BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

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…

Okay…

Between here, there, and everywhere I get a ton of email. Some of it Spam, some of it Treet. (Both of which I thoroughly enjoy, fried, on whole wheat, with a slice of american cheese.)

Some of it is important, some of it isn’t. Some of it warrants a reply, some of it doesn’t. But, what I am on about here is the stuff that needs a reply, but there is so much of it that I don’t have time to do so. Therefore, rather than cut and paste and all that, I am going to answer some of these Frequently Asked Questions here in my blog. Some of the questions truly are asked frequently. Others, not so much, but I found them worthy of a response for one reason or another. So, without further rambling from me (or, not so informative rambling anyway) here we go:

1) I’m interested in being a writer. Can you give me some tips for writing a good story?

Well, let’s address part one of that– Are you insane? You need to be if you want to actually be a writer for a living. Just thought I’d get that out of the way. As to tips, if you ask several authors the same question you will get several different answers. The points where we would all agree, however, would probably be the following: Write about something you are familiar with. If you aren’t familiar with it, then GET familiar with it (ie research). Be passionate about what you are writing. Passion is what makes a good story, not just words joined together in coherent phrases. Accept constructive criticism, and ignore those who have nothing constructive to say. Learn the difference between the two. Write for yourself and no one else. You can’t please everyone. It took me a few bad reviews and a good friend’s advice in order to learn that lesson. Even though you say you are listening to me now, you really aren’t. You will need to learn this lesson on your own just like we all have. The best I can do is tell you what I just did so that you can be prepared for what you have to face. And finally, this is supposed to be fun. If it ain’t fun, the story is going to suck, so stop and write something that’s fun.

2) Will Eldon Porter’s story ever be revisited?

For those who may not have read the RGI series, or aren’t far enough into it yet, Eldon Porter is an antagonist within the story arc who has made two appearances…well really twp appearances and a couple of mentions…throughout. He’s not a particulary nice guy. And, to answer the question, yes. Eldon will return. When, I am not saying…I don’t want to spoil the surprise.

3) Can I have your checks?

This was in response to an earlier blog, and isn’t actually frequently asked. In fact, this is the only time it has been asked. I just thought it was funny. BTW, the answer is NO.

4) Have you ever considered a Rowan Gant Investigations Movie?

Hey, I’d love to see something like that. In fact, a script was actually written. However, I don’t have much control over that…I mean, YES, I have the rights to my works, therefore if someone wants to make a movie based on the books they have to come through me first. However, I don’t have sixty-million laying around in order to finance a movie….so, unless somebody in Hollerwood decides they want to make an RGI movie, I guess we’ll all just have to be happy with the books.

5) If an RGI movie were made, who would you cast in the various parts?

Well, just like the previous answer, I would have no real say in that. The movie folks don’t give a flying rats a** who I want to play the parts. All I did was write the books and create the characters. I couldn’t possibly know who could properly personify them…That said, IF I had some sort of say in it, I think it would be something like this–

Rowan Gant – John Corbett (yes, he’s a bit tall, but they can do all manner of cool stuff with camera angles…hell, they made Gary Sinise a double amputee in Forrest Gump, I think they can probably make Corbett look a bit shorter than whoever played Ben.)

Felicity O’Brien – Lea Thompson (although, if said movie were to be a few years in the future, Scarlett Pomers would be perfect, and my absolute first choice,  if she could do the on again-off again accent and toss about a bit of Gaelic. Right now, however, she’s only like 19 or something, so she’s a bit too young…Especially if Corbett was playing Rowan.)

Ben Storm – Jimmy Smits (I know, he’s not actually Native American, but I think he could pull it off. However, there may well be a NA actor or two out there I haven’t thought of.)

Constance Mandalay – Jewel Staite (throw some makeup at her that would get rid of the girlishness, put her in a power suit and give her a Sig Sauer, and I’m betting the loveable ships mechanic from Firefly would make a great hard nosed FBI agent. Just my personal view.)

The rest of the characters I haven’t really given that much thought where a movie is concerned. However, on other involvements–

Director – Michael Mann, Joss Whedon, Chris Carter (one of the three)

Music – Mark Snow, Greg Edmonson, Tommy Shaw, and James Young (all of the above)

Of course, like I said, the above is all just daydreaming…

6) This wasn’t so much a question as an estimation by someone pointing out that authors don’t actually make a ton of money. Although, the question, however rude, “how much do you make?” has been asked before. So, here is how getting paid as an author works…

Typical royalties are something like 10-12 percent of wholesale, per copy, minus returns (people also don’t realize that the book industry is just about the only one where the merchandise is returnable by the distributor forever.)

So, let’s say you buy one of my mass market paperbacks. They retail at 8.95… Wholesale price to a distributor, on average (depending on quantity discounts, etc. for given distributors) is going to be something like 3.75. Direct to a bookstore probably something like 5.40… Most sales go to the wholesaler/distributors, but for the sake of argument we will average these two which gives us something like 4.58. Soooo, I get right around 46 cents per copy sold (in reality it is less, because like I said, the bulk of the sales go to distributors at a higher discount)…

Now, let’s say 10,000 copies sell during a year (I wish!!). I make a whopping 4600 bucks. NOT 46 Thousand…Four Thousand Six Hundred. However, let’s consider that of those 10,000 copies, 4000 get returned to the publisher. (this is not unusual, as bookstores rotate stock. In many chains, if it hasn’t sold in thirty days, it gets returned to the distributor. If it happens to get damaged in shipping, oh well, too bad so sad, the distributor returns it to the publisher for a full refund..) So, remember, my check is minus returns…So, it now becomes $4600 minus $1840, which leaves me with $2760. But, MR…you say…you have seven books out there. Yeah…So, 7 times $2760 works out to $19,320.

Now, understand, I’m not complaining here. I’m just answering a question. While the calculations above are simplified for the sake of not having to explain all of the intricacies of a royalty report, the end result is pretty much the same. Not wealthy, just making a living.

What about your advance, you say? Well, advances are nice, but unless you are a really big name, they aren’t usually more than 2-5K…AND, the name ADVANCE is literal…It is an ADVANCE against your royalties, so it isn’t free money. You literally won’t see any royalties on that title until such time as it has sold enough copies to have made back the advance monies.

Okay, so there’s your lesson in collecting an author’s paycheck…

And, that’s all of the questions for now. I’ll collect a few more and answer them in a future blog…

MR