BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

…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

Wellllll, it seems the topic of Wendy’s struck a chord with many of you. I’ve received many comments and emails asking me to tell the story now instead of waiting until I come off the road.

We are still in Sanford, Maine, but right now Morrison is waxing prophetic about various things to a room full of folks (i.e. she’s giving a workshop and I’m not)…Sooooo, that means I actually have a little free time between signing books for folks. It’s probably the only free time I will have until we reach the end of the tour so I thought I’d drop in and run off at the mouth myself.

Big surprise, right? (Grin)

So, here’s the thing…I like hamburgers. Cheeseburgers, actually. Now, given a choice I will go for a really good restaurant style burger, but I don’t always have that opportunity. In a pinch, I’ll go for a fast food burger, and that includes Wendy’s. Now, of course, they have the odd notion (much like White Castle or Krystal’s) that hamburgers are square. This is something that I have problems wrapping my head around (yes, I know they stack and ship easier that way, but hamburger are round, cornbread are square where I come from…) Still, as fast food burgers go, Wendy’s makes an edible “sammich”. And, White Castles (i.e. belly bombers, sliders, whatever) are just horribly addictive. This is one of the reasons why I am inclined to believe there is something terribly evil about square hamburgers.

Anyhow, this book tour started in Nashville, TN…Burns, actually…And that was great. I’ll talk more about that leg of the trip when I do the flying pigs blog…Stop number two, however, was Indianapolis, IN. We started out on Monday last (5/21) with a fairly leisurely drive to Indiana from St. Louis. We hooked up with one of our favorite folks, Edain McCoy, who was gracious enough to open her home to us.

After the gig at Inner Path that evening, we were hungry. Now, something I’ve rambled about in the past is the fact that when authors get together they kibbitz and commiserate. Since we hadn’t seen Edain for some time, we decided we would all go back to her place, get in our “jammies”, order a pizza, and then visit for a few hours before grabbing some sleep.

This is where problem one occurs. Edain lives in a new subdivision that is outside Indianapolis proper, and no one was willing to deliver. Problem 1A is that there isn’t much around her area other than a CVS and a Wendy’s…Since the CVS was closed already (not to mention that we weren’t really all about nuking a frozen dinner), Wendy’s it was…

We all put our shoes back on (yeah, after being on your feet and such at a booksigning it is a great relief to do the patented “Die Hard” practice of kicking off your shoes and walking around making fists with your toes. Fortunately, Hans Gruber hasn’t shown up to chase me yet whenever I have done this…) So, anyway, we climb in the car and head for Wendy’s.

We reach the lovely oasis of square pressed beef patties and park. About the time we reach the door we discover a sign which says “Short Staff – Use Drive Thru – The Management”…Okay, no big deal. We get back in the car and put ourselves into the queue. When we finally reach the menu board a very unhappy sounding voice barks “Can I help you?”

Well, since I was driving I was charged with the duty of dolling out the orders, so I start the first of the three and the voice suddenly barks again, “You’re going to have to wait a minute.”

Okay. Obviously this person is harried here. No biggie, we wait.

And we wait…

And we wait.

Then we waited some more.

Finally, the still rather pissy voice comes back on and says, “Sorry for your wait, what would you like to order.” As an aside, I don’t actually believe she was sorry at all, but that might just be me…Anyway, I tell her, “I have a few orders here,” and then I give her the first. It happens to be Morrison’s and she wants something akin to a double burger with no pickles or ketchup and a side order of left handed wingnuts with flying monkeys. Okay, so I can’t remember her exact order at this point, but suffice it to say I couldn’t get across to Morrison that we weren’t at Burger King and that Wendy’s motto was NOT have it your way. But, Morrison never listens to me anyway, and to be honest that’s not actually an important point.

It was at this point the pissy voice barks back, “Are these going to be all on one order?!”

Okay…My bad. I had used the phrase “a few orders” so I can easily understand the confusion. I replied, “Yes, it’s all one order.”

This was problem two. Miss Piss on the other side of the intercom didn’t let me get even that short sentence completely out of my mouth before once again demanding to know if it was one order or if it was going to be several tickets. As soon as I could get a word in edgewise I said, “No hon, it’s all on one but I just have to get the individual orders from a few different folks in the car.”

Now…I am willing to admit that there might have been a bit of mild exasperation in my voice, but nothing angry or pissy. I even have witnesses to that effect. I am also willing to own the fact that I said “hon”. Maybe that was a problem too, but I am from the South and that is not a particularly abnormal thing to say. Of course, maybe in Indianapolis it is viewed as condescending, I don’t know. If it is, I can only apologize and say that it certainly wasn’t my intention. Either way, I am willing to own those two points and state that if they were the problem I am at fault.

However, I don’t think that was the problem. What I am inclined to believe is that someone didn’t feel like working. Anyhow, Miss Piss proceeds to begin talking over me again. This time, however, she shouts something on the order of, “There’s no reason for you to have an attitude and if you’re going to give me attitude you can just leave!”

Remember, she didn’t “say” this. She SHOUTED this.

We all blinked.

We blinked again.

Even with the highway nearby you could hear a pin drop.

Then we collectively picked up our jaws and reseated them on our faces.

Morrison tells everyone now, after the fact, that she was sitting there counting down because she knew we had about five seconds before the tires would squeal. I don’t doubt this. We know each other fairly well.

Well…About five seconds later, the tires squealed. Not because I was being hot headed, but just the nature of accelerating away across asphalt while turning the wheel. As we pulled from the parking lot, Miss Piss actually hung out of the drive through window and screamed very sarcastically, “Have a nice evening!”

Morrison has perpetuated this story all over Pennsylvania and New England ever since. Everywhere we go she now tells everyone that, “Sellars got her kicked out of a Wendy’s in Indianapolis.” Of course, she does then tell the story so that everyone knows she is just joking about the “kicked out” part.

I have to wonder if Dave Thomas is rolling over in his grave. Who knows…Maybe he will haunt his daughter and while she is surfing the web perhaps she will run across this blog and discover the fresh tarnish on her name.

Oh, and by the way, we did finally get something to eat…We had Taco Bell for dinner that evening, and it was very good. The people working there were even pleasant and polite.

I think I’ll probably visit Taco Bell again. Wendy’s, not so much.

I guess this just proves that square hamburgers really are evil. Something even tells me Miranda probably likes them a lot…

We are off to Long Island tomorrow for an evening book signing and workshop, so I doubt I’ll have much of a chance to post anything more until the end of the tour.

So….Till the next time…

Murv