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

Being the marketing whore I am, I belong to several e-lists, forums, and even social networking sites (other than MySpank here). I would like to point out, however, that I am more along the line of a high-priced call-marketer, rather than the street corner quickie. Why? Because I try to show a little class.

I take great pains to avoid being one of those incredibly ridiculous, in your face authors who twists any and all subjects around to a mention of their latest book. For example, say you have a thread where someone says “I like oranges”…If for some odd reason I was to throw my two cents in there, it would be something along the lines of “Yeah, me too. Especially the navel oranges because I don’t like seeds.” Whereas, some of the cheaper, street corner author-whores might seize upon that opportunity to post something like, “Well, if you like oranges you should read my latest novel because in chapter 15, my protagonist, Buck Naked, eats an orange before going out to track down the bad guy, Chronic Halitosis.”

I know…It sounds utterly ridiculous, doesn’t it? Well, even though I have never seen a post specifically about an orange, I have seen some just as convoluted…Some, even worse. We call this Blatant Shameless Self-Promotion. (BSSP or BSP) While self-promotion is an absolute must for authors, being so completely insane about it is…well…just icky.

What in blue blazes does this have to do with pink toenails? Not a damn thing. I just wanted to make it clear that while I’ll readily admit to being a whore, I’m neither cheap nor easy. And, “I gots class.”

Okay…So now that we have established that, back to the topic at hand. Actually, the above really does have some small amount to do with this– that being the fact that I belong to so many different lists, forums, and social networking interfaces on the web. What it comes down to is that I see a whole mess of discussions on a whole mess of different topics. Some of them so-so, some of them interesting.

And there you have it. One of these topics on a forum recently caught my attention. In fact, it has appeared on several forums, and even as commentary/questions in my personal email. While I didn’t feel a need to toss my two cents in on it at the time (nothing had been mentioned about oranges in any of the threads or emails, so why would I?) events of the last day have led me to blog about this subject…

The topic in question was, “What do authors do in their free time?”

Some of the speculation was interesting. People commented about different authors they had met in person, stating that they seemed like down to earth folks who would fit right in with their personal circle of friends. Some wondered if it was a taboo to offer to buy lunch for an author or would you be seen as a stalker (for the record, we like free lunches…but not stalkers.) Others waxed prophetic about how much fun we must be having in our multi-million dollar homes with the indoor-outdoor pools, and high-caliber celebrities coming over for parties. I am sincerely hoping that those commentaries were tongue in cheek, because I have yet to be issued my mansion and yacht…

So, in addition to the “wonder if authors hang out with their friends who knew them before they were authors” kind of questions (yes, we do, BTW), there were the typical “what’s a day in the life of an author like?”

Well…I could ramble on for hours, boring you with the details of getting up in the morning, getting my wife off to work, my daughter off to school, doing dishes. cleaning up cat barf from a geriatric, diabetic feline, spreading notes out on the table and plotting a chapter. Then, typing for a couple of hours, deciding it isn’t right and cutting and pasting for a while, only to go back and write it all over again. Making a fresh pot of coffee while eating a sandwich over the sink…Answering the phone only to discover that it is a radio interview you forgot you were supposed to do but your mouth is full of braunschwieger and swiss on whole wheat with a bread and butter pickle slice…So you wash it down and get on with the interview only to discover that the interviewer has never read your books, or even a synopsis–just two lines of the press release. Therefore, she has concluded that you must be an FBI agent and you spend 11 minutes of the 15 minute interview fielding questions you can’t possibly answer about the inner workings of Quantico while trying to convince her that you do NOT work for the FBI…Finally, you get that done and say to yourself “now where was I?”. You manage to get back to what you were doing (writing…after all, that’s what we do) and if you are lucky you get your self-imposed quota written for the day just in time to get your happy ass into the kitchen and make dinner before evil wife person and the kid get home…And, you do ALL of this without ever once wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches. (My preferred mode of dress is much classier. Cargo shorts, a t-shirt, tube socks, and if I have to run out to the post office or something, my tan Crocs…See a previous blog for details on those…)

Not very glamorous, eh? Kind of like going to the office, working on a project only to discover the data you got from Fred is wrong, so you have to redo half of it…however, you get interrupted by the boss because he/she needs you to stop what you are doing and take care of something else, even though it is something you aren’t qualified for and would be better done by Sally in accounting. Only to wind up your day picking up a bucket of chicken on the way home because the spouse has to take the kid to soccer practice. But, when you arrive late you discover the dog couldn’t hold it so he crapped in your living room…

See the parallel’s there?

“But, Murv! What the holy hell does this have to do with pink toenails?” you demand.

That should be obvious from paragraph 10. I have a daughter, and she’s at “that age.” No, not the age where she brings boys home and I sit in the living room cleaning guns. That’s a few years off yet. She’s still a munchkin and she is at that stage where she wants to be a girly girl (which is fine) but she also wants everyone around her to be pretty too.

So…What did this author do with his free time yesterday? After doing the grocery shopping and other exciting crap like that, he let his 7 year old daughter paint his toenails pink (along with a good portion of his toes).

My wife claims there’s no nail polish remover to be had in the house. I’m pretty sure she’s lying. I can tell by the evil grin.

Till the next time…

Murv