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  • Squirlz…

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    This is probably going to sound a bit weird, but I think maybe Jerry Garcia came back as a squirrel and he’s living in my back yard with a whole raft of furry dead-heads.

    081129-squirrel-hmed-5p.hmedium Yeah, I’m sure you are probably wondering what I’ve been smoking that would make me think such a thing, but interestingly enough, that’s kind of the point behind this whole blog entry. Not the smoking per se, but the ingestion of psychedelic substances, and no, I’m not talking about a rainbow bomb pop from the ice cream dude.

    Now, as a rule, I think squirrels are pretty cool. After all, I am a devout follower of Foamy, and I regularly exchange Tweets on Twitter with Butters The Squirrel. For those of you who are unfamiliar with these two tree dwelling rodents, Foamy is the activist with a foul mouth, and Butters is quite a bit more of a pacifist. Basically, I suppose I am covering all of the bases in the event of an unexpected “Squirrel Uprising.”

    funny-pictures-say-anything-squirrel Now, lest you think I am merely playing both sides against the middle, I am also a great supporter of the squirrel kingdom across the board. I have a pinwheel feeder which I keep stocked with feed corn (incidentally, my father-in-law calls it a squirrel gymnasium), and when winter rolls around and the temperature drops off, a big part of my morning routine is preparing breakfast for the tree rats. I do this by breaking a couple of slabs of Ramen noodles into squirrel friendly sized pieces, then coating them with chunky peanut butter and rolling them in sunflower seeds & feed corn. Not exactly gourmet, but I haven’t had any complaints yet. In fact, Clem and Cletus, a couple of my regulars, can often be found peering into our dining room from the picture window while they wait for the restaurant to open.

    But, let’s get back to Jerry and the Dead Heads living in my back yard. You see, I’m actually old enough to remember Jerry. I’m also old – and experimentally curious – enough to have experienced the Dead Head culture. Now, I never actually followed The Grateful Dead across the US in a beat up microbus. Truth is, I never even attended a Dead concert in person (I could only afford just so many concert tickets). However, this is not to say that in my younger, wilder, less inhibited, and somewhat stupider years I didn’t maybe partake of a few controlled substances.

    Yeah, I inhaled.

    And guess what, I don’t intend to run for public office, but if for some reason I do lose my mind and put my name on a ballot, here you go. No digging required. Get over it, odds are you inhaled too.

    But, moving right along… There was another substance that made the rounds with the Dead Heads, that being The Magic Mushroom. Yep… Psylocibin containing psychedelic fungus. Happy toadstools from the cow pasture. Your ticket to the magic kingdom.

    Did I ever partake of them? Well, I probably shouldn’t say… But in case you are wondering, for the record those things taste like crap. (whoops… oh well… didn’t say I was proud of it, but hey, I’m being honest here…)

    And so, anyway, Funny Fungus is exactly why I think Jerry and the Furry Dead have pitched a tent city in my back yard. You see, the other day I pulled into the driveway, parked and all that jazz. However, unlike any other day I heard this loud thump as I climbed out of my truck. Darting my eyes in the direction of the noise I saw a wild eyed tree rat perched on the railing of my trailer. He began chittering at me, as squirrels tend to do, then darted off down the length of the flatbed following an erratic serpentine pattern. Against my better judgment, I followed the little furbag.

    Before I even reached the back gate I saw a half dozen more squirrels running around the yard like their tails were on fire and their nuts were catchin’… Aww, come on… I mean like peanuts, walnuts, hickory nuts… sheesh, you dirty minded folks… Anywho, I watched as they darted about, jumped up onto the deck railing, beat their tiny little paws against their chests while doing these squeaky little, high-pitched Tarzan yells, somersaulted onto my BBQ pit, ran up a tree, jumped 72 feet to the roof, double back flipped into the wading pool, and then started all over again.

    Let me tell you, it was a sight to behold.

    magic mushrooms I stood there wondering what had gotten into them when something caught my eye. A couple of the tree rats who weren’t engaged in happy jungle gym time were sitting back on their haunches atop a stump. In their paws they held huge chunks of brownish-orange fungi. Before long, one of the crazed rodents who had been doing the backstroke in the offspring’s pool ran up to the stump, tore a hunk of the fungus from the side, then sat back and began gnawing on it. My guess is that his Psylocibin levels were getting a bit low and he needed a booster.

    This continued daily until the fungus was all gone. No big surprise there. I almost offered them a boom box and a stack of Dead CD’s, but they seemed to be getting along fine without tunes.

    And, you know, I can’t say as that I blame them for the rampant, repeated frolicking and going back to the trough for more, so to speak. As I recall, the magic kingdom was a nice place to visit. Not a place where I’d want to live, but hey, it had it’s moments.

    Still, with that said, if I ever catch the little bastards cooking up meth in the tool shed, I’m having squirrel and dumplings for dinner that night.

    More to come…

    Murv

  • Psycho Kat: E Kay’s Psychological Ops…

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    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:

    EK Facebook Status

    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…

    nickys

    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.

    johnathan

    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?