BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

…to elicit a prescribed response.

Yeah, I stole that from Roadhouse. Why? Well, because I think it is a funny line when heard in context, but mainly because I just came back from Texas. Okay, okay, you silly movie purists, I know Roadhouse supposedly took place in a fictional town outside of Kansas City… But, it might as well have been Texas, so just bear with me a bit, okay?

Get your coffee and settle in. This one is going to be long…

So, Texas…

First off, I did manage to find my passport. While the hat police did have a bit of an issue with me when I got off the plane at DFW, they finally granted me a Visitors Visa and due to my nationality (US Citizen) the cowboy boots and hat ordinance were waved – something to do with diplomatic immunity or some such. Anyway, that meant I didn’t have to wear a hat or spend four thousand dollars on a pair of cowboy boots, which is all good. Not sure I could have expensed that one and gotten away with it.

As soon as the Visa was issued I walked 916 miles from terminal A to terminal B (had it been over 1000 I would have taken the skytrain/tram/thingamajig). After arriving there I grabbed a 99 cent turkey sandwich from Starbucks. (AKA Star-make-a-Bucks…Note, I did NOT say I actually paid 99 cents for it. In fact, I think I paid something on the order of 6 bucks for it…And these were real bucks, not “star” bucks… It was, however, still nothing more than a 99 cent turkey sandwich if you get my meaning.) After that I did my good deed for the day by opening a bottle of orange juice for a little Asian boy whose family couldn’t read the instructions on the side of the bottle. Only then did I catch my connecting flight, which was interesting in itself. Why? Because we took off, had a glass of water really quickly as Nancy, our flight attendant, did a wind sprint up the aisle and back, then we landed. Yeah…short flight. REALLY short flight. I’m given to understand it would have been even shorter but we had to fly around Dubyah’s ranch…National security and all.

Arrive Killeen/Fort Hood…I had been told that everything in Texas was big. The Killeen Regional Airport, however, was the exception. 6 gates and a parking lot. Let’s just say the average K-Mart is a LOT bigger than this airport. But, they had my luggage, so it was all good…Now, speaking of luggage, as I wait for it to arrive I look out the front windows of the airport…Across the parking lot I can see Morrison waving her arms. But, she wasn’t waving at me…she was simply talking…(You see, if you were to tie her arms at her sides she wouldn’t be able to talk…So, no gag necessary. Just don’t let her wave her arms and she’ll be quiet.) With her she has the sisters. As in, the Sisters of the Earth and Sea. Now things get really interesting…

I really don’t want to bore y’all with a long and drawn out diatribe, so I’ll touch on the important points…

1) We were assigned “handlers” so that everything would run smoothly. You’ll see why I tell you this in a minute…

2) We have these ABSOLUTELY INSANE rooms at the hotel… And, when I say insane I mean they are the size of my living room and dining room put together, with enough amenities to make them self-sufficient. See below…

3) We had baskets full of cool stuff like cigars, booze, and the ever necessary Texas to English/English to Texas dictionary. Very important while visiting a foreign country when you don’t speak the language.

4) We had itineraries which included times blocked out for fabulous dinners. (Yeah, they FED US! Can you believe that? I didn’t even have to beg an MRE!)

So anyway, I suppose I should get to the good stuff.

Day one – We do a meet and greet that evening after being checked into the hotel and given some time to freshen up. The Meet ’n Greet goes off famously. We meet and we greet a ton of wonderful folks at a local restaurant bar, where they have our promo posters hanging in the windows and everything. We even get a visit from several members of the local Chamber of Commerce.

Day two: Our handlers retrieve us from the hotel late morning. Morrison and I have had plenty of time to relax, have leisurely breakfast, and sit around shooting the breeze while downing several pots of coffee.

When our handlers arrive at the hotel they have the front desk call us from the lobby. I had not yet perused my Texas to English dictionary and that combined with the fact that I am hard of hearing to begin with led to a bit of confusion – It went something like this:

Ring! Ring!

Murv: Hello?

Front Desk: Is this Mister Sellars?

Murv: That’s what it said on my driver’s license when I checked it this morning.

Front Desk: (confused silence) Ummm, okay… I was asked to call you and tell you that the Bride is here.

