But, this is not about the low income of mid-list authors. This is about history and hard times…

Growing up in the 60′s and 70′s, I heard my parents talk about their lives growing up during WWII. I heard my grandparents talk about growing up and living through the Great Depression.  I spent the better portion of my childhood on the family farm during the summer, as well as parts of spring and fall. I remember watching my grandparents – on both sides – canning food from the garden, or making jelly and preserves from a basket of fruit they picked from a tree in the yard. My parents did the same thing. It didn’t matter if all they had on hand was enough for one or two jars. If they weren’t planning to eat it before it could go bad, they would can it, or process it and freeze it. When the family would slaughter a hog, they packaged the meat, cured the hams and bacon, used the brains, made souse meat (head cheese), rendered the fat and made soap, and much more… The salient point here being - they wasted nothing. They had seen austerity “up close and personal,” so they learned how to get around it any way they could.

Watching all of this, I learned from it, too.

However, I have to admit, I spent a good part of my teens and young adult life during the “golden age.” Rising stock markets, rampant consumerism driving a ballooning economy… Sure, we had our moments of recession. I can even remember  a long winter when the union where my father worked voted to strike. He wasn’t in favor of the strike, but majority ruled. He spent several weeks with only “strike pay” and what he could pull in working part-time loading trucks at a local short range hauler – and he was fortunate to get that job through some connections. I can remember peanut butter on Wonder bread being breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Still, for the most part, I had it easy. That “golden age” again… And, much to my chagrin, during that golden age I bought into the hype. I consumed, and wasted, and consumed and wasted some more, just like most everyone around me.

And that brings us to the “the times…” As the title says, These Are They… Perhaps it is my age – no longer young and indestructible. Perhaps it is the crash and not-so-great depression we’ve been weathering (that was NOT a recession, no matter what anyone says). More likely it is a combination of both. The thing is, this has brought me back around to what I learned in my youth. Waste nothing…

For those of you who follow me on Facebook, you know that I pulled out the pressure cooker and did some canning this year. Honestly, I had forgotten how much I missed doing that. In addition, we are lucky enough to own an upright freezer, so some of the harvest from our garden was processed and frozen. For the past few years, I have been saving vegetable scraps and freezing them. Whenever I have enough, I roast them, then add water and cook them down to vegetable stock, which I then part out into containers and freeze for use int soups and the like. The leftover mush goes into our composter, along with other organics from the kitchen, thereby creating fertilizer for our garden.

So… Am I no longer a consumer? Well, I certainly cannot say that, and anyone who followed EKay’s and my landscaping adventures this past summer knows that I’d be lying if I said otherwise. However, I can say this – I’ve seen my moments of austerity, up close and personal. They weren’t the worst ever, and there are plenty of people worldwide who are worse off, or have been worse off. The thing is, I’ve come back around… And, like we all do, I have become my parents, and in turn, my grandparents.

Am I suggesting you become an urban-hippie-composting-farmer? Not so much. I’m just reminiscing and looking forward at the same time, which, oddly enough, offers more clarity than you might imagine.

In case you are wondering what sparked this little missive, it was the four gallons of turkey stock (pictured above, right) that I just squeezed out of the Thanksgiving turkey carcass and a handful of vegetable scraps I saved from the preparation of the dinner itself.

Waste nothing…

MRS

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I needed coffee. One cup simply hadn’t been enough, and wingnuts were everywhere on Facebook. If I were going to survive, a healthy bolus of caffeine was an absolute must.

I knew I would be going into enemy territory. After all, it was the day after Gluttony Day… The Big L… No, not that L, the L-tryptophan L… But that wasn’t my greatest concern. No, not at all. Truth is, what frightened me the most was the pie. Sure, it was wounded, and hanging out in the icebox with its cohort in crime, whipped cream, but everybody knows that when a pie is wounded that is when it is at its most dangerous…

I tiptoed into the kitchen, being as quiet as I possibly could. The icebox door was still shut, so that was a good thing. I refilled my coffee, then started to leave. I was fairly pleased with myself that I had evaded the pie. That was my first mistake. In my moment of overconfidence I was attacked by the soaking roasting pan and pie dishes in the sink. I had no choice but to engage. It was an epic battle, but I won, “cleaning up” nicely. I didn’t want to run the risk of a second attack, so I went on the offensive, even going so far as to hoof the kitchen compost bucket out to the composter for emptying.

