BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

There’s this terrific Joe Walsh song called, “Shut Up.”

It starts out telling you about how he gets invited to a party by some folks who are friends he never even met – this is something that happens to celebrities I’m sure, because it happens to me on a regular basis, and I don’t even consider myself a celeb. Just, “kinda maybe possibly known to a few folks who happen to read.” At any rate, the second verse goes something like this:

Well I followed their directions and arrived a little late
I had a couple Chardonnays and started feelin’ great
I said I hate to interrupt, I’ll be right back I gotta pee
30 people in the bathroom started talkin’ to me
They could not shut up (can’t shut up)
(can’t shut up)
I said HEY…shut up (can’t shut up)
They could not shut up

As it happens, this particular verse strikes somewhat close to home…

You see, everyone makes an assumption that I am Pagan. I understand why, I mean, after all, I write a series of suspense thriller novels about a Witch and I include real, live Neo-Pagan dynamics in the stories. I do book signings at Pagan festivals and bookstores, and… well… I did used to consider myself Pagan. For better than 25 years, in fact.

However, I haven’t self-identified as such for a handful of years now. There are some very specific reasons I no longer identify as Pagan – and none of them have to do with religion – but that’s a whole different blog. Maybe I’ll write it some day when I feel up to dealing with the ridiculousness that will ensue.

Suffice it to say, while I don’t call myself Pagan these days, I’m still Pagan friendly and really doubt that will ever change. After all, when I did call myself pagan I was friendly with people in other religions, and still am. No reason for that to be any different.

Oh, and before anyone starts spreading rumors, no, I didn’t convert to some mainstream Judeo-Christian path either. I simply identify as a Free Thinking Secular Humanist where “religion” is concerned. But, as I said, that’s another blog.

This blog is about people in the bathroom…

You see, I do a lot of book touring, a good segment of which involves pagan festivals and stores. 95% of them are absolutely wonderful. 5% of them are unbelievable horrors. Believe me, I have stories… Some of you may have even heard a few of them.

However, even with the 95% that are wonderful, things can happen. These things are generally not in the direct control of the event organizer or store owner, and fortunately, can tend to be funny in retrospect.

For instance…

There’s a great – and I do mean great – store in Newark, OH called Violet Flame. Heather, the owner, treats her visiting authors like royalty. You have a nice private place to sleep, access to a steam bath, she is an amazing cook, and on the last night you are there she holds a shindig in your honor – usually with a band, BBQ, and booze. Guests come and join in for a chance to visit and mingle, as well as a chance to have a laid back, informal convo with the guest author/authors.

It’s a blast, and by far one of the best gigs I do. I love going there. But, even there things can happen.

Back to that “for instance”…

There we were at the shindig. The band was playing and I had even spent a little time behind the mic, crooning with them. They are great guys, because even though I can’t carry a tune in a bucket even if I have help,  they let me get up there with them anyway. Probably because it’s fun to watch me make a fool of myself, but hey, it’s become a tradition…

So, as with any party where one is swilling 14 oz cups of  fermented malt beverage from an iced down keg, I had to go to the bathroom. Unfortunately, I was pinned down in one corner of the deck – figuratively… I mean, I was blocked in, but not really pinned down if you get my drift – by a couple of oddballs who had wandered into the party from a house nearby. It was obvious that they had already been partying plenty themselves. At any rate, they found the free beer, and then found the “famous author.” My ear was being bent and my legs were starting to cross as I did the potty dance.

Eventually, the need became great enough that I pulled a Joe Walsh. Yes, I did in fact say, “I hate to interrupt, I’ll be right back, I gotta pee…”

And, with that, I made a bee line for the bathroom inside the house. Now, that should really be the end of the story. I mean, I had escaped the drunken wingnuts, and I was also about to empty my bladder.

But no… If that was the case this would be a boring blog.

The way Heather’s bathroom is set up, there is a shower room, and a toilet room. I entered, closed the door, then went into the toilet room and closed that door as well. All good, right? Wrong. No sooner had I unzipped, unfurled, and begun to unload, the hinges on the toilet room door creaked.

