BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Right out of the gates allow me to point out that Kurt Cobain and I share the same birth date. Now, I’ll grant you, there were quite a number of years separating us – he was the youngster and me the oldster – and I’m also still having those birthdays, quite unlike him. However, the point is we share a birth date so I think that allows me to bastardize the names of a couple of songs. So there…

Of course, as usual this blog is not about Kurt Cobain. Nor is it about Nirvana, The Foo Fighters, or any such thing.

It is, however, about Lithium… Or Thorazine… Or Haldol… Or any other antipsychotic you might be able to imagine. Why? Because I know some folks who need some. Scratch that… “Some” isn’t even close. Dump truck loads… Tanker truck loads… Just keep it coming.

But, let’s jump back to the beginning… Sorta.

You see, as an author of Paranormal Thrillers / Dark Urban Fantasy, I get to meet some very interesting folks. Some of them are, as I said, interesting. Others are more along the lines of interesting… Get my meaning?

Allow me to illustrate. I recently launched a book. Some of you may have heard of it – Miranda: A Rowan Gant Investigation. Now, as with previous books and as many authors do, I had a launch party. Nothing big. Not really a soiree or anything. Just a big cookie and a book signing. In the past I’ve done bigger sorts of parties for book launches, but I went for a minimalist approach this time, mainly because the economy sucks. But, I’m getting off track…

This go around I arrived at the store that was hosting the launch and they were also having a psychic fair. All good. More traffic, more folks to chat with. No problem there. Well, a psychic fair means “psychic readers”… Folks tossing out tarot cards, runes, whatever. Again, all good.

Or, so I thought…

I hadn’t been in the store 10 minutes that I was approached by one of said readers. The first thing she said to me was, “You’re the vampire guy, right?”

“Ummm, no,” I replied. “I’m the author guy.”

“But you write about vampires,” she said.

“No,” I replied with a smile. “Actually, I write paranormal suspense thrillers about a witch who helps the Saint Louis police solve serial murders and the like.”

“But there are vampires in them.”

“Well… I wrote one book that had a serial killer who pretended to be a vampire,” I said, picking the particular volume from the table and holding it up. “It was titled Blood Moon.”

“Well, I’m a real vampire slayer,” she replied, not even bothering to look at the novel in my hand.

I blinked. I blinked again. Then with my outside voice I said, “I see.”

My inside voice, however, was saying, “Sugar, I’m pretty sure you aren’t that Buffy chick… She’s quite a bit younger than you…”

“That’s what I do,” she continued. “I travel around the world slaying vampires.”

My outside voice said, “Oh. That’s nice.”

My inside voice spoke up again and said, “Really… And you hide the bodies where?”

“I just cut the twelve cords,” she announced.

My outside voice said, “Oh. That’s nice.”

My inside voice said, “You might have cut the cheese, but that’s about it. I think it’s more like you just escaped from a mental ward somewhere and people in white coats are looking for you.”

“I gathered up the twelve cords of the blah blah-blah de blabbity blah blah blah…” she continued.

My inside voice said, “I wonder how much Haldol it takes to put you down? You aren’t all that big, but with this level of psychosis I’m thinking, oh, I dunno, a quart. Quart and a half?”

My outside voice said nothing.

However, my outside face smiled and my outside head nodded. When you run into interesting people at a book signing, that’s pretty much all you can do unless you want to look like an ass to all of the actual interesting people who are standing around waiting to chat with you.

Eventually “Buffy” started winding down, “Blah blah, de blabbity and so a crack in the earth is a good thing. Oil spilling into the gulf from the earth just goes to show you that I managed to slay blabbity blah blah vampires.”

“Oh. That’s nice,” my outside voice said.

“Yeah, you’re definitely a fucking frootloop,” my inside voice mumbled. “Oil spilling into the gulf is a good thing? Sheesh…”

“So, you don’t read?” she asked.

“Sure I read,” I replied. “I mean, I write books so it kinda comes with the territory.”

She shook her head and gave me an exasperated sigh. “I mean you don’t read for people.”

“Come again?”

“You aren’t a reader. You don’t see things like the person in your book.”

“Oh,” I said with my outside voice.

“Here we go…” I said with my inside voice.

My outside voice continued talking. “No, I don’t talk to dead people or have visions like my character, but I have helped the police in the past by answering questions about paganism and some of the symbology.”

“Then that’s what you should do,” she announced.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You should quit writing about it and just help the police.”

