BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

THE PUF REPORT: Part 1 of 5

Some of you may have actually “friended up” with E K on Facebook. To you I say, “What in the hell were you thinking?!” I mean, after all, I warned you. I have cited examples, explained, warned, waved flags… But, did you listen? No. So, as far as I’m concerned you have no one to blame but yourselves. If you willingly walked into the web of the evil redhead, well… All I can say is, told ya’ so…

Anywho… Those of you who were silly enough to end up pinned to the wall like a butterfly in her personal collection have likely already seen this next bit of text. For those of you who were smart enough to not end up in her killing jar, firstly, good on ya! Secondly, here’s the text in question:

Now, as you can see, this was her status on May 27. The following morning we were set to leave for PUF (Pagan Unity Festival) in Burns, TN. This is an event where I have been presenting workshops and signing books every year since 2001. In fact, I have even been told that if I die prematurely, they will dig me up and bring me to Tennessee so that I will always be at PUF. It seems that much like the brewers of Guinness and the bit of real estate where the brewery is located, PUF also has a 999 year lease on me. Fortunately, I don’t mind. 🙂

But, back to our story… Also as noted in that status update there is a little winky face behind the bit about Johnathan getting pouty. Johnathan, by the way, is a very good friend of ours. We’ve known him almost forever… As in, ever since he was a snot nosed, skater punk kid. He’s grown up with a kid of his own now, so that should give you an idea on “forever”. He’s also a fantastic artist who is responsible for the covers of my books. Yeah… I am one of the fortunate few authors out there who is friends with his cover artist. Makes life a bit easier when it comes to collaborating on the vision for the artwork. However, the long and short of the deal is this – Johnathan always accompanies us to PUF. He has for several years now. In fact, he is even considered a part of the PUF Staff now.

And, so our story begins…

Friend or not, E K will not pass up a chance to torture a male member of the species, whether physically or psychologically. Usually it’s both, but since we were short on space in the van she didn’t pack any of her prized instruments of the inquisition. Of course, this didn’t preclude her from invoking her psychological ops.

And, it all began with a winky face.

Now, for you to properly understand the depth of this torture, there are some things of which you need to be aware. To start with, Nicky’s BBQ is in Clinton, KY, not terribly far from the small town of Fulton. It has been around somewhere near the edge of forever. They fix real, honest to goodness, BBQ pork shoulder. Now, when I say BBQ, I mean BBQ. Not some grilled meat with some sickly sweet sauce globbed all over it. I mean slow smoked pork shoulder that has cooked forever and a day over a low, wood fire. Then is pulled apart (hence the term pulled pork), maybe chopped a bit, and served with coleslaw, tater salad, beans, and a couple of slices of bread. If sauce is a necessity, one begins with a liberal dash of Tobasco or Louisiana Hot, followed by a few squirts of a good ‘ol vinegar and pepper based nectar. Of course, this is all served on a paper plate and eaten with a plastic fork.

To anyone from Kentucky, and other parts South, this is heaven on a plate.

As you know, I am originally from Kentucky. ‘Nuff said.

Now, while there are many, many BBQ places dotting the countryside, Nicky’s is one from my youth. As I said, it has been around since the edge of forever. I can remember it way back into my childhood. Of course, being one who likes to share, I introduced my family – and Johnathan – to this oasis of pulled pork on Highway 51.

But, back to E Kay’s evilness…

The reality of the matter is this: the route to Burns, Tennessee does not actually include Clinton, Kentucky. In fact, to go to Nicky’s takes us better than an hour out of our way. This usually isn’t a problem, however, due to the fact that I still have family in Fulton, and we make it a point to take the detour and visit for a bit. And, since we are usually heading down 51 right about lunchtime, Nicky’s is the preferred stop.

Not only that, Johnathan has pretty much come to anticipate it. Much like Pavlov’s dogs, as soon as the trip to PUF is mentioned, he begins to salivate and the first thing he says is, “Are we stopping at Nicky’s?”

E K, being Satan incarnate in a pair of stilettos, usually just smirks and says, “Maybe. What’s in it for me?”