I returned to the kitchen, confident that I had won the war. This was my second mistake. Same as the first, but still the second. Just as I finished wiping down the counter, the cornbread dressing and giblet gravy leapt from the icebox and engaged in a coordinated flanking attack. I was fending them off, but then a bowl and spoon joined the fray. Still, I continued to put up a good fight, right up until the microwave attacked me from behind.

And then… It was all over but the digesting.

Upon arriving home I showed my prize to my father, exclaiming with excitement that I had discovered a new type of book. One that he had surely never heard of before – Science Fiction. He looked at the paperback and scanned the back cover.

“You know, Science Fiction was around when I was a kid, too,” he told me.

I was in awe. This stuff had been out there? Why hadn’t I been informed? “Really?” I asked.

“Sure,” he replied. “H. G. Wells, Jules Verne… The list goes on and on. You know what? There’s a book I think you’d enjoy…” He rummaged around in the shelves and pulled out a copy of The Illustrated Man by Ray Bradbury, then told me, “This was always one of my favorites.”

…And thus was my introduction to one of the greatest SF/Fantasy authors of all time.

I was fortunate enough to have met Ray Bradbury many years ago when I was still an “aspiring author in search of a publisher,” and he was on a book tour. I not only had him sign a book for me, but one for my father as well. I will always remember that.

Mr. Bradbury died this morning at the age of 91. He will be sorely missed, but he left this world a far more interesting place by being the man who illustrated it for us with his words.

http://io9.com/5916175/rip-ray-bradbury-author-of-fahrenheit-451-and-the-martian-chronicles

However… No. I am NOT talking about that particular moon. I am talking about this morning’s moon. Odds are you missed it. The fact of the matter is, I caught it purely by chance, and it was a sight to behold.

You see, we have this cat.

Odd way to start this story, I suppose, but trust me, it’ll make sense.

Said cat is named Tiger. I personally call him Nachos el Tigre – or Nachos for short. Why? Because my daughter gets upset when I call him Almost Roadkill. Like any animal we have around the house, Nachos is a rescue. He came from the middle of the highway as a tiny kitten who was apparently washed out of his home during a flash flood (probably a storm drain) when he was on the order of 4-5 weeks old. I won’t go into the sordid details of us adopting him, suffice it to say he came to live with us, but while you can take the cat out of the feral, you can’t take the feral out of the cat. ‘Nuff said.

And so… Nachos has wreaked all manner of havoc throughout our house, up to and including ripping holes in the underside of our mattress foundation and using the resulting hollow as his “Nachos Cave.” His personal fort, so to speak. What does this have to do with the moon? Nothing. And everything. Yeah, it’s sorta like that.

You see, the redhead – yes, her worship Evil Kat – is none too pleased with his penchant for ripping up the mattress foundation. In fact, if he was… oh, I dunno… just some guy, and not a cat, he’d already be wearing one of her stilettos as a hood ornament. Then we’d have to change his name to Jimmy Choo the Unicorn. However, since he’s a cat, and not a dood, he gets a sorta free pass. Meaning, she just yells at him instead of stomping on him while she yells at him. Odd how that works. Maybe I should get myself a tail and some whiskers… But I digress.

And so, today was no different, or so I thought. Her worship was getting dressed for work when I returned from dropping off the o-spring at school. Upon entering the house I heard a ruckus, followed by the redhead screaming all manner of expletives at Nachos el Tigre. It was pretty obvious to me what was happening, or again, so I thought. The ruckus and screaming continued, so I went to investigate.

