BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Yep, it appears that it is once again time for a FAQ answer session filled with FAQ’s and “not so FAQ’s” that are asked a bit more rarely. A few of these are pretty normal questions – exactly the kind you would expect. However, some of these queries are a bit on the odd side. Still, the one thing they all have in common is that they have actually been asked at least once, and in many cases more than once.

True story…

And, you know, I have a strange feeling I’ve answered some of these before… So, since some of them are “Not So F A FAQ’s” with a bit of a weird bent,  I think maybe I’ll answer them with “Not So Answer Answers” and my tongue planted firmly in cheek.

1. What is your safe word?

I’m not entirely sure what makes you think I have one. I mean, what good would it do? E K doesn’t respond to such things.

2. How many more Rowan Gant novels will there be? (This one really is frequently asked, but it bears repeating at this juncture.)

I’ve always said that when people stop buying them I’ll stop writing them. Well, with that statement in mind I’ll give you the only answer I can – Let’s hope the economy and book sales pick up soon or the end of the RGI series will be wayyyyy sooner than I’d like.

3. What is E Kay’s shoe size?

So, what’s your story here? Retifism, Podophilia, or since they go hand in hand a combination thereof? Or should I say foot in foot? Foot in hand? Foot in mouth? Hell, I give up…

In any case, I’ll let you ask her that yourself, and you’d best be prepared to tell her why you want to know. If it’s an innocuous reason – though I’m not entirely sure what that would be, unless maybe you are wanting to give her free shoes or something – then all good. If not, then I want to be present so I can see her go ballistic on someone besides me for a change, whereupon you  just might get the answer to your question when you are finally able to dislodge her shoe from darker regions of your person. Of course, maybe that’s what you are trying to accomplish and well… good luck with that.

4. Do you really cut your own grass?

Nope. Not really. The magical garden gnomes from the land of Zoysia do it with the golden scissors of Fescue…

Of course I mow my own lawn. (ROFL!) Who else is going to do it?

However, if that question was some kind of metaphor, then it doesn’t even apply. Not my thing.

5. I’m an amateur filmmaker. Can I have permission to make the Rowan Gant novels into movies?

Are you going to sell the movies? Are you going to publicly display the movies? There are tons of questions that go along with such things. Better you ask my publisher. They handle the legal stuff.

6. How long have you and Dorothy Morrison been married?

Well, let’s see… As of 10/31/09 E K and I have been officially married 22 years.

Morrison has been married to her husband, Mark, for something on the order of 10 or 11 years I think, but you’d have to ask her to be sure.

Oh, you mean you thought we were married to each other? Nope.

7. Will you tell your publisher to publish my book?

Are you kidding? They don’t listen to me. Next question.

8. Are you Wiccan? (Another frequent query)

No. I studied Wicca for many, many years and at one time self-identified as Pagan, though I no longer do that either. I actually self-identify as a Secular Humanist with Pagan roots who does NOT deny that magic can work. Try fitting that one in the “religion declared” box on a hospital admission form. You have to write really small.

9. How long did it take you to learn Gaelic so you could write Felicity’s dialogue?

Forever. Studying day in, day out. Long nights. Weekends. It was grueling…

Truth is, I don’t know Gaelic. What little I do actually “know” I cannot pronounce to save my life. However,  I do have English to Gaelic dictionaries, phrase books, and more importantly, Anastasia – who does know Gaelic – to help me translate Felicity’s “excited / agitated” dialogue.

10. I heard M. R. Sellars is actually dead and that his books are being released posthumously by his children, and that you are just a shill for the family. Is that true?

You caught me. I’m not actually M. R. Sellars. I’m a paid actor and my real name is Buck Nekkid, wanna see my SAG card?

Sheesh… Are you kidding me?

It amazes me that this rumor is still circulating. Okay, for the umpteen-hundredth time:

My father, M. R. Sellars SENIOR – who never, ever wrote a book – passed away in 2003.

I, M. R. Sellars JUNIOR – the guy who writes the books – am still alive.

Also, I have a child, not children, and she’s only 10. So, in short, no. It’s not true. It’s false.

