BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Maybe I’m just old fashioned…

Then again, maybe not.

I just haven’t quite figured it out yet.

But old fashioned or not, here’s my thing – There was one room in her house that always remained locked… It was… The garage.

No… Wait… That’s Keys To Her Ferrari by Thomas Dolby. Great song, but not where I was headed with this. Besides, we don’t have a garage and the only room E K keeps locked is her “play room” in the basement, and she only does that so her “toys” can’t escape.

Let’s see… Where was I? Oh, yeah…

Here’s my thing – There’s one room in the house where I absolutely refuse to talk on the telephone. It is… The bathroom.

Now, I realize this might sound odd. I mean, after all, there is a wide and varied history of telephones in bathrooms. I’ve stayed in many a hotel over the years where a telephone was stuck to the wall right there next to the stool. Hell, I once stayed in a hotel in New Orleans where the phone was positioned in such a way as to be usable from  the stool, the bidet, and/or the tub itself. I actually took a picture of that, although I can’t seem to find it at the moment. Of course, I was probably just as fascinated by the fact that the room had a bidet. Yeah… I know what they are for, but I was hard pressed not to do a Crocodile Dundee impersonation just for the hell of it. And, since the hotel happened to be in the French Quarter (Yeah, I know, French… Bidet… I can add) there would have been plenty of folks down on the street to hear me yelling from the window.

But like I said, I’ve stayed in plenty of hotels where there was a telephone in the crapper. Not just in NOLA.

Of course, I should probably take a moment to note that  I absolutely despise talking on the phone at ALL, and will avoid it at all costs.  Besides the fact that I just don’t like the damn thing, due to an injury during my EARLY teens my hearing has been substandard for the better part of my life, and in recent years has grown much worse… MUCH worse. Literally to the point that talking on the telephone is a rather painful chore for me even under the best of circumstances, because I simply cannot understand the person on the other end of the line.

But that really isn’t my point.

You see, when necessary I will talk on the phone. By necessary I mean it had damn well better be a dire emergency. Seriously. But not when I am in the bathroom.  For me to do that it would need to be a dire emergency squared. Of course, there’s no way for me to know that because I won’t answer the phone when I am in the bathroom. For the record, no, we don’t have a phone in there. However, we ARE in the era of Cell Phones, and I pack one around on my belt just like most everyone else. I use it for emergencies mostly. And I text. I didn’t used to text, but now I do. My eyes still work as long as I am wearing my glasses, so we’re all good there.

But you know what? I won’t even text while I’m in there.

There’s just something about the sanctity of the porcelain throne room that precludes me from chatting with anyone. I just don’t see a reason for telephone conversations in the bathroom. Sure, now that I am getting older I can certainly understand the idea of the classic, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up,” sort of communication from inside the tiled closet, and that can certainly come in the form of a phone call to 911 or something.

But why in the world would I want to carry on a convo while I’m doing my business?

Chirp-Ring-Chirp-Warble…

(sigh) (reach) (flip) “Hello?”

“Hey, Murv. This is your broker. How are you today?”

“Ummm… Okay, I guess.”

“So, do you have a minute?”

“I guess so. I… umm… well… I have some paperwork I’ll need to get after here rather shortly.”

“Ahh, working eh? Writing a new book?”

“Well, not right at this very moment… Actually I’m getting rid of last night’s dinner.”

“Oh, I see. Cleaning the fridge.”

“Not exactly. More like… Umm… Well. Taking a dump.”

“Your fridge broke?”

“No… Not taking it to the dump. Taking a dump.”

“Ohhh, okay, I get it. Well since you’re sitting down…”

More to come…

Murv

I like to sing.

Now, please take note – I did not indicate in any way that I am good at singing. I simply said that I like to do it. Therefore, you aren’t about to find me in a Karaoke bar, belting out Bon Jovi or Heart tunes and downing Kirin with a bunch of visiting Japanese businessmen. For one thing, I never have occasion to be socializing with the aforementioned Asian moguls. Just doesn’t happen in my line of work. Maybe someday a Japanese publisher will pick up the foreign rights to the Rowan Gant Investigations and do a translation, but something tells me by the time they were done, he would end up being a Mystical Samurai Pokemon or something of that sort, so I’m not really sure how I feel about that prospect. I guess it all depends on how much Kirin I’ve had, and how much money is on the table when the offer is made.