There… Below the horizon… as in down on the floor, clad in naught but her lacy undergarments, was the redhead, screaming at the dust ruffle while fishing around underneath the bed with one arm.

Let’s just say Downward Facing Dog does little justice as a description for the moon rising in the doorway. And I have to say, it was super…

Suddenly, the yelling stopped. A moment of quiet fell, then the redhead looked up. “Is this going to be a blog?” she asked.

My reply was simple. “It is now.”

Later…

Le Swerv

Recently, however, I was on a panel at a SF/Fantasy Con… Actually, I was on a crapload of panels, but that’s not the point. I’m talking about a specific panel – that being a “Social Media” panel. I was really the odd man out on this particular gig. All of the other authors seemed to know one another, whereas I had no friggin’ clue who any of them were, nor they me. So, they all sort of sat toward one end and left me to make sure the opposite end of the table didn’t float away. All good. Just to be sure, though, I checked – I DID use deodorant that day, so that shouldn’t have been a problem. Of course, it didn’t really matter much because 75% of the audience attending the panel happened to be close, personal friends with one of the other authors on the panel, so I probably could have stayed at the bar drinking beer with some folks. At any rate, I didn’t do that. I showed up, I tossed my opinion in there every now and then. Got a few blank stares from the other panelists. Engaged in one of those nifty marketing tactics by handing out some free books. Answered the question, “Why are you handing out free books?” Stared blankly back at them when they couldn’t grasp WHY I would hand out free books even after I told them why. You know, the regular drill…

I know… So what… Big deal. (2 points to anyone who gets that obscure movie reference…)

The thing is, Twitter was one of the topics. Well duh… of course it was, Sellars. Social Media. Twitter. Yadda yadda.

Okay, okay. So THE thing is, one of the other authors on the panel concluded, announced, and/or otherwise stated that one tweet a day is more than enough. In fact, she went on to say that she had made it a point to UNfollow other authors – whose work she enjoyed – because they had the unabashed nerve… the pure audacity… the unbelievable lack of restraint… and tweeted 12 times in one day.

12 times.

One day.

That being 24 hours.

24/12 = 2.

An average of one tweet every two hours.

I don’t know about you but that seems like a pretty laconic tweeter to me.

Even if we are talking about 12 tweets in the span of one hour, that would be what? One tweet every five minutes… Still pretty reserved if you ask me. However, that’s apparently still way too much. It interferes with the busy schedules of others – all that incessant chattering, ya’know… An absolute din of 140 character info bytes causing a “visual cacophony” in the glassballs…

But hey, whatever trips your trigger. Follow, unfollow, I don’t really give a flying rat’s whatsits. I personally see Twitter as yelling into the void and hoping someone hears you. Hasn’t stopped me from yelling into the void, of course, but I don’t really count on anyone hearing, or taking notice if they do. Just one of those things.

Still, for me, the anti-tweeter mentality sort of begs the question, if you’re so damn busy then why are you on Twitter so much? And moreover, why the hell are you counting other people’s tweets?

OCD much?

Later…

Murv

I am also painfully aware that I am at no risk of receiving a “#1 Dad” or “World’s Greatest Dad” coffee mug for Father’s Day for the next few years. I have a tween daughter who is at that sociopathic, hormonal stage in her life where Dad and Mom are both complete idiots who don’t understand, simply don’t get it, and probably received their diplomas and degrees from Cracker Jack boxes, because they are so totally clueless they couldn’t possibly have learned anything in their lifetimes. I get that. We all went through that phase. It’s all part of growing up. Truth is, I may complain about it in Facebook updates, but that’s just my way of weathering the storm. I am truly looking forward to the bright, headstrong, and much more even-tempered young lady whom I expect will come out the other side of this process. Hopefully she will like us and much as her mother and I like her (even now) – most of the time, anyway.

However, oddly enough, I’m not here to talk about MY kid. I’m here to talk about a situation that I simply cannot fathom, and yes, it has to do with kids. A kid, specifically.