11. Why a female serial killer? That’s not right. Women shouldn’t kill men. It goes against the natural order of things.

Dude… People shouldn’t kill, period. But, it happens. And,  in my experience, women probably have way more valid reasons to kill men than the other way around. Do yourself a favor though. Don’t ask that question around E K or you might end up being a statistic. Oh, and from the implications behind the question (and the missive surrounding the question, which I am not reprinting here) you appear to have a bit of a misogynistic streak.  You might want to consult a therapist about that…

12. What ever happened with Fuddrucker’s and that blog you wrote about the bad burger in Detroit?

They were actually very nice and tried to make good on it. Unfortunately, I thought the gift card they were going to send me was for their restaurant and that I’d be able to use it while traveling. Instead, for some odd reason, they sent me a gift card to Wal-Mart. As many of you well know – or perhaps not and maybe I should blog about it sometime – E K will NOT allow me to shop at Wal-Mart. She is militantly ANTI-Wal-Mart… Bumper sticker and all…

So, I gave it to a friend who lives far enough away so as to be out of the E K Zone, and therefore he cannot be subjected to the Eebil Stare, etc…

13. I/we would like to invite you to XYZ event in ABC-Town.

Thank you. I appreciate the invitation. While I do some of my own booking, most of it is handled by my publicists. You can contact them via email at – S_Mccoy@sbcclobal.net or Wendy@willowtreepress.com. Either one of them can set things up as well as send you a copy of my event contract outlining my requirements for travel, lodging, and compensation. Just a quick note – my schedule can tend to fill up fast so book early. You may also wish to check my schedule on my website first, but please note – just because a date has not yet been scheduled on that page does not mean it is guaranteed to be free.

14. I am having trouble with this/that/who/what/when and I need you to give me a spell.

I am sincerely sorry that you are having issues with someone or something. You have my deepest sympathies, as I deal with my own issues in my own life as well. That said, and this is probably going to sound harsh, but there’s no way around that – No, I am not going to “give you a spell.”

Here’s the deal: I write fiction novels about a Witch. I do NOT write “how-to” books about magic and Witchcraft. However, even if I did write non-fiction that would not mean I had hung out a shingle purporting myself to be the spell merchant of the Internet.

Yes, I have a rich and diverse background in Earth Based and Magical/Magickal Spirituality, however, just because I write a series of fiction novels featuring such and present a workshop or two on the subject at events, this does not make me your local “Magical Pharmacist” who dispenses spells and charms as if they were generic pain pills and antidepressants.

If you wish to play around with or  better yet, seriously practice Witchcraft, Hoodoo, or any other magical system out there, I would highly suggest you purchase a non-fiction book on the subject and read it beginning to end. There are a enormous number of absolutely fantastic authors out there who write just such tomes, and I even have several of their works on the shelves here in the office for reference myself.

15. You blogged (Hypersonic Man Squee!) that you were going to be on a podcast with, and get to speak to, your all time favorite actress, Megan Gallagher. How did that go?

Ms. Gallagher was absolutely lovely, and I do mean lovely. Down to earth, personable, funny, and an absolute joy to speak with and listen to.

Me, however… I did just what I feared I would do and had even stated on my Myspace page that I would likely do – I went completely fan boy on the poor woman, and blithered like a total idiot. Fortunately, thanks to some absolutely superb editing by the techie co-host of the Millennium Group Sessions, Troy Foreman, I sounded halfway reasonable on the final version of the show that is actually available for download- but only halfway. A good 20 minutes (best guess) of me gushing, rambling, and making a fool of myself ended up in the trash bin (or, more likely made into a “blooper reel” so that Troy and James can play it back and laugh at me. Trust me, I don’t blame them. I would laugh at me too if I wasn’t completely mortified.)

And, if I had to guess I’d say Ms. Gallagher probably hung up the phone  at the end of the interview then immediately contacted the authorities to have an ex parte restraining order sworn out against me. I don’t blame her either. While I am perfectly harmless – and, moreover, painfully embarrassed by my descent into unbridled fannishness – she has no way of knowing that.

If there is a benevolent deity out there somewhere (besides E K, what with her not being all that benevolent, as we well know) it is my sincere hope that I am smiled upon and never have occasion to run into Ms. Gallagher at an S/F Con where I might be appearing, or anywhere else for that matter. If I do, I can guarantee you I won’t have an opportunity to go fan boy again, because I will die right there on the spot, a victim of a massive coronary brought on by my own abject embarrassment over what a complete and utter moron I was during the recording of the interview.

Sounds like it went pretty well, eh?

Okay… That’s about all I can take for this episode. Keep the questions coming and I’ll keep making up crap to answer them.

Seriously. If you have a question email it to me. You just might end up in a blog…

More to come…

Murv

This is likely to be my final blog post. The end of an era, the sad and pitiful end to Brainpan Leakage and anything that has passed for humor in it over the last several years. I’m sure my loyal readers are now asking, “Why would you stop blogging, especially after going through all of the trouble of moving B L over here to WordPress and all that jazz?”