But, let’s get back to the story…

The truth is, it really doesn’t matter if they are Japanese businessmen, or a visiting friend from the FBI, since the latter actually does happen. You still won’t find me hanging out in the Karaoke bars, because even though I like to sing, I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, even with help and I know that. I didn’t used to have this problem. Once upon a time I could cart a tune around in a brown paper sack with no backup whatsoever, and sound pretty good. But, at around age 13 I was afflicted with a bad case of swimmer’s ear. (I bet you thought I was going to say hormones… Well, that’s a different blog…) At any rate, both of my eardrums were perforated by the blistering, which left behind a whole mess of scar tissue. As I have grown older the extent of my frequency hearing loss has worsened considerably. So, no matter whether we are talking brown paper sack, plastic bucket, or galvanized pail, I can’t carry a tune.

Still, I like to sing.

Just ask Anastasia, good friend and co-founder of the “Murv’s Stalkers” fan club. She and her husband are regular visitors to the “Murv Cave,” and were here for the Yule Bash 2007. They were also here for Yule Bash 2008, but 2007 has more to do with the singing thing… You see, that was the year of the 14 inch snowfall type blizzard storm that struck on the very day and evening of the Yule bash. So, Anastasia actually got to witness me shoveling the back deck – repeatedly – while I was holding a Vodka-Tonic in one hand, and belting out my own renditions of A Fairytale of New York, Run, Run Rudolph, and countless other holiday tunes. What I’m trying to illustrate here is this – I am likely to start singing at the drop of a hat. Especially if alcohol is involved, but while it is a good impetus, booze definitely isn’t a pre-requisite.

Such was the case just the other day. And, no, this time there was no alcohol involved.

You see, I had just picked up the offspring from school. We returned home, and following the usual schedule the short person set about doing her homework while I started fixing dinner. After all, E K would be home in just a little over an hour and we all know what happens if I don’t have her dinner on the table when she walks in.

So, anyway, it had been a fairly good day, I was feeling somewhat chipper,  and I was far enough ahead of the game with fixing dinner that I could reasonably assume E K wouldn’t beat me and lock me in the closet that evening. Well, at least not on account of dinner being late, that is… Therefore I started bellowing out some Traveling Wilbury’s tunes. I happen to like the Traveling Wilbury’s. Not only are their songs catchy, but also they’re a lot of fun.  If I remember correctly I started out with Tweeter And The Monkey Man then flowed right into Handle With Care. I think Last Night might have even been in there somewhere as well, although I’m pretty sure it entered the mix a bit later. I left Margarita out of it because it doesn’t sound nearly as good without the 4-part harmony.

Somewhere around the time I was taking a breath before launching into the chorus of one of the above songs, I was cut short by the offspring calling out to me from the dining room…

“Daddy!” she yelled.

Well, it didn’t sound like anything was terribly wrong… Parents kind of have a sixth-sense about that sort of thing believe me. What it sounded like was that she was simply trying to get my attention before I started bellowing again. I made the logical assumption that she might need some help with fractions or some such. She absolutely despises math. It’s not that she’s bad at it or anything. She just hates it with a passion for some odd reason.

Anyway, I stepped out through the kitchen doorway and asked, “What’s up?”

She looked at me, and with all the seriousness she could muster she asked, “Daddy, are you going to be a Pop-Star?”

You see, the offspring is all about that Cyrus kid… The one named after a state…  And the somebody or another brothers… And Denny Tomatoes, or some such… You know, the latest Disney sensations, most of whom probably won’t have the staying power of an Annette Funicello… But, that’s just my opinion… Either way, she is so all about these “Tween/Teen Idols” in fact, that she has abandoned her grand plan to become a Doctor and has decided instead to become a “Pop Star” just like them. When I was her age I think I was planning to be an Astronaut. Shortly after that it was Oceanographer, closely followed by Veterinarian… So, my point is, I’m not worried about her current career choice. I’m sure it will change soon enough. As a matter of fact, she has such a gift for gab and penchant for arguing with us, that I wouldn’t be surprised to see her become a trial attorney. I mean, I hope not. Then when people at the old folks home ask me what my kid does for a living I’ll have to make up a lie and stuff… But, I digress…

So, the kid had just asked me if I was going to become a “Pop Star”…

I looked back at her and chuckled as I replied, “No, honey, I write books for a living. You know that.”

She pondered my answer for less than a heartbeat before replying, “That’s good, because you don’t sing very well.”

Critics. They’re everywhere. But, at least I know my kid is honest, so that gives me some hope that she won’t become an attorney after all, and it should definitely keep her out of politics.

As for me, I guess I won’t be quitting my day job.

More to come…

Murv