Figuring it was someone unfamiliar with the setup, I called over my shoulder, “Occupied! Just a minute!”

This was when I almost watered the magazine rack. I didn’t, but I came close.

You see, the female of the wingnut team that had cornered me on the deck  had followed me into the bathroom and she now slipped her arms around me from behind and began to hug me, whereupon she announced in my ear, “I want to be pagan with you.”

At this point I had tied a square knot in Wee-Willy-Winkie in order to halt the flow of used beer, and was trying to stuff things back into my pants as fast as I possibly could.

“Lady, I’m trying to pee here!” I shouted. “What the hell are you talking about?!”

“You Pagans are all about orgies and sex, right?” she slurred. “Well, I want to be Pagan with you.”

By now, even though my tank was only half empty, I had retracted my hose and was twisting out of her grasp, while simultaneously closing the pod bay door (please, Hal).

I didn’t shake, I didn’t flush, I didn’t wash my hands. I just yelled, “Not happening!” as I bolted for the door and rushed through the house.

Drunken wingnut chick was yelling, “Come back,” (seriously) as I exited onto the deck and made a beeline into the yard. I located Heather and immediately told her what had happened. By now, frootloop girl is coming out the back door looking for me, but luckily I didn’t have to deal with her anymore. In that moment, Heather muttered, “fuckin’ chica,” as she stalked off, and that was the last I saw of crazy bathroom woman.

By the way, did I happen to mention that besides being a bookstore owner, festival organizer, and fantastic cook,  Heather is also an ex-cop?

Nope. I’m not kidding…

More to come…

Murv

Have you ever noticed that food modifies our social interaction in ways you don’t normally imagine?

I’m not talking about parties, or dinners with family and friends. Nothing fancy. No linen tablecloths, penguined up waitstaff, or $200 bottles of champagne that taste like crap. I’m just talking about average, everyday noms. The basic sustenance one tosses down their neck in order to fuel the body.

Am I making sense here? Yeah, I figured not. Let me see if I can explain my thoughts on this. You see, contrary to what you might think, I’m not actually a very social individual. I know, I know – I blog twice each week, have pages on all of the popular social networking sites, and I do a lot of book signings. And, if you follow any of my silliness you also know that I  have friends. Yeah, big shocker, I know, but I really do. Some of them even like me. Others, like say Rhonda and Dave are really worshipers of The Evil Redhead, although they don’t mind if I cook for them while they prostrate themselves before E K. (Note that I said prostrate, not prostate.)

Now, I also want to make something clear so there aren’t any misconceptions – I’m not a total misanthrope. Just a partial. What I mean to say is, I enjoy social interaction with my friends (Yes, Rhonda and Dave too), and I have a blast meeting new folks at book signings. However, I also like my quiet time. If you look at my Meyers-Briggs it will tell you I’m an introvert. So, while I really enjoy myself when I am “on” – which is what we tend to call it when I am being that M. R. Sellars guy as opposed to just plain old Murv – I find it equally enjoyable to switch “off”. I’m one of those folks who can become overwhelmed and needs to hit the reset button – you can ask my friends. Even when we have gatherings with all of the folks I dearly love, you will sometimes find me sneaking out on the back deck, beer in hand, just to get away from it all for 5 minutes. I’m even known to bum a cigarette now and then –  and other than some brief topples off the wagon due to extreme stress in my life, I haven’t smoked for 15 years. (except cigars, but that’s a different story.)

So, I think you can see what I’m talking about here. Or, maybe I’ve just muddied the waters. I’m good for that at times. But, either way, let’s get back to the pizza…

The other night, after a marathon writing session during the day, I was not in a mood to shuffle pots and pans in the kitchen. Nor was I in any frame of mind to socialize. This isn’t unusual when I have an intense writing day. After spending a nail-biting, totally immersed span of time in my imaginary world, I need to decompress. And so, I submitted the necessary paperwork in triplicate, prostrated myself, turned on my obsequious lackey charm, and obtained approval from the Evil Redhead to run out and grab pizza for supper.

