BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I actually have two of them. One is Wendy with WillowTree Press. The other is Scott McCoy who is an independent, outside publicist – meaning he is with an outside firm, not the publisher proper. This blog is about him. We all affectionately refer to Scott as “Chunkee”, because he’s a big guy. (I have to pull a Rowan and look up, just like Row does when he’s talking to Ben.)

Anyhow, I am fortunate in several ways having Chunkee and Firestorm Publicity Services… For one, Firestorm is located in St. Louis, where I live, so they are local. Makes it easier to meet up with the Chunk Man. For another, Chunkee is a good friend, as well as being my publicist. And, finally, he is more than just a friend and publicist, he’s kind of like a personal assistant as well.

To explain, he not only puts out press releases and other things that a publicist does, but he also books my gigs, handles a lot of my correspondence, and has even acted as “bodyguard” on the couple of occasions when that has been necessary.

Now, if all that isn’t enough, he also understands when it is crunch time for me trying to get a manuscript in by deadline. He knows that when such times arrive, I need not be disturbed unless it is something incredibly important. But, he also knows that I get moody and need comfort type stuff…

So, here we are at crunch time. I have a deadline to hit in about 10 days. So, I’m busy. I’m grouchy. And, I’m in need of those things which comfort my very soul.

Chunkee could tell this by the simple tone of my email responses to him…

Therefore, as I sat here at the dining room table, tapping away at the keyboard yesterday, I heard a car door, then the storm door on the front of my house creaking open. A moment or two later, I heard the car door again, followed by a vehicle pulling out of my driveway and heading off down the street. No doorbell. No knock. Nothing.

Curious, I went to the door and noticed through the windows that the storm door was propped open. Now… Like Rowan, my heart skipped a beat. I wasn’t expecting any kind of delivery, and I have had stalkers in the past… My initial thoughts were– If I open the door is something going to explode? Will it maybe be some flaming poo instead? What could it be?…

So, with great trepidation I carefully opened the door. There, resting on the threshold I found a grocery bag with a note from Chunkee pinned to it, which read simply:

Care Package For Murv.

Looking inside I found a six pack of Blue Moon Belgian White Ale, a bag of “scoop” corn chips, and a jar of chili cheese dip. Three of my favorite comfort foods.

All I can say is Chunkee be the man. I couldn’t ask for a better publicist, or a better friend.

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