Now, I will grant you, I’m a bit overprotective. Hell, I won’t even allow my kid to walk to school by herself, and I actually have rational reasons. Per the state and county there are six registered sex offenders living in our neighborhood, and I’m not talking about bullshit offenses like urinating in public during Fair Saint Louis and getting popped for “public exposure.” I’m talking about convicted of molesting children sort of offenders. Adding insult to injury, I simply KNOW way too much about crime and sociopathic offenders from the research I do for my novels. Most of the time I am glad I know these things. It allows me to stay aware and keep my family safe – or at least, try to convince myself that I can. Other times I wish I didn’t, especially when the nightmares they spark wake me up in the middle of the night with a panic attack the size of Rhode Island, and I wander around the house making sure the doors and windows are locked, the alarm is still set, my Glock is loaded, and the offspring is still snug in her bed.

All of this is why I was completely flabbergasted last evening.

As my Facebook followers know, E K and I are coaches for our daughter’s Girls on Track team. GoTR is a great organization. Look it up and be inspired, especially if you have a daughter. Seriously. But that isn’t really what this is about, except that we were at a local park for a training session. The reason for choosing this park is proximity, and the fact that it has a 1/3 mile track, which is very helpful when you are training for a 5K run.

And so…

During the 1.5 hour meeting and training session, a strange little girl wanders into our midst. By strange I mean that we didn’t know her and she didn’t belong to anyone in our group. By little, I mean all of three years old. She had no adults or older siblings in tow. None. NADA. She walked up to us and asked us to play with her. Not the girls on the team, mind you. The coaches. When asked where her parents were she pointed to the baseball game in the far distance, happening on the other side of the park – better than a football field away.  During this time she was returned to her parent, but that didn’t last long. She eventually showed up again, running across the field, alone, until she ended up in our midst once more.

At this point I am going to fast-forward, however, during the intervening time the interloping munchkin entertained herself by playing on the swings nearby with some of the other kids in our group who were not members of the GoT team (as in some of the other coaches younger children.) Being the adults in the area, we kept an eye on her at the same time we watched over the other kids.

Now for the fast-forward…

For the last 15-20 minutes of our meeting the little girl left the playground and entertained herself on the opposite side of the pavilion we were using. This is significant because now, for that period of time, she was COMPLETELY out of sight and obscured from the view of the baseball diamond, which is already more than 100 yards away as it is, mind you. So, if the parental unit was doing some sort of line-of-sight remote parenting thing, we are now in the middle of full blown FAIL.

It gets better, and by better I mean worse… The child then proceeded to approach any adult who happened to be walking around the track – male, female, didn’t matter – asking them to play with her, volunteering information, etc. We coaches kept watch, and intervened when necessary, expressing concern among ourselves.

Remember me mentioning before that there are a half-dozen registered sex offenders living in the neighborhood?

So… Then, the child disrobed. Yes. She got naked in under 10 seconds and began playing in the dirt. Naked. Clothing in a pile and stark naked, all the while inviting adults to play with her as they walked by. Okay. We’re talking about a three year old. Not unusual for a kid that age to elect to shed clothing, even in public. It’s all part of the self-awareness, unabashed Id/Ego/Superego thing, but in my estimation the problem has now gone from serious to RED F*CKING ALERT! General Quarters! WTF!?

I was actually starting to look around for a camera crew and John Quinones of ABC’s “What Would You Do?”

Well, John didn’t show up, but here’s what I did anyway. Leaving the child under the watch of the other coaches (thankfully, she DID put her clothes back on, btw. And of her own accord just as we were about to strenuously suggest she do so.)

Anyway… I marched myself across the field to the baseball diamond and said, while waving my hand about 2 1/2 feet above the ground, “Excuse me, but are any of y’all missing a little girl about so tall?”

The adults stared at me like I’d grown two heads. Finally, one of them said, “Huh?”

I waved my hand again and said, “Are any of you missing a little girl about so tall?”

A woman reached forward and slapped another woman on the shoulder and called her by name. She turned around and said, “What?”