Murv: (chuckle) She is? Well, what’s she wearing?

Front Desk: (VERY CONFUSED Silence) Uhhh… Ummm… Multi-colored tie-dye.

Murv: Okay, tell her I’ll be right there.

Front Desk: Ummm…yeah. Okay.

During the elevator ride to the lobby Morrison and I discuss the confusion on the part of the desk clerk. It finally dawns on me that she and her Texasness had said to me “The RIDE is here.” Rather than allow Morrison to use this as a story to embarrass me, I make a preemptive strike and tell everyone about it myself, effectively turning it into a great anecdote and reaping the humor benefit for myself (2 points for me.)

Anywho, after having a good laugh over this we get taken to a wonderful lunch, then off to the store (Sisters of the Earth and Sea) where we meet up with many of the wonderful folks we had met the night before such as, Helga the Evil German Woman (also known as Althie – she owes me Sauerbraten next time I’m there…), Stephanie the adMINION, Tiger, Mark, Spanky the Wonder Monkey, and a whole mess of other folks. Morrison goes in the back and plays cards. Rumor is the house paid out, so she must have done pretty well. Oddly enough, the folks who walked out of the card room seemed happy, so I’m guessing they didn’t lose too much money. Me, on the other hand, I hung out with the rest of the folks since Morrison was being antisocial with her card game, and I even presented a seminar on writing and getting published. We had fun, and what was supposed to be a 1 hour talk turned into 2 hours. Morrison got a little pissy about that, but that’s just because people decided I was more entertaining than her. I’m used to that, so I just ignore her. (LOL)

After that we had dinner at a place where they serve big ol’ hunks of dead cow. Life was good.

Day three: Ostara Fest 2008. Now, as it happens, this is the reason I felt a need to quote Patrick Swayze’s character from Roadhouse…Why? Because Ostara Fest ’08, presented by The Sisters of the Earth and Sea, was held in a real, live Texas roadhouse. Yeah. No kidding. Big ass building with bars everywhere, huge dancefloor, stage, and…well… huge. Really big. GI-Normous. Gi-Hugic. Hunormous…Extra Large… XXXL… You get the meaning…

And, it was a Roadhouse. I kept expecting Swayze and Eliot to walk through the door at any minute, but I guess they weren’t really needed because everyone was very well behaved. (Grin)… And, I have to tell you, I had never attended a fest in such a place before, but I can’t wait to do it again. It was an absolute blast! They even had a belly dancing troupe that did some kind of two-step line dance thing wearing jeans and cowboy hats instead of the regular dancing outfits.

The attendees were amazing. Being an Army town the was a huge percentage of military and military family. Some of these people had only been home from Iraq for a month or two. Others were going to be on their way to Iraq before long. I have to say I was proud of all these folks, as well as humbled. Some of these kids were less than half my age but have already seen more than they should have ever had to face in an entire lifetime. I literally lost track of how many books I signed for these folks, and what amazed me is that they were all so genuinely appreciative of me simply being there…Not that I am saying other festivals aren’t… Please don’t take it wrong… But, to put this in perspective, I will usually get the “thanks for coming to xyz fest” from 2 or 3 folks at any given festival. Not so at Ostara Fest, and by “not so” I mean very simply that I cannot count that high even if I take off my shoes… Everyone I spoke to thanked me for coming. That, in and of itself, was worth the world to me.

And…as if they hadn’t given me a humbling enough experience, at the closing of the festival Dorothy, Ellen, and I were each presented with a coin… But not just any coin… These were commemoratives that had been specially minted for the members of Victory Base Open Circle, the largest open circle in the military based in Baghdad, Iraq. It was as if we had been adopted by these people, and I’ll be honest with you, I almost started to tear up. No matter how much I thanked them, I don’t think they will ever know how much that meant to me…

I know… I’m not being funny anymore… I’ve turned all serious and stuff… Sorry, but sometimes I have to do that…