Well, it’s simple. Within a 24 hour period following the “deployment” of this particular post, I will probably be dead. Corpsified. X’s on the eyes. Pushin’ up daisies. Stiff as a board. Croaked. No longer among the living… Well, you get the picture. Just insert your preferred euphemism and sally forth… In lieu of flowers, send booze and cigars…

Now, I am sure you are wondering why it is that I figure I will be dead. Again, there’s a simple answer to that one. E K will be killing me. How she’ll do it is anyone’s guess. Gun, knife, running over me with her car, who knows… It’s probably a safe bet that it won’t be poison, since she doesn’t cook, but I suspect the rest of the methods are up for grabs. Of course, if she suddenly offers me a sammich, then I suppose it could be death by arsenic. But, I think that would be some long odds, because it would still involve use of the kitchen and once I’m croaked she won’t have anyone to do the dishes.  Still, take it from me… Knowing her like I do, I am certain my demise will be slow and painful, for me at least. I’m sure she’ll enjoy every minute of it. In any event, if you happen to be starting a pool on this, think outside the box. Remember, she’s evil, and extremely creative. Very convincing too. I’m sure she’ll have a perfectly reasonable explanation for the investigating authorities.

Yep… I can already hear the gears meshing and smell the wood burning as you all try to figure out why E K would want to kill me… Well, I keep telling you she’s evil, but y’all just don’t listen. And besides, you don’t live with me, so obviously you aren’t privy to a good portion of what could serve as her impetus… However, in this case all of that is really a moot point. The simple truth is, she will be committing blatant spousicide, (as I said earlier, probably only after gleefully subjecting me to some extreme and prolonged spousal torture), and it will be all because of the story I am about to tell.

You see, some time back when I was bouncing blog ideas off my dear and lovely, (figuratively, folks… I didn’t actually hit her with stuff… If I’d done that I’d already be dead)… But anyway, during one such conversation E K told me she liked my blogs when they made her look good. Anything where she came out on top and I was revealed as the bumbling klutz, worshiping her from my station at her feet was all right by her. As to the rest of it, her reaction was something along the line of, “Meh.”

Not surprising. Remember, she’s heard most of these stories before, and was even present for many of them…

Of course, I immediately pointed out that any time she appeared in my blogs, she was always portrayed as the beautiful, intelligent, crafty, and yes, overly evil,  heroine. That last part, of course, is merely truth in advertising. Furthermore, I reminded her that I was always painted as the complete doofus.

She cocked her head to the side, raised an eyebrow, frowned, tapped her foot in that evil “let me explain this again you moron” sort of fashion, then said, “Kmart?“

Yeah… In case the rest of you don’t recall this grandiose f*ckup on my part, during the “Mahwage” blog series I outed The Evil One as having purchased her wedding dress from Kmart. I paid for that… Or, I thought I had…  I even have the lash marks to prove it… But, apparently there’s some interest, or hidden principal, that I missed when I made out the check…

So… The long and short of it is this… If the Kmart thing was enough to get me long term punishment, the story I am about to tell is enough to get me tortured and killed. Count on it. Truth is, I may even qualify for the full William Wallace treatment, so don’t be surprised if I am drawn, quartered, and have my individual parts buried in landfills at the four corners of the earth.

So, again I am sure you are wondering why I am going to tell this tale if I already know doing so is equivalent to signing that proverbial death warrant? Man, y’all are just full of easy questions today… Are you taking pity on me or something?

Thanks… I guess…

Well, at any rate, the answer is once again, as I said, simple… Because it’s funny. Well, it’s funny to me. And to the few folks to whom I’ve told it to in secret, (but only after having them sign off on a non-disclosure agreement). Hopefully it will be funny enough for y’all that it will make up for my untimely corpsification. I guess we’ll find out.

On that note, the story you are about to hear is true. The names have not been changed because there is no innocence to be protected. Again, in lieu of flowers, send really good scotch, bourbon, and cigars to wherever E K buries me. I don’t know if they have liquor stores and smoke shops on the other side of the veil, so I want to be prepared…

Now, on with the crime…

Umpty-jillion years back… Okay, seriously, it was more like about a decade ago… E K and I had ourselves a wedding to attend. Not ours, someone else’s. It was for some good friends we had known for quite a while and were a part of our particular circle. Therefore, while we didn’t know everyone at the reception…you never do…our core group was there to help celebrate.