At this point I was ready to pull my face off and pitch a fit. Why? Because TEH STUPID was starting to make my brain hurt.

I repeated myself for a third time, aiming my now somewhat louder voice directly at the woman. “Are you missing a child? A little girl about so tall?”

She looked at me and without any concern in her face or voice whatsoever, said, “Yes.”

I was somewhat dumbfounded, but kept my face attached. Raising and eyebrow I asked, just to be certain I was hearing what I was hearing, “So you are missing a kid?”

“Yes,” she replied, again without any concern at all, and while watching the little league game out of the corner of her eye, because, I can only assume, directly supervised children on a baseball diamond are in far more danger than unsupervised three-year-olds randomly approaching strangers on the other side of the park.

“Well,” I said, pointing toward the pavilion where we were holding our meeting. “She’s over on the other side of the park, and she just took her clothes off. I thought you might want to know.”

Now she gets up off the bleachers, but her response still amazes me. “She took her clothes off again? Oh, well now I’m embarrassed.”

How about being embarrassed that you let a 3 year old kid out of your sight for more than an hour, in a public park, and didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with that? And now, here’s a strange man who you don’t know from Adam, telling you that she’s getting naked and not even in your line of sight?

HOLY F*CKING SH*T, LADY! This is your kid we are talking about here… What the hell are you thinking?! <– This is going on inside my head. How I managed to keep it from coming out of my mouth at very high volume is still beyond me.

(Deep Breaths…)

Here are the facts, and I am NOT exaggerating – That child could have been gone in under a minute. The pavilions where we were positioned are next to the track, near the entrance of the park. The enclosed and secluded restrooms are 100 feet away. The parking lot and main thoroughfare just beyond. A wooded subdivision backs right up to the park. The child was approaching adults – complete strangers – and offering up her name, asking them to play with her, and I am betting would have walked off hand-in-hand with anyone who paid the least bit of attention to her.

Children are abducted every day, people. Think about it and try engaging your brain for two seconds.

Later…

MRS

In any case, nothing truly special from me this time. What you are about to read was penned by someone else. Yes, a blog comment spammer. I am posting it as a blog entry only because it is so convoluted and weird that I thought everyone should have the opportunity to enjoy it as much as me – or be disturbed by it as much as me – and simply approving the comment on a better than year old post wouldn’t have allowed it to bubble to the surface.

You can thank me later.

And so, here you have it. Some pretty bizarre spam on a stick. I give it an A+ for originality…

(IP, etc redacted to avoid spammer linkage)

Author : google search (IP: XX.XX.XX.XX , XX.XX.XX.XX.xxxx.xx.xx.xxxxxxx.xxxxxxx.xxx.xx)
E-mail : Undercoffler@xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx.yyy
URL    : http://yyy.yyyyyy.yyy
Whois  : http://whois.arin.net/rest/ip/XX.XXX.XX.XX

Comment:

My son, 24, had sexual contact with three girls when in high school. He went on to college at St cloud state Mn for special ed teacher. He broke off the relationship with the girl friend when he was in college as the distance wouldn’t allow for a “real” relationship to survive. In his second yr. he was able to student teach and chose to live at home and teach at his old high school where his ex-girlfriend wasa senior. She talked how she had sex with that teacher and of course, social services got invovled. He was represented by John Shiro in Fond du Lac co. court and pled no contest or else guilty and was sentenced to 9 months jail and five years probation. Certainly a fair sentence in my opinion. He recognizes that he has no more career inteaching but has been put in a virtual hold on life by his probation officer. He has been unable to hold a job or accept jobs because there might be minors around, unable to attend church, unable to go to his grandmothers for a X-mas meal with family,and was not allowed to go to AA meetings in an attempt to stay sober. In his first year on probation he went to Mn. fora fishing trip and drank beer, a violation. He was offered an ATR for alchohol and it worked, but he feels he needs the support group of AA. This is being denied by his PO. He was ordered not to see his fiance in Dec, she is 21 or 22 , but he ignored that rule feeling that it was a violation of his civil rights. I don’t know the role or guidelines a PO can put on an individual, but we feel that he has been unfairly treated over the past two years by her. He wrote a greivance letter to her supervisor in Nov. and has not gotten a response. His Po has a nephew who at the age of 18 molested a 13 yr old girl, got probation, and reoffended a year later with a 14 yr old. He was convicted and sent to prison. We ( my family ) feel that this has affected her emotionally and sees that all deserve the same treatment. This is long, and I apologize, but the bottomline is that my son seems to have gien up all hope on a future of any sort, and is wondering if he should consider a motion hearing or sentence modification. He has faced no new charges but now faces six to ten parole violations. One is seeing his girlfriend, another is that he had a grocery receipt for a bottle of wine in his car. This was a last minuteX-mas gift from his girlfrind to us. We still have it in fact. I am sure he will face revocation with just one year left of his five yr probation term so my son feels like he needs to do something proactive. A friend of mine is Washington CO. DA, Todd Martens. He said in the beginning to contact you like five years ago but unfortunately you were out of town and I was too nervous or frantic and contacted Shiro. Don’t know what to do to help out my son but don’t see that the punishment fits the crime and not real sure of what a PO’s job really is.Any suggestions and if you are interested, any estimate. This PO also had issues with Dr prescribed meds. My list seems endless and we thought we could hold out to the end of probation, but nowit doesn’t appear so. One last thing, I deer hunt with Todd and have not shared these issues with him. But if you see him, I am known as minnow mike. Thank you for your time.

Damn me for being out of town… And “Minnow Mike”? If  “D.A. Todd” didn’t know before, I guess he does now, what with us knowing each other and all, I have to assume he reads my blog…

Until the next time, stay frosty and don’t let any of “teh stupid” get on ya…

M

Yes, Brainpan Leakage has been woefully lacking in posts as of late. Well, woefully for some, perhaps a relief for others. Who knows? At any rate, I used to make it a point to stick to suggested convention and blog at least twice each week. It was fun while it lasted, but after a few years I discovered that social media – including regular bloggage – had become the time suck I had long feared it would. So, I went sort cold turkey. Actually, it was more Maker’s Mark on the rocks, but you get the idea.

And so, here I am, sorta blogging again. Not planning to fall back into the well with Timmy, though. He’s been down there so long he’s pretty corpsified and gross at this point. Damned Lassie. Never send a collie to do the job of a Basset Hound.

But I digress (Yeah, some things never change…)

What I came here to yammer about today is the fact that we seem to have a pandemic on our hands.

“What kind of pandemic?” you ask.

Well, near as I can tell, it is a pandemic of epic proportions. Not since the Holy Bible has there been such a global plague, and that plague seems to be attacking only the fairer sex. Yes, you ladies are those who are apparently in danger. You see, this is a case of widespread sexual frustration. Of course, not ALL women have succumbed to the virus. It appears that there are some who are immune, however, they are few and far between.

How have I arrived at this? Simple. Soccer moms getting all hot and bothered over Edward the Tinkerbell Vampire. As you can plainly see, it’s not just sexual frustration, in some cases it’s creepy pseudo-pedophile sort of sexual frustration. Can I get a collective “Ewwww!” from the audience? Yep. Thought I could.

Of course, it doesn’t stop there. Since confessionals were becoming overcrowded, and mattresses were catching fire from the hot fantasy prose penned in diaries kept tucked between mattresses, someone even took it upon herself to create some Twilight Fan-Fic BDSM Soccer Mom Porn titled 50 Shades of Grey. It’s on the NYT Bestseller list and is making all sorts of cash. That should tell you something right there.

But (saw that coming, right?)