Now…Back to the funny… It’s this whole “Handler” thing… You see, I was assigned to Sister Earth.. AKA Laurie… AKA Lolly… So, everything is cranking along… Morrison’s and Dugan’s handlers are seeing to it that they have everthing they need. My handler, however, is nowhere to be found…Gets to be time for Morrison and me to give our workshop. My handler shows up and asks me if I have eaten yet. I say no, but I figured on eating after the workshop – besides, I had a big breakfast and wasn’t really hungry. Fast forward… It’s after the 2 hour workshop and Lolly asks me if I have had anything to eat. I say, “No”. She says, “Okay”, and disappears. Time passes. Lolly shows up again and asks me if I have had anything to eat. I say, “not yet”. She says, “Oh, well they ran out of food.” I say, “No problem. I’ll survive until dinner.” Time passes. Lolly shows up and asks yet again, “Have you had anything to eat?” I say, “No.” She says, “Oh Shit!” I say, “I thought they ran out of food?” She says, “They got more and scurries off.” She returns with a brisket sammich just for me.

Now, before anyone gets the wrong idea here, I’m not complaining at all…Laurie was busy as all hell with the fest, and if I had been that hungry I would have found something. I certainly didn’t expect anyone to wait on me. I’m not like that. The only reason I told this story is because Laurie felt soooooo bad about “forgetting to feed me” that it became a running joke for the rest of the fest and weekend that “my handler was falling down on the job.” Well, nothing could be further from the truth, but I have to admit, the joke was fun, and Laurie is so good-natured that she rolled with it and spent a lot of time making fun of herself over it. They told me when I come back they are going to assign me a different handler, but I really hope they don’t. Laurie and I got along way too well and besides, I bet she won’t forget to feed me again (ROFL!!)

Anywho – Later that evening, another fantastic dinner, this time at the hotel restaurant. Here is where I have to give kudos to our waitress, Samantha. She had been our waitress that morning for breakfast as well. She was working a double shift with only a half hour or so break, but she was still right on top of things. Pleasant, cheerful, and really took care of us. When we found out she was working a double the next day as well, Morrison and I arranged to be seated in her section for brunch so that we could see to it she got a gi-hugic gratuity. And, as always happens when Morrison and I are together with her gray hair and my gray beard – we got a senior discount. (ROFL!)….

Day four: This was the day all about seminars. Following the most amazing brunch buffet I have ever seen, with shrimp the size of small lobsters, Texas shaped waffles, and damn near anything else you could dream of to eat, we visited with Samantha for a bit then were picked up by my handler. She was running a bit late due to some issues she had to deal with at the store, but that just made for something else I could rib her about, and it was all in good fun. We did our seminars and chatted with some wonderful folks about all manner of things. Then had a relaxing evening at Sister Sea’s (Joyce) house, visiting with her, her husband Butch, their daughter Jenn, Granddaughter Emma, and Laurie. They served a spectacular meal of Red Beans & Rice, and Chicken Gumbo…I was stuffed.

The next day, Monday, they actually allowed me to emigrate from the Republic of Texas and back into the United States before my Visa expired.

So…There you have the basic rundown… If you are ever in the area, or live in the area of Killeen/Harker Heights, TX, you really should visit the Sisters and tell them I said hey. Tell Althie she needs to get going on that Sauerbraten, and let Stephanie know what a great job she is doing. And, not only should you shop there, you should make it a point to attend Ostara Fest 2009. I’m telling you, it was fantastic, and if that was only their first festival, I can’t wait to see what 2 brings…

So, in the end, other than leaving all those wonderful folks behind, there was only one real disappointment for me – Fort Hood shares the airport with Killeen so when we landed I saw a tarmac full of Apache Helicopters sitting there. What’s the disappointment with that, you ask?

I didn’t get to ride in one.

More to come…

Murv

…And an E…BOOZE RUN!

Okay, so I’m not so good with songs, but that was the best I could do with the word booze since the song BEER RUN was going through my head.

Now, in reality I had intended to blog about Jane (aka The Bitch in the Box), because yes, I really do think Jane is kinda hot. Even if she is simply a box of electronic components with a sexy voice that sits on the dashboard and barks orders. (turn here, turn there, take the motorway, etc…)

But, Morrison beat me to it. Go figure. (But, what with Morrison getting on in years and not really being quick on the draw, I guess I should just let her have that one and call it good ) If you want to read about it, go here: Bitch In The Box.

