BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I was going to call this “It’s Just An Egg Sandwich…”, but then I had one of those moments of inspiration. Either that, or gas, I’m not sure which. In any event, I’m hoping Kurt Vonnegut will forgive me for throwing down some massa-cree on his title. After all, I did use the short version*. That should count for something.

So it goes**… Why was I going to call this entry “It’s Just An Egg Sandwich…”? Well, that’s fairly simple, actually. Mostly because I happened upon the idea of writing it while I was in the middle of fixing myself an egg sammich… On whole wheat… With cheese… And ‘mater. Kinda makes you hungry, eh?

So it goes…  The whole egg sammich thing was one of those, “Oh yeah, that again… maybe I should write about it,” moments. You know, sort of like Deja Vu, but not. Mostly because I don’t allow my deja to be vued.  It’s way too personal.

So it goes… I was standing there fixing myself an egg sammich when it suddenly dawned on me that at some unknown point in the future I would be doing something equally mundane, but that I would just as suddenly flash on the fact that I had once been standing there fixing myself an egg sammich and thinking about the fact that at some unknown point in the future I would be thinking about this moment in time and wondering where all the time that was in between had gotten off to; whereupon I would then think about the fact that I was standing there fixing myself an egg sammich and… Well… I think you get the idea.

And why did I suddenly flash on all that? Well, because in the instant prior to that flash there had been another flash. Not the expose yourself kind, mind you… Although, in a way I suppose it was. Nope… This was another of those flashes in the brainpan.

So it goes… I was standing there fixing myself an egg sammich and thinking about the fact that at some unknown point in the future I would be doing something equally mundane, but that I would just as suddenly flash on the fact that I had once been standing there fixing myself an egg sammich and thinking about the fact that at some unknown point in the future I would be thinking about this moment in time and wondering where all the time that was in between had gotten off to, because I had just flashed on something I had done in the past that was equally mundane while having the very same sort of thought…

And… So it goes… My world falls in upon itself like a shattered mirror, reflecting back what was, what is, and what will be.

Maybe I should change my name to Billy Pilgrim… But then I’d have to get killed by a gullible moron – of course, that’s Kurt’s story, not mine…

I think maybe I should just keep writing. It seems Kurt and I have a lot in common where style and satire are concerned. Hell, we both even have critics that hate us because we don’t follow their rules, and you know what? That suits me just fine… I bet it did Kurt, too. I’ll ask him when I get to the other side. I suspect that is a ways off yet, however, I’m willing to bet I’ll by lying there in my bed thinking about the time I was fixing myself an egg sammich and flashing on the thought that I would one day be doing…

So it goes…

More to come…

Murv

* The actual full title of Slaughterhouse Five is: Slaughterhouse-Five, or The Children’s Crusade: A Duty Dance with Death.

** “So it goes” is a commonly repeated expression employed by Vonnegut in the book, Slaughterhouse Five.

The 3/4 of a cool grand all started with an unnaturally perky, raven-haired hottie, a really sharp looking pair of hooker shoes, and the promise of an extended lap dance I would never forget – nor would anyone else for that matter, what with it being executed smack dab in the middle of a VFW Hall…

But, before I can really get into that part, I have to give you the background story, or none of it will make the least bit of sense.

You see, I woke up Tuesday last, that being the 15th of March, two-thousand eleven, with a sore throat, an earache, and the sniffles. Initially, I was hoping that the mask of my CPAPian nose hose had merely shifted in the middle of the night, causing me to mouth breathe, snore, and all sorts of other nasty things that would cause such a morning ailment. I was hoping for this because if it was the case, I would be over it very quickly, and considering that on the 17th I had to climb aboard a rocket-propelled cattle car bound for Texas, I really didn’t want to be sick.

Alas, such was not the case for me. By that afternoon I was running a fever of 101, and by Wednesday I was in full blown sinus hell, near laryngitis, and pushing the mercury securely beyond the 102 hash mark. When Thursday rolled around, I really wasn’t any better, although my fever had dropped into the 100 plus range. Instead of hiding from the world – which is exactly what I felt like doing – I went ahead and doped myself up, stuffed 35 pounds of sugar free cough drops into my carry-on backpack, and boarded the plane. However, I left my blue suede shoes behind. (I’d give folks two points for getting that reference, but all it means is that they are old like me…)

Keeping to myself, not speaking to anyone unless absolutely necessary, and stifling my cough by chain-sucking cough drops, I rode the first sardine can to DFW, and the Airborne Eggbeater to Killeen, Texas. Why? Because that’s where the Sisters of the Earth and Sea are, and just as importantly where OstaraFest 2011 was taking place. And, since I was a guest speaker, I kind of needed to be there…

Lolly (L), Joyce (R) with their 2010 COVR Retailer of the Year Award

Joyce (Sister Sea) and Lolly (Sister Earth) picked me up at the 6 gate eggbeater terminal, then shuttled me back to Joyce’s house where I was going to be crashing for a few days. Sister Sea, being a Chemist, Mathematician, and all around great gal, proceeded to doctor me with an herbal tincture concoction she calls “Skunk Jooce” (note: that’s MY spelling on the Juice. It just seems to add a little more mystery in MHO) and an herbal decoction called “Healer Tea.” Apparently the “Healer Tea” is widely known to induce eye-watering, sneezing, and to clear sinuses simply by coming within three feet of it while brewing. Srsly. I saw it nearly take out Joyce and Lolly right where they stood.

Me? I couldn’t even smell it. That’s when Joyce decided that I wasn’t just sick, I was “mostly dead.” It’s a good thing she could teach Miracle Max a thing or two. (Good on ya’ if you get the reference, but still no points…)

Eventually, after resting up, it was time for dinner. Butch, Joyce’s husband, and Jennifer, their daughter, had been working in the kitchen all day in order to create a fine, fine dinner of Cottage Pie, Corned Beef, Cabbage, Potatoes, Irish Soda Bread, and other trimmings necessary for a lovely Saint Patrick’s Day dinner.

No more had we begun to shovel food into our mouths – because even when I’m mostly dead I have to eat dinner – the phone rang.

THIS was when I first became aware of the perky girl with the hooker shoes, and life would never be the same again…

(To Be Continued in Food. It’s Not That Hard… – coming Sunday 3/27/11…)

More to come…

Murv