I shook my head. “Why?”

“Because then you’d be helping.”

“I think I’ll stick to writing,” I said with my outside voice. “After ten books it’s kinda become a habit.”

My inside voice said, “Wrong guess on the Haldol. Gonna take three quarts for this one…”

“Well,” she grumbled as she wandered off to do a psychic reading for a client. “I was really hoping for your fans to show up so I could slay them.”

“I wonder if they have sharp, pointy objects in this store?” my inside voice wondered.

“Oh. That’s nice,” my outside voice said.

But, you know what made the day even better? A few hours later one of the other “readers” came up to me and said, “You’re the vampire guy, right?”

I sighed as my outside voice automatically spewed, “No, I’m the author guy.”

“Jeezus H. Chhhhhrrrriiiiissssst! Not another one,” my inside voice groaned.

“Oh,” she said. “Well, I just read Abraham Lincoln:  Vampire Hunter, and it’s a true story taken from his private journals, you know. So, I thought you would find it interesting that one of our presidents was a famous vampire slayer and we’re just now finding out about it.”

“Oh. That’s nice…”

She’s all yours, Seth*. I don’t do vampires. That’s your schtick… I already have a whole box of frootloops who think they can actually ride brooms. I don’t need your mixed nuts too…

More to come…

Murv

* Seth Grahame-Smith – author of Abraham Lincoln:  Vampire Hunter

A few years back I was in a shoe store. Yeah, I do that sometimes. Not in the creepy, shoe fetish sort of way mind you. I actually have to go in and buy myself shoes every now and then. I could go into all sorts of details about how I wear out my shoes differently than most folks because of an old, severe injury that causes me to favor one leg – and I’d be telling the truth – but that’s not really what this blog is about.

Well… Except that I was in a shoe store because I had worn out my shoes and it was time for a new pair. That part is what it’s about… sort of.

Anywho… There I was in the shoe store and I’d picked out a pair of not so terribly expensive tennis shoes. Next to me was this bin, and in said bin were those reptile shoes. You know… Crocs. Actually, these were Crocs Knockoffs… Crockoffs, as it were… So, just for grins I dug through, found a pair in my size, tried ’em on, and since it was BOGO day at the shoe store, bought them. I figured if nothing else they’d make good shower shoes or something, given that I am booked at a lot of outdoor, weekend festivals  in state parks and such…

Well, as it turns out, I found these things to be pretty damned comfortable. So much so, in fact, that I wore them around the house, when I was taking out the trash, and even when I’d go to the store. Eventually, like all other shoes, they wore out. The straps broke, the treads wore off, etc. However, I still have them. The straps weren’t anything that couldn’t be fixed with a couple of heavy duty snap-ties. The treads – well, as long as I stay away from slick surfaces I’m all good… On that note, I forgot about that once, and ended up sprawled on a parking lot in the rain.

I haven’t forgotten since.

But, moving right along. E K – you knew E K would come into the mix at some point, right? So, anyway, the evil one was out shopping the other day and ended up in the official Crocs store. This prompted her to call me because they had a sale bin, and certainly I needed a new pair of Crocs. Obviously she was feeling magnanimous on this particular day, because she was willing to spend 10 bucks on the real deal instead of 5 bucks on the knockoffs.

After much kibbitzing, during which I explained that I should probably be present to try them on first, she bought me a pair anyway. You see, when E K has her mind made up, it’s pretty much made up, and there’s no dissuading her from her evil plan.

Unfortunately, what she brought home was more in line with something the Jolly Green Giant would wear. Given the old adage about shoe size, I can only assume this was wishful thinking on her part, if you know what I mean.

So, anyway, fast forward a week or so. Against my will, as usual, I was forced to go shopping with E K and the o-spring. Part of the grand plan was to exchange the gun boats at the Croc store for something a little more along the line of normal sized shoes. However, no matter which pair I tried on, none were just right. Either they were way too big, or just plain too small.

So, I suggested to E K that she either exchange them for something she wanted, or simply return them.

Did you know that Crocs Store employees apparently work on commission?

I didn’t then, but I do now.

Yeah. I have a new pair of Crocs. They don’t fit me worth a damn, but the fifteen-year-old behind the counter guaranteed me that within 3 days they’d be just fine, because they are, after all, Crocs.

I wonder if I could just cut the soles off and glue them to the knockoffs?

More to come…

Murv