But, it STILL doesn’t stop there… Over an above a plethora of fan-fic sort of f*ck stories propagating across the intertoobz, as well as the tried and true bodice rippers filling book racks in airports and news stands, there is a groundswell of demands for more. How do I know this? Well, I’ll tell you…

After IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER hit the shelves I started getting emails and comments from fans. Fortunately, they liked it, which made reading said comments and emails much easier. However… the ongoing theme in all of these communications that bore a decidedly female name was this: Will Ben and Constance “get together” in the next book? When will Ben and Constance be “getting together”? I can’t wait for Ben and Constance to “get together”. Let’s hope Ben and Constance “get together”… ad nauseum.

Since Ben and Constance are already dating, it’s not hard to figure out – especially when you add in all the wink wink nudge nudges in the emails – that what “get together” means is, to paraphrase Alex in A Clockwork Orange, “A bit of the old in-out, in-out…”

See what I mean? This epidemic has spread like wildfire. I mean, come on. Neither Ben nor Constance are Vampires, and they sure as hell don’t sparkle…

So, what can we do about this? Sadly, not much. However, don’t be disheartened, ladies; it’s okay. Men have been porn addicted since the dawn of time. We just have shorter attention spans, which is why we gravitate toward pictures instead of prose…

More To Come – (make of that what you will, you dirty minded little baboons…)

Until the next time,

M

And I was like, “Doooodddd! That idea rocks!”

And EK was like, “Dooooooddd. I’ll be on the cover…”

And we were all like, “Dooooodette, that’s hot!”

So, anyway, enough with that crap…

I’m working on a project. Nothing earth shattering, really. Just a sort of compilation thing. A “Best Of Brainpan Leakage” e-book – FREE of course – that will contain a whole mess of the favorite posts, as determined by YOU, the readers of BL. It will also contain some new material not available anywhere but in the e-book. Yes, as in, “BL blog posts that have never been posted.”

Cool, eh?

At any rate, here’s the deal: I need you folks to tell me your favorite posts. WHICH missives out of the archives should be included?

So far we have votes for:

1. Stacking The Dex
2. Gimme Mai Shooz!
3. Awww, Dad!
4. The Gramling Party
5. Dippity Drink
6. The Day the Sky Stood Still
7. Walking to Skool
8. Meatloaf
9. And MANY MANY others…

This is your chance to have some input. Tell me your faves, and they just might make it into the Brainpan Chronicles…

More to come…

Murv

Yay. Half century. Big 5-0. Surfboards, waves, syncopated Polynesian Hippie Music. Book ‘em, Dano…

Actually, I’m sort of excited about it. After all, 50 is technically the new 30. Life should be just really starting to get interesting for me. Not that The Redhead hasn’t made it plenty interesting all along…

At any rate, one of the reasons 50 is the new 30 is advances in medical science, up to and including early detection of disease so that it can be treated before it REALLY gets to be a problem. Therefore, when you hit 50 the first thing the doctor tells you after pulling his hand out of your a$$ – prostate exam, folks… prostate exam… – is that you need something ELSE jammed into your bung hole, that being a 3d Imax Camera.

Okay, so maybe not a 3d Imax Camera. More like a  camera on a rope…

And so, you make your appointment to have a colonoscopy. This is important shit right here, no pun intended. Colon cancer isn’t pretty, and this is the sort of thing that can save your life. However, Dave Barry beat me to the punch on the whole Intestine Spelunking Blog… And Harry Smith had his done live on national TV. I offered to live stream mine on Facebook, but my fans said no. They are more than happy to read one of my books about a serial killer doing truly horrible things to a victim or two, but when it comes to poop they get a little squeamish. Go figure…

But anyway… Or should that be Butt Anyway? No matter, the real deal is that it’s been done. The benefits of having a colonoscopy have been espoused by much bigger names than me, so I’m not about to be a copycat.

I am, however, about to throw down a major bitch about this whole thing… You see, in order to properly film the poop canal it must first be free of poop. Makes a certain sort of sense. I mean, that way the Doctor doesn’t have to keep telling Mister Hanky to move out of the way so he can see, right? And so, in order to do this they write you a prescription for Colon Blow… Okay, so that’s just what I call it. In point of fact it is “Suprep: Bowel Prep Kit.”