When the actual day of departure draws closer, Johnathan begins babbling incoherently about “pulled pork” and “vinegar BBQ sauce”. His ramblings are overtly punctuated by the word, “Nicky’s” followed by a maniacal cackle. Truth be told, he sounds kind of like Beavis and Butthead on a mission to get BBQ.

E K, of course, continues to torture him with “Maybe’s” and “I dunno’s” right up until we cross the bridge into Kenucky, right there at Cairo, Illinois. You see, that’s pretty much a dead giveaway that we are aiming ourselves for Fulton with reckless abandon. Once we pass by the paper mill at Wickliffe, well then, it’s pretty much a foregone conclusion that Nicky’s is on the menu.

This year, however, my kin had funeral to attend on the day we were passing through. Since timing was everything, we weren’t exactly sure if we would continue on through Fulton, or continuing on. E K, again being evil and all, couldn’t resist getting Johnathan under her heel and twisting it just a bit. At each T intersection she would announce that perhaps we should circumvent the backroads and hit the highway. She would even feign turns in the complete opposite direction of Fulton, all while watching poor Johnathan in the rear view mirror.

The poor bastard started with yelping, “Nicky’s?!” repeatedly, and before long was shaking uncontrollably and mumbling about pulled pork. With each intentional but aborted wrong turn, his anxiety grew and E Kay’s grin widened. By the time we were finally cruising down 51, Johnathan was on the floorboards in the back, curled into a ball and mumbling, “N-n-n-niiiiccckkkky’s… N-n-n-niiiiccckkkky’s…”

At the last minute, the evil redhead whipped the van into the small parking lot of the whitewashed block building, then kicked a blithering Johnathan out onto the pavement. Feeling sorry for him I helped him in the door and to the lunch counter where we placed our orders. Fearing the inherent cruelness of the redhead, Johnathan not only ordered the BBQ plate like usual, but also a pound of pulled pork to go – with extra sauce on the side.

Adding insult to injury, E K kept reaching over and swiping his plate before  his fork could touch it. She would cackle and grin, he would get all teary eyed and plead with her. When all was said and done and she allowed him to eat in relative peace, the poor guy shoveled it in so fast he ended up looking like a toddler who’d had spaghetti for the first time. Pork bits were stuck to his face with a swath of vinegar based BBQ sauce. Potato salad was in his hair, and coleslaw was all over his shirt. He was backed into a corner, clutching a plastic fork and watching E K like trapped prey watches the predator that is about to make it into dinner.

We finally coaxed him out, hosed him off, and managed to calm him down. It took some doing, but I finally got him to leave Nicky’s with the pound of pulled pork hugged tightly in his arms. In an attempt to reverse some of the damage, I offered to take a picture of him next to the Nicky’s sign.

I’m sure Johnathan has a copy of this framed and hanging on his wall. He might even have a smaller one in his wallet to take out and look at throughout the day as he anticipates next year’s excursion.

E K, on the other hand, is already plotting to tell him they moved and left no forwarding address.

More to come…

Murv

Next installment in THE PUF REPORT: Part 2 of 5 – Where’s Kat?

So here’s the thing… Our kid has an addiction. It’s pretty severe, and unfortunately there doesn’t seem to be much we can do about it.  No amount of threatening to take her Nintendo DS away, or confining her to her room has any effect whatsoever. We’ve considered therapy, but it seems our insurance won’t cover it. Yes… It’s that horrible addiction.

Our child is a fruitaholic.

Now, in order to feed the child’s habit, I am forced to make frequent trips to the local supermarket. You see, she goes through fresh fruit faster than it can… well… become not fresh.

Bunch of bananas? Gone. Bag of apples? Gone. Bag of oranges? Gone… And right on down the line. In fact, up until recently the only thing of a fruit orientation I have been able to bring home that didn’t immediately disappear is grapefruit. As it happens, I love grapefruit. Problem is, now the kid does too. My only saving grace at this point is she likes it supremed (meaning, the bitter, tough, membrane removed,) just like I do, but she hasn’t quite figured out how to accomplish that just yet. Of course, that just means I get stuck doing it for her…

But, let’s not get too far off track. This is, after all, a story about E K.

