BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

…Or am I just happy to see you?

Remember your childhood? No… Not back that far. No need for poopy diapers around here. I fling enough poo for all of us.

I mean like back when you were about 8 to 10… Maybe slightly younger, but not too much. You know, kind of like around the age of kids in those sub sandwich commercials where they have all the adults running around but they have little kid kinda voices…

You haven’t seen those? Well damn… They’re actually kinda funny…

Hmmm… Well just stick with me here and maybe we can work this out.

Back when you were a kid, around 8 to 10, did your parents ever say, “Come on, Rusty (or whatever they called you). We’re going for a ride.” Then, drive for about two hours and eventually boot you out of the car on some lonely country road and then speed off?

Okay, okay so mine didn’t do that to me either.

So, how about this instead: Did they ever hustle you into the car, not telling you where you were going, then listen to you gripe for 20 minutes because you wanted to watch Lassie or The Lone Ranger instead of go somewhere that you didn’t even know where or what it was? And then, after you were really good and bored, and extra grumpy, and were just plain being a kid, they broke the news to you that you were on your way to get a new bike… Or a puppy… Or to see a movie you’d just been dying to see… Or Holiday Hill… Or White Castle… Or swimming… Or any one of a million things that would make a kid go ape-shit excited to the point where they wiggle right out of their Superman Underoos?

Well, unless you had a truly horrible childhood then you probably know what I’m talking about, at least on some level, be it big or small.  If you did have a truly horrible childhood, you have my sympathies…

So anyway, why the hell am I rambling about such inane silliness? Well, you see, sometimes it’s exactly like that for writers. We get started on a manuscript (hustled into the car). We write, and write, and write (gripe and get grouchy because we’d rather be looking at porn… Hey, the other shows have lost their appeal at this point)… and besides, even though the story is good, and the prose we have penned is gripping, the final destination is in the hands of the characters and they haven’t yet given up the secret info…

But then, just like our parents who had tortured us with clandestine car rides only to surprise us with serendipitous banana splits from Velvet Freeze,  our characters choose some arbitrary moment to reveal to us where we are going.

You know, like when we are folding the laundry and ruminating about where to take that next chapter.

And, just like the little kids we were then, we wiggle right out of our  Superman Underoos, giggle, pee ourselves, and get all kinds of cotton candy overload excited.

Yeah… Pretty cool, eh?

So… I guess now that I’ve peed my Superman Underoos I should change. Whaddaya think, Batman or Aquaman?

Of course, there’s always Wonder Woman… But those are really designated for when I’m looking at porn instead of writing…

More to come…

Murv

“So… What do you think,” I asked.

“Well,” My friend said. “He’s an Australian Cattle Dog, right?”

“Yep,” I replied. “That’s exactly my point.”

“Yeah, I hear you,” he said with a nod. “It doesn’t look like Australia at all, does it?”

“Not to me. That’s why I wanted you to look at it.”

“Why me?”

“Well, I’m thinking there must be a reason, and since you play RISK a lot, maybe you’d have some insight.”

“True. There is that…” he mused.

We were standing at the doorway to my kitchen. This was several years prior to the gut remodel, so the configuration was less than stellar; not to mention that the decor was already 10 years out of date when E K and I purchased the house.

“Well, I don’t really think he’s trying to take over the world or anything… What do you feed him?” My friend asked.

“Dog food… Maybe a few table scraps,” I said.

“Spaghetti?”

“Not that I recall. No lasagna, or anything like that either,” I replied. “You don’t want to spill a beer around him though. It’ll be gone in nothing flat.”

“Foster’s?”

“Doesn’t seem to matter.”

“Hmmmmm…”

Quigley, the Aussie Cattle Dog was sitting in front of us, a piece of linoleum hanging from his mouth and his tail thumping against the floor. He seemed particularly proud of himself – and, most especially, proud of the rather large map of Italy he had somehow managed to create by tearing up sections of the godawful floor covering.

“Well, if you believe in reincarnation, maybe he was Italian or something in a past life,” my friend offered. “Or, maybe he was a cartographer…”

“Or an interior designer,” I added. “That linoleum is pretty ugly.”

“True,” he agreed. “So, how long did it take him to do this?”

“Well, he did the outline this past Monday,” I said, then pointed and added, “But he just keeps going back and working on that one little section over there. “

“Well, that makes perfect sense,” my friend said with a nod.

“Why?” I asked.

“Simple. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

Quigley, the Australian Cattle Dog, really did exist. In fact, Quigley the ACD in the Rowan Gant books is based entirely on the real life pup. While the preceding conversation is an embellished version of the truth, the Quigster really and truly did rip up a portion of our kitchen linoleum when he was a puppy. And, for several weeks, it looked uncannily like a map of Italy… Of course, not being one for sitting still, Quigley eventually expanded the Kitchen Atlas to look much more like Eurasia before we finally began our remodel.

More to come…

Murv