BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

It was the late 60’s.

The most important things in my world were my bicycle, Shakey’s Pizza, and committing my multiplication tables to memory so the teacher wouldn’t frown at me. Television had three channels – on a good day – and it came at you from behind a wall of staticky snow on a thirteen inch, black & white Philco with tin-foil molded around the rabbit ear antennae.

Yeah. Back then they made foil out of tin instead of aluminum. Probably because it was a better conductor for the airwaves and they knew damn well that just as much of it would be used as antenna boosters as it would be for wrapping foodstuffs.

So, that was my world, living in that little house on Baltimore Avenue.  However, on a daily basis I heard about a place called “Vietnam”. It was a faraway land. The ghostly TV screen images of newscasters like Walter Cronkite told me all about it, and convinced me that it was someplace I never wanted to go.

Then, one morning, my mother was opening the drapes on our front windows. As they slid apart she gasped, then muttered, “Oh no…”

My father joined her at the window and his expression turned grim. Being a kid, I had to know what had elicited such a reaction from my parents. I ran to the window and peered out. What I saw didn’t fit with the way they were acting – at least, it didn’t to my young mind. But then, I didn’t understand what I was seeing and I hadn’t lived through the things my parents had.

The tableau on the other side of the picture window was normal as far as I could see. The street. The houses. Nothing had changed. The only difference I could detect was the dark blue, four door sedan parked in front of the house across the street. On close inspection, one could see some official looking words stenciled on the driver’s side door, although they were unreadable at this distance. The only other things out of place besides the car were the two solemn looking men in uniform standing on our neighbor’s front porch.

Back then, I didn’t understand. There are those times now that I wish I still didn’t. But, I am also thankful that I do.

Yesterday I posted a Facebook status update lamenting the fact that I hadn’t yet written my Sunday morning blog entry, and wondering at what the subject should be. I received many suggestions, most of which will probably end up as future entries. However, when I sat down to pen this one something dawned on me…

I have an uncle buried at Jefferson Barracks Cemetery. He saw action with the Navy in Korea. I have a great uncle who saw action in Korea as well. My grandfather was in the National Guard during WWI. My father-in-law was in the National Guard. At least one of EKay’s uncles saw action in WWII.

I have an uncle who was in Vietnam. I have friends who were in Vietnam. I have friends who were deployed during Desert Shield and eventually, Desert Storm. I have relatives who pulled multiple tours in Iraq. I have friends whose children – kids that I watched grow up at our weekend BBQ’s and float trips – who have seen action in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Friends in the Air Force. A nephew who was a Marine. A nephew who is going into the Air Force…

The list goes on, and on…

So, today, instead of writing something funny, I thought maybe I’d take a moment to say thanks to all of my family, friends, and everyone else in uniform who is separated from me by a mere six degrees… I may not always agree with the reason behind a given war, (conflict, or whatever they may want to call it), but I’m thankful for those who defend my right to be funny the other 364 days out of the year.

More to come…

Murv

…is just a cigar.

Several years ago there was this great little sitcom called “Stark Raving Mad,” which starred Tony Shaloub (Wings, Monk) and Neil Patrick Harris (Doogie Howser, Dr. Horrible, How I Met Your Mother.)

The short lived series centered on best-selling (fictional) horror author, Ian Stark. I could go on and on about it, because I absolutely loved the show. Unfortunately, it lasted only one season, and oddly enough was canceled somewhere around one month prior to my own first novel, Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation, showing up in bookstores.

But, I’m not here to rant about stupid TV execs… Even though I’m known to do that from time to time. Firefly anyone? Drive anyone? But, I digress…

Nope, not here to rant on TV guys.  I’m here to talk about something else (as usual). However, we know how my brain works and it just so happens a particular episode of “Stark Raving Mad” popped into my head as an illustration of my point…

Episode 17 – THE GRADE: Quick synopsis – A regular character who is a friend of Ian’s, and who works at the bar on the ground floor below his apartment is going to night classes at the local college. She is working extra hours and in her lit class she needs to write an analysis of a book – as it happens, the book she has selected is one of Ian’s. Hilarity ensues, of course… However, the reason it ensues is that she is so busy she manages to talk Ian into writing the book report for her. Her professor, played by John Lithgow (another of my faves) gives her a B. Ian simply can’t stand it, since he wrote the report about a book he had written in the first place.  Upon Ian confronting the prof,  it is explained to him how “Maddie” (Ian’s friend) had completely missed the underlying meaning of the knife used in a murder. Ian tells the professor, “Sometimes a knife is just a knife.” What makes it funnier, however, is that even after the prof discovers that he is talking to Ian Stark himself, the author of the book as well as the paper, he continues to disagree (and if I recall correctly, even drops “Maddie” down to a C.)

And that, my friends, is “what I’m talkin’ about”…

Sometimes a knife is just a knife, a cigar just a cigar, and a redhead just a redhead – although I would prefer you not tell E K (or Felicity for that matter) that I made that last comment.

My point is, I write novels. And believe me, I dearly love the fact that there are people out there who become emotionally invested in the stories. I think we’ve already established in a previous blog entry that I do as well.

However (You saw that coming, correct?) based on some of the “fan mail” I receive I feel compelled to point out a few things…

They are stories. Works of fiction. Not instructional manuals for your Wiccan coven.

Just because you live on a street that has the same name as a street in one of my novels, that doesn’t mean I am writing about you. Really. Seriously. We’ve never even met, so how could I possibly be writing about you… Wait. Don’t answer that. I’m relatively certain I don’t want to know the convoluted logic…

Just because you have red hair it doesn’t mean you are Felicity.

You are not… I repeat NOT… the “reincarnation” of Rowan Gant. (Honestly, I don’t even begin to understand that one. He’s fictional, but even if we discount that fact, he’s not even dead.)

I could go on and on, but I think you get the point. Sometimes a cigar is just that… A cigar.

And a novel, no matter how entertaining, is still a novel…

More to come…

Murv