Down the street from our home we have a chain pizza joint. It’s named after a Roman emperor. Not sure if it’s Julius or Augustus, but either way I’m sure you know which one I am talking about. The dude with the toga adorns their box. Well, as I am sure you are probably aware, they have a special deal on pizzas ready to go. Just drop in and if you are satisfied with plain old sausage, pepperoni, or cheese you are all good. 5 bucks and you are out the door in under 60 seconds – unless they are really busy. And, on this particular occasion they were…

I jumped into line and a minute or two later I was asking the guy behind the counter, “What do you have ready to walk?”

He looked and replied, “Cheese.”

Well, that would cover the O-spring, but E K likes pepperoni and I am a sausage guy. So, I elected to pay for my trio of pies and wait. So had several other folks.

Now remember, at this point I was in no mood to socialize with anyone.  My fictional characters had used up every ounce of my energy earlier in the day. My brain matter was fried. However, this is where the “food modified social interaction” suddenly comes in. There I stood next to the “Group W Wall” with a whole gaggle of folks I had never met and was never likely to meet again.

Less than a minute into my wait the guy next to me looks over and says, “What’d’ja order?”

Instead of giving him a who the hell are you look, I smiled and said, “All three.”

“Yeah,” he grunted. “I’ve been waitin’ on sausage.”

“We ordered supremes,” a couple two windows down along the wall offered.

“Special order, eh?” I grunted.

“Yeah, we aren’t in a hurry,” the male half of the duo replied.

A lady who was two or three back from me in line plopped herself into a seat next to where I was standing and said, “You know what I hate? When someone who comes in after me gets their food first.”

“Uh huh,” I said. “Kinda makes you rethink your menu choices doesn’t it?”

She nodded and said yes. The couple laughed. The guy next to me chuckled and said, “That’s a fact.”

The guy behind the counter called out one of the orders and the person who had been waiting jumped forward. Heretofore he had been completely silent, not joining into the impromptu “Group W” conversation, but once he had his pies he waved at all of us on the way out the door and said, “You guys have a good night.”

“You too,” we all returned.

Nice guy. Not very talkative, and he probably kicks his dog and steals cable when the rest of us aren’t around, but there at the pizza place he was a hell of a guy.

A minute or so later the lady who had voiced her loathing of people who were behind her in line getting their food first was called up for her order. In case you forgot, she had been behind me by 2 or 3 customers, yet I was still waiting. But, there was no animosity there. I was happy for her that she now had her pie in hand. Still, the guy next to me and I made a joke about it anyway – all in fun, of course. The couple down the wall thought it was funny. So did several other folks in the crowd. We aren’t sure if the lady thought it was funny because she was out of there so quickly that the displaced air from the door didn’t even get anywhere near her ass. I suppose that for her the magic of the social interaction was gone. She wasn’t like us any longer. She was with pizza, and we were without. She was better than the rest of us now… She had her food and it was time to “move on up”.

I really don’t blame her though. A few minutes later the guy next to me had his and was waving on the way out the door. Soon after that I had mine and was making a beeline for the exit. The couple who had ordered the supremes was still waiting. I smiled and said, “Hope yours are ready soon!”

They smiled back and said, “Us too. Have a great night!”

I returned the pleasantry and headed for my truck, secure in the knowledge that my new found friends would soon be with pizza, just as I was.

I don’t think we’ll be exchanging Christmas Cards or anything like that. In fact, if by some odd chance any of us run into one another at the grocery store or gas station in the future, we probably won’t even blink because we’ll be in ignore the world mode.

But, for a few minutes that foggy night in January through the social magic of food we were a tight knit group of friends, standing around waiting for our 5 dollar pies… Unwittingly, we had each become beneficiaries of The Pizza Effect. Of course, since everyone went their separate ways, I can’t say what each of them learned from this flash of intimate social experience. But, I definitely know what I took home.

Three pizzas. 1  cheese, 1 pepperoni, and 1 sausage.

More to come…

Murv