You see, since the offspring goes through fruit faster than a bad case of blight, we tend to keep canned fruit around as well. Of course, being the health conscious folks we are, we go for the no sugar added, packed in natural juices sort of canned fruit. It still isn’t as good as fresh fruit, but it’s a damn sight better than all that heavy syrup or aspartame.

And so, this brings us around to E K.

It had only been about 24 hours since my “Day Of Retribution” for the “Gimme Mai Shooz” blog entry. I was now using a walker to hold myself up in my three-fourths body cast, while dragging an IV stand around with me, and having my dressings changed hourly.  Obviously, I wasn’t moving very fast. Unfortunately, the offspring was experiencing one of her sudden needs for fruit, and the little monkey had already consumed all of the fresh produce in the house. (On a side note, I wish I had her metabolism. I drink a cup of black coffee and put on 3 pounds. She eats a bag of oranges and it’s all good. *sigh* )

But, I digress again…

The kid needed some fruit and though we were all out of fresh, we had some canned stuff in the cabinet. Since my nurse, Brunhilda, had already left for the day, I had no one to help me situate all the tubes and wires from the life support equipment attached to my walker, so I was moving exceptionally slow. In an uncharacteristic fit of pity, E K told me she would take care of it, and then darted off to the kitchen.

Well, you know how E K is in the kitchen. I’ve told you all before… So, suffice it to say, I just continued shuffling my way through the house in that direction. Something in the back of my head told me that it was the right thing to do.

Since turtles were lumbering past me like little green, hardtop Porche 911’s , it took me a while to get to the doorway. I wasn’t really surprised when I scooted around the corner to find E K  struggling with a can of fruit. The same can of fruit she had been struggling with for several minutes, and the can was apparently winning.

“What’s the hold up?” I asked. “The offspring is in there eating the Ficus.”

E K shot me one of those looks that was a mix of, “help me, it’s not my fault, shut up, damn you, my hero, help me, if you say anything I’ll kick that walker right out from under you and dance on your head!, help me dammit!, go away dammit! Gaaahahhhhahahhhh!!!“.

Yeah, I know… That’s an awful lot to get from a single glance, but she can be pretty damned expressive when she wants to be. I think it’s the red hair and the blue eyes that do it.

I didn’t say anything, lest I end up back in the hospital. I simply shuffled over to the island and watched as she went back to struggling with a can of sliced pears and a manual can opener. After several more languid moments of The Evil One attempting to massacre the top of the tin receptacle she let out a frustrated sigh, plonked the can opener down on the counter, then slid the can over to me. She stuttered, “I… well… I did…” Then she pointed at the can and let out another exasperated huff.

I looked at the can.

Then I looked at her.

Then I looked at the can.

Then I looked at her.

She stared at me with the whole, “Don’t make me kill you” expression on her face. Then, just to be certain I understood, she said, “Don’t make me kill you.”

Balancing myself with the walker, I reached out, picked up the can, then slipped my finger through the pull tab on top and peeled the lid open. Yeah… You read that correctly. E K was trying to open a pull tab can with a can opener. In her defense it had been a long day, and she had a lot of things going on that were keeping her a bit distracted in the brainpan. Still… it was a pull tab can and she was gouging the living hell out of it with a can opener. There was humor there. Bizarre, laugh out loud humor.

But, I knew better. I didn’t laugh out loud. No, I was good. For a few seconds anyway. You see, as I sat the can back on counter I looked at her and said, “You know, this is blog material, right?”

She smirked, then began filling a bowl for the offspring. That was an imperative since the child was about to eat all of our house plants. As she spooned sliced pears into a dish she mumbled, “That’s just mean.”

“Yeah,” I acknowledged. “Maybe… But you have to admit, it’s funny.”

“No, it’s just mean,” she replied, then added, “But nowhere near as mean as I’m going to be if you blog about this…”

I have Brunhilda’s number on speed dial, and the medical supply place is going to leave the life support equipment here on sort of a semi-permanent rental basis, just in case.

I wonder if they have free Wi-Fi at the hospital?

More to come…

Murv