So…Anyway, back to the Booze thing. What I am about to tell you is a little known secret about Morrison. She’s a bootlegger. Well, actually, I don’t suppose she’s a bootlegger in the strictest sense, but that’s what I like to call her. Why? Because it’s fun to pick on Morrison.

Anyhow, here’s the deal. New Hampshire has no sales tax. They also sell their booze in State owned and operated, discount liquor stores. So, wine and spirits are much cheaper there than in most other places throughout the US. Anywhere from a few bucks to even 20 bucks per bottle, depending on what you are buying.

So…Whenever we are on tour through New England, and have a need to pass through New Hampshire, or near New Hampshire, or within some secretly prescribed spitting distance radius (to which I am not privy) around New Hampshire, we go liquor shopping.

Not for just a couple of bottles, mind you.

Morrison fills a suitcase.

A big suitcase.

Really.

There have even been threats of leaving me and my luggage on the side of the road in order to fit the bounty into the vehicle.

I’m serious.

Now, lest you think wrongly and assume I am telling you Morrison is a drunk, let me dispel that. Morrison rarely drinks. I’ve known her for years and have seen her take maybe three drinks that entire time. She’s just not a drinker. No kidding.

Smoker? Well, that’s another story entirely, but she already lives in a place where cigarettes are cheap…And, of course, there is always the coffee.

(Yes, folks, that is REALLY just coffee in that cup…I know it for a fact. I’ve made enough of it for her when she’s stayed with us…Hell, I even have a 2 burner, 3 minute Bunn™ that I keep going at all times when she is here. Note, that when she is staying with us is the only time that piece of equipment actually sees action. We affectionately call it “The Morrison”. as in, “Hey, did you get The Morrison out of the basement? Morrison is gonna be here any minute,” and “Hold on while I fire up The Morrison. If she wakes up and there’s no coffee we’re all gonna get killed.”)

So, nope, Morrison is definitely not a drunk. But, she still fills a suitcase with assorted bottles of booze. You see, whenever we are going to be within the secret spitting distance of New Hampshire, Morrison’s husband and friends make out a list, check it twice, and then send her on a mission to return with good booze at discount prices. So ritualistic is this practice that I have now been on three separate “booze runs” with Morrison. It’s a good thing the folks in New Hampshire put several of these liquor stores right out on the highway near the state line. You almost have to wonder if they are doing that just to lure folks in.

Anyway, this tour we did a booze run. As usual, while Morrison was in the parking lot tossing things everywhere in order to fill the suitcase, I stood by with my diminutive personal stash– a bottle for me, and a nice bottle of Scotch as a gift for my wife.

Now, here’s the sad part of the story. And, it actually has nothing to do with Morrison, as amazing as that may seem.

I flew home on Saturday (6/2)…I had left behind my open bottle at Morrison’s place because I drink enough of their booze when I am on the road with her that I am sure I owed them at least that. Probably more. Unfortunately, I was so wiped out from the 15 days on the road, (yes, from the time on the road, not from the drinking) that by the time Saturday rolled around, my brain was firing on only one cylinder and it had a bent valve at that.

Yes…Without thinking, I put my wife’s gift– a rather expensive (even by New Hampshire discount standards) bottle of 16 year old, French Oak Cask Aged, Reserve, Glenlivet Single Malt Scotch– into my carry-on. I know better than this. I have logged more hours in the air than some flight attendants, so I know what I can and cannot take in a carry-on.

But, I did it anyway…Like I said, without thinking. Most likely because my brain simply wasn’t up to thinking.

So…At Dulles International airport, there is now a TSA official with a very nice bottle of Scotch. They told me they were going to throw it away, but I argued with them about that, insisting that at least ONE of them HAD to be a Scotch drinker, and that if they were going to confiscate it anyway, they needed to do me the kindness of keeping it as a gift, with my compliments, and raising a glass to me as they enjoyed it.

I’ll admit, it was my mistake stuffing it into the wrong suitcase…This certainly qualifies me for the idiot of the year award…

…But, if those TSA folks threw that bottle of Scotch in the trash, then I think I am in no danger of winning, because that would make them bigger idiots that me.

More to come…

Murv