Now, going to a fancy wedding and reception at a fancy hotel pretty much means you shouldn’t show up in shorts and a t-shirt. Especially since this happened in January and there was snow on the ground. But, of course, those of you who know me are well aware that I do the whole shorts and a t-shirt thing year round. But, as usual, that’s not my point. What I’m trying to say is that we got ourselves all prettied up. I did the whole button down shirt, tie, slacks, nice blazer thing. E K, naturally, did the whole eye-popping killer dress thing with heels. And, I need to point out that since this was a fancy party deal and all, she wasn’t wearing everyday go-to-work shoes. She was prancing around on a shiny pair of CFMP’s… (For those of you who may be unfamiliar with that particular acronym, it stands for “Come F*ck Me Pumps“… Yeah… Bedroom shoes.) Now, before you shake your heads and mutter, “tisk-tisk,” I am not bringing this up just because I like seeing my wife in heels. We’ve already established that I do… However, this is actually a very important part of the story… After all, this post is titled “Gimme Mai Shooz…”

So… There we are at this party. I’m looking kinda okay… You know, about as silk purse as a sow’s ear can get once it’s cleaned up… E K is, of course, looking amazing, as always. The party is raging around us. Food is served, booze is flowing, and dancing is happening.

Now, at this point I have to give you a tiny bit of background… At this juncture, E K and I had been trying to start a family. There had been miscarriages involved, along with a whole lot of stress and urgency… I mean, we weren’t getting any younger, and the bell on The Evil One’s biological alarm clock had already been hammering out a deafening cacophony for a couple of years. But, at this point in time, after repeatedly trying and failing, we had finally taken our own advice and decided it was time to simply relax. If it was going to happen, it was going to happen. Enough said. Because of this, we didn’t even have to flip a coin that evening with regard to a designated driver. I told E K that since she had been putting herself under all this stress, and had been living in her own private, self-imposed “dry county” for several months, that I would take it easy on the drink and let her do the table dancing and lampshade wearing at this particular shindig.

She was all good with that…

One more important piece of background… In our youth, E K used to drink me under the table. Once I was there she would kick me repeatedly and use me as a footrest, but that’s a different story… But seriously, this tiny little, 100 pound when soaking wet, waifish doll, could pull a Marion Ravenwood and go shot for shot of hard liquor, then still be perfectly coherent and drinking when everyone else was passed out, or laid up in the hospital being detoxified (See: Raiders of the Lost Ark, bar scene in Nepal). It was truly a sight to see. But, as I said, that was in our youth… And, we weren’t exactly youthful anymore… We weren’t as un-youthful as we are now, but you get the point. On top of that, she was out of practice… See where I’m going?

So… Yeah. The Evil One came down with a severe case of the drunks. Now, for those of you who don’t know E K, there is only one way you can tell she has even been drinking, and that is the fact that she starts talking. You see, The Evil One is generally very reserved and quiet. Probably because inside the pretty head of hers she’s hatching evil plans against the world. But seriously, she really is a quiet and reserved type of person, especially in crowds. So, when you see her out on the dance floor, giggling and bouncing off the walls, it’s a good bet she’s had a drink or two… or three… or four.

But, as I have tried to illustrate above, an attack of gregariousness is pretty much it. She doesn’t get sloppy, falling down, toilet bowl hugging drunk. I’ve never seen her go that far… Well, until that night.

However, we aren’t there yet. You see, as the evening wore on and all was good. E K was flitting about, dancing, laughing, bouncing around, and just generally having a great time. It was wonderful to see her de-stressed for a change. But, as usual, all good things must come to an end. As expected, at umpteen-thirty in the morning the party reached its inevitable conclusion and everyone parted ways to head to their respective homes, us included.

I should have known right away that the booze bottles E K had tied to her tail were drained dry the minute we started out across the parking lot. Remember, I mentioned this was during the winter and it was cold outside. My dear and lovely, who freezes to death when the temperature drops below 70, pranced right out through the cold night in her slinky dress, coat over her arm, and completely unfazed. Obviously, her anti-freeze was working just fine.

Fortunately, it was a relatively short drive home, however, this was when things started going south. Anyone who has ever done any drinking to excess knows that there are two scenarios that come into play here. One is, if you’ve been sitting at a table tossing them back, once you stand up, it’s all over but the funeral. The other is, if you’ve been moving about like a crazy person while downing the booze, once you stop moving, it’s all over but yadda yadda.

Well, obviously, E K fell into category two. Now, fortunately there was no hurlage or any such grossness, but by the time we arrived home she was doing a lot of moaning and whenever she spoke it sounded like the language our daughter used to speak when she was around 18 months old, punctuated by an occasional, and perfectly understandable, “Oh sh*t.”

