BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

February 20th is one of those really, really momentous days in history…

Some of you may remember, and by the same token, some of you may simply be too young to remember. You may have read about it in history books, but that would be as close as you came to touching it…

So, what am I rambling about?

47 years ago, on February 20, 1962, Astronaut John Glenn left this earth, and returned safely,  aboard a Mercury Space Capsule, dubbed Friendship 7. In doing so, he became the first American to orbit the earth.

Just for the record, Alan Shepard was the first American Astronaut in space, aboard the Mercury Capsule Freedom 7, in May 1961. The distinction of first human being in space was earned by Russian Cosmonaut, Yuri Gegarin aboard Vostok 3KA-2 in April 1961, beating out the US by nearly a month.

Those of you who know me, or have been following my blog for some time already know of my fascination with the space program. Even those of you who became readers of Brainpan Leakage only recently, are probably aware of this fact if you have been following the Mahwage series of entries. So, my apologies for spewing space trivia at you… It’s just one of those things.

Still, taking all of the above, and more, into account, I suppose NASA and our space program have been major landmarks for some of the most important events in my life…

• The Challenger Disaster and that fateful job interview that led me to meet, and eventually marry the love of my life, E K.
• Apollo 11, the first manned mission to land on the moon. This would be when my teachers in elementary school suddenly realized I was academically way ahead of the curve. I believe what tipped them off was me walking into class with a detailed scale model of a Saturn V rocket I had built from scratch out of things I found around the house… (As in, I had no plastic modeling kit, just junk, pictures, and my imagination.)
• And, yes, among other things, February 20, 1962…

You see, I have to admit I don’t clearly recall Astronaut Glenn’s historic orbits around the earth. At the time, I was in a small town called Fulton, Kentucky, and I  was somewhat preoccupied with being slapped around by a doctor, as I ventured naked,  screaming, and kicking into this world.

Yeah, today is my birthday. I awoke this morning to a Friday  just like any other Friday. Cleaning litterboxes, taking out the trash, getting my wife off to work, my daughter off to school, starting laundry, making calls to order parts for the kitchen faucet that elected to break at an inopportune moment, and even sitting down with a cup of coffee to get some other work done.

But, today, in addition to that work, as  gift to myself I have spent my time piddling around on the Internet instead of tossing words at an upcoming novel… I mean, after all, it’s my birthday. I should have a little fun, right?

Ever since last evening I’ve been receiving numerous emails from folks, countless postings on my Facebook wall, and even on my Myspace comments, all wishing me the best for the day and the year to come. I thank each and every one of you for those kind thoughts. I appreciate you taking the time out of your day to send me those notes, because I am the first one to admit that I am terrible about doing so myself. I get a bit preoccupied and often forget about such things, especially since we didn’t really make a big deal about birthdays in my family. Still, I want you all to know that I appreciate it.

Late this morning, I was even rousted from my comfortable chair here at my desk by someone pounding on my front door. To my surprise, when I answered it a lady presented me with the flowers pictured above… A gift from Samantha Beaty and 13 Magickal Moons, my favorite bookstore, (and bookstore owner), for signings, workshops, and even just plain visiting. I have a ton of friends there. Too bad they are in Virginia and I’m here in Missouri or I’d drop by and have a few drinks with the crew.

A few days ago, I received a delivery from my touring buddy, Dorothy Morrison. She sent me a bottle of booze, go figure.

But, seriously, she knows I happen to be a big fan of Maker’s Mark, so she and her husband sent me a “patriotic” bottle of the fine Bourbon.

She also made me promise I would open it and drink it… I said I would, but I’m not going to get in a hurry about it. I already have some Bourbon open, and besides, the red, white, and blue bottle looks pretty good up there on the shelf.

Knowing my penchant for  odd T-Shirts as well, the box included one of those too. It is emblazoned with a furry critter and labeled with an easily recognizable stylized script, proclaiming him to be “Hairy Otter.” You can expect to see me wearing it at an upcoming gig this spring / summer / fall…

…And who knows what’s in store for this evening. I couldn’t help but notice that E K laid out a bunch of leather items, stiletto heels, and such like before she left  for work this morning… Just kidding… Fact of the matter is, the poor woman had a horrid tension headache when she headed out, so I figure she will be the one on the receiving end of  the attention this evening. She’ll have to get all “Evil” on me some other time… And besides, like I said, birthday’s aren’t that big a deal on my side of the family, so we usually just have a quiet celebration with a few close friends, some stir-fry, and a whole mess of Sushi. I’m afraid that won’t be happening tonight, due to schedules and such, but we’ll be taking care of it in the near future… Tonight we’ll probably just sit around and watch Sarah Connor Chronicles, Dollhouse, and Numbers… Maybe I’ll even toss back a quiet Bourbon or two to celebrate…

And, so, here I am… This old farm boy is another year older, officially and everything. Whether or not I am any wiser remains to be seen…

On that note, Tammy Jean, a good friend of mine sent me an email a bit earlier, wishing me well on this day… In my response to her I discovered an interesting mathematical anomaly. I mentioned that my brain still felt 25, but that when I get up in the morning my body feels every bit of 72.

Those were just the numbers than happened to roll out of my brain, for whatever reason… It wasn’t until I did the math that it made an odd sort of sense…

You know, what with 72 minus 25 being equal to 47…

I wonder if there is a similar calculation for that elusive wisdom?

More to come…

Murv

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…