshops, or sitting behind a pile of books where they have to stand in line to obtain an autograph. For some – and I am definitely NOT saying all – but, for some, this seems a bit daunting and makes us appear unapproachable. For the record, this is something I have been told by the very same folks who feel this way. It’s not something I’m making up just because I have nothing to do.

On top of that, when you have vendors, multiple speakers, and all sorts of activities going on, people end up making choices as to what they will attend while on site. Therefore, when you have a fest with 300, 400, or even more folks, not everyone gets to have contact with you, even if it’s just to say “Hi.”

And that’s what this is really about. That experience all those years back allowed me to not only help out the frazzled staff and make sure everyone was fed in a reasonable time frame, it also provided something much, much more. I was afforded an opportunity to  at  the very least say “hello” to each and every person at the festival as they came through the queue for dinner. This is why I have made it a point to take a place in the serving line on Friday night ever since. It’s like a tradition of sorts. The doors open and people file in to have their plates filled with goodies from Rachel the Kitchen Goddess. (see photo above)…

I just stand wherever Rachel puts me – be it the spaghetti noodles themselves (as it was this year), or one of the various sauces, or salad, or dessert…  Rachel always objects, of course, saying that I’m a VIP and should be filling my plate instead of other folks’ plates.  But, I wouldn’t miss my kitchen time for anything.  It’s important to me that not only am I helping out the staff, but I am also able to say “Hi”, crack a few jokes, and even chat a bit with each and every PUF attendee as they come through the line. That way, if they are unable to be at my workshops, don’t run into me during the day, or for some reason see me as unapproachable, I have had the opportunity to come into contact with them. It’s my way of making sure I meet everyone I possibly can.

Afterward, once each person has had “firsts” and even a few have been through for “seconds”, I fill my plate and eat dinner in the kitchen with the staff, which is my chance to visit with them for a while. They work their tails off so that everyone – not just the VIP’s – can have a great time, and they have little to no chance of attending a workshop, or even getting to visit for any  decent length of time.

For other meals, it’s usually a different story…  Breakfast is at the author cabin where we are all trying to get our things together for the day and figure out where we are supposed to be and when. I eat lunch at my table, because I will be signing books between bites of “sammich”… And, for the feast I am on display at the head table – Please note that I’m not complaining about that.  It’s the way things are done, and I certainly understand that it puts the headliners in a central location – probably because they want to keep an eye on us so we don’t get into any mischief (although, we usually find a way to do so, even when being watched and wrangled)…  Besides, it also gives me time to visit with the other headliners who have been rushing from workshop to workshop.

Because of various logistics, I don’t get to do this at every festival where I present, but I do at PUF. Of course, if you don’t come through the chow line for Friday night pasta, well, I might not get to meet you. But hey, for 45 minutes to an hour at PUF, you know exactly where I am, and I’ll be happy to “sling hash” for you and say “Hi.” And, even though by the end of it, I am hot, sweaty, tired, and just want to get off my feet for a while, it has become one of my absolute favorite parts of the festival.

More to come…

Murv