Now, I’m sure you are all wondering what’s so funny about this… Well… Nothing. That’s because this isn’t the funny part. This is just the set-up. You know how it works by now…

So, anyway, we get into the house, and while the walk from driveway to living room wasn’t exactly long, E K was ready to sit down. She plopped onto the couch and moaned some more. Being the good guy I am, I pulled her shoes off and propped her up so that the sofa would only spin at something near half speed. I figured I’d be sitting up with her for a bit so I took off my tie and started to get comfortable when she mumbled, “Ahm gomma gro banoom.”

Naturally, since it sounded like she had just told me she was going to explode, I said, “What?”

“Erm gon manna berf noom,” she replied.

Unfortunately, I had left my drunken E K to English dictionary in the car, so I simply stood there and puzzled over what she was trying to tell me. For a moment I thought maybe she was saying, “I’m gonna barf soon,” but she didn’t look particularly green around the gills, so I chalked that one down as a possibility, and continued to ponder.

With an exasperated sigh that was somewhat dangerous due to the fact that it could have been ignited by even a small spark, my rag doll wife mumbled once again, “Annem gimma froom.”

With that she rocked forward and pushed herself up off the sofa. With a quick twist she started forward and her eyes suddenly expanded to the size of salad plates. Right before my eyes, she collapsed downward as if she had just tripped over a curb. I jumped forward, caught her before she hit the floor, and settled her back on the couch.

Less than a minute later, and this time with no warning, she tried getting up again. She came to her feet, teetered, stepped forward, stepped back, then fell straight down onto the couch.

I laughed. Probably not the best idea, but hey, it was funny… But, things were about to get funnier…

She stood again, teetered back to front, then pitched forward a second time. And, once again I stepped in and caught her before she did a face plant on the hardwood.

“Ammen gimma badda froom..” she insisted, pointing past me and down the hallway. Or, at least that’s where I thought she was pointing.

Putting 2 and 2 together I surmised that she wanted to go to the bathroom, so I asked her, “Do you mean you want to go to the bathroom?”

Yeah, I know, obvious question, but I was tired.

She nodded, then her eyes got big again as she mumbled something a little more decipherable. “Ohm sit!”

I was still holding her up, so I hooked my arm tighter around her waist and tried to guide her around the coffee table. We made it exactly 1 and 1/2 steps before she teetered backwards and toppled onto the couch, nearly taking me with her.

She giggled. Then she giggled harder. Then she mumbled, “Ohm sit…” again.

I said, “Okay, let’s try this again.”

As I started to pull her up she raised her eyebrows and began to babble. “Gamma sous.”

“What?” I asked.

“Ganmanna souses.”

Again, like an idiot, I asked, “What?”

“Ginnama soons,” she replied a bit more adamantly.

I shook my head. “Honey, I don’t understand what you want.”

She let out an exasperated sigh, drew in a deep breath and tried to focus on me. With what was obviously a huge amount of effort  in order to form semi coherent speech, she demanded, “Gimme Mai Shooz!”

Well, having been drunk before I know how it is. You get attached to something, important or not, and you want to make sure you know where it is at all times. Be it a bottle cap, a swizzle stick, or even your shoes.

So, I turned around and plucked the pair of stiletto heeled pumps off the coffee table and handed them to her. She rocked a bit then pitched herself forward and tried desperately to fit the left shoe onto her right foot. In this case, however, it wasn’t so much that she was trying to put a shoe on the wrong foot, she wasn’t even able to match the shoe with real foot. It seems she was seeing several, so her aim was way off.

After watching this for a half minute or so, I knelt down and took the shoes from her hands and slipped them onto her feet. After all, it seemed important to her that her feet no longer be naked.

Once I had done this she mumbled something then gave me a nudge, which I interpreted to mean, “get out of my way you idiot.”

Apparently, my translation skills were getting better. As soon as I had stood and backed away, she pushed herself up and stood perfectly without even teetering. Then, without another word she pranced off to the bathroom in a perfectly straight line, no bob nor weave save for the sexy sway that afflicts a woman in high-heeled footwear.

I suppose it’s kind of like the Sid Caesar sight gag joke about the staggering drunk guy who can suddenly walk a straight line during an earthquake. In this case, however, instead of a natural disaster, apparently some form of female fashion physics is involved. I don’t have the necessary plugin to show the equation, suffice it to say, the answer to the variable seemed to be, if you get drunk while wearing high-heels, don’t take them off until you are  either sober or passed out.

And now, I need to go finish writing my Last Will and Testament…

More to come? (I guess that really depends on how merciful The Evil One decides to be…)

Murv

PS. For readers of the Rowan Gant saga… Did you ever wonder where I got the “drunken Felicity” scene in Never Burn A Witch? Well, now you know…

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