Cool, eh? I mean just look at it. A box of awesome. Make you clean as a whistle, it will. But wait… There’s more…

Here’s the bill.

Yes… You read it correctly. $71.43… AFTER the insurance kicked in a twenty. Without insurance it would have been $93.09…

Yeah… For some stuff to make me shit my brains out and feel completely miserable for about 18 hours. Okay… it’s medical progress. It’s the sort of thing that can save my life. Of course, I won’t have any money to live on, so I might as well be dead, but hey, what the hell.

Here’s the rub… For less than 20 bucks I could pick up a box of Dulcolax and two bottles of Citrate of Magnesium, and it would do EXACTLY the same thing. I know this because I’ve been down this road before, plus I verified it with my buddy Dr. Gina, who is, in point of fact, a real doctor, not just one on TV.

So here’s my thing… To celebrate my 50K Exhaust System Check I am pretty much flushing about 75 bucks down the toilet.

But what the hell… You only turn 50 once… Since my ass is getting raped, I guess my wallet should, too…

More to come…

Murv

So, taking a breather and getting other stuff done. I’ll be back, probably before the turn of the year.

More to come…

Murv

Thanksgiving – or L-Tryptophan Day, as I like to call it – was pretty good this year. I’m not one for setting aside a single day to do the “thanking thing.” I try to make sure I do it when the situation calls for it, rather than waiting. And, we all know I don’t buy into the concept of a divine being providing me with the things I need to be thankful for… Well… Except for E K, but her Supremeness is something else entirely…

But I digress <– My favorite expression – and activity – as we all know…

Anywho, L-Tryptophan Day was good. Did the hanging out with family thing. Got to spend time with our PhD niece, World Traveler niece, and College Freshman niece. The other niece and nephew are at that age where we Gr’ups are too boring to be around, so we didn’t see too much of them. As always, food was prepared, food was eaten, food was stored away in icebox crevices due to the overwhelming amount of leftovers – an L-Tryptophan Day tradition in and of itself.

When dessert time rolled around, several pies were on deck – among them being the traditional Bourbon-Rum Cranberry Mince Pie, and the experimental Bailey’s Pumpkin Pie – all direct from my kitchen. After some tweetage about the pieness, I started receiving requests for the recipe for the latter. So, here it is, sans picture of a pie because we ate them before I could take one…

MERP’S Bailey’s Pumpkin Pie

INGREDIENTS

3/4 Cup Light Brown Sugar

2 Cups Pumpkin (I prefer to use fresh, as we grow pumpkins here at home, but canned pumpkin can can be used instead. Generally available in 15 OZ size, simply forgo the 16th ounce and call it good.)

2 Whole Eggs, Large

1 Egg Yolk

2 tsp blackstrap molasses

1 tsp ground cinnamon

1/2 tsp salt

1/2 tsp ground ginger

1/4 tsp ground cloves

6 OZ evaporated milk

3 OZ Bailey’s Irish Cream Liquer

3 OZ Heavy Cream

1 9-10 inch pie crust (homemade or store bought, your choice)

DIRECTIONS

Preheat oven to 425F.

Lightly beat eggs, then combine with the rest of the ingredients in a mixing bowl. Mix well. Pour into pie crust (I am assuming you have put the pie crust into a pie tin and properly trimmed it. If you haven’t, go back to Home Ec and do not attempt to cook anything until you receive at least a passing grade.) Since many pie tins and pre-prepared crusts have different depths, if you have any extra filling, simply pour it into a ramekin and treat it as a custard.

Place on center rack of oven and bake for 15 minutes. Reduce heat to 350 and bake an additional 40-50 minutes. It is done when a toothpick can be inserted into the center and is clean when removed.

Allow to cool, then cover and refrigerate, as it will be best when cold and dense. Serve with whipped cream, Bailey’s whipped cream, or ice cream – OR for the purists, a large slice in hand, over the sink, with a cup of coffee…

More to come…

Murv

THAT’S why I’m an overprotective dad…

Still, that doesn’t mean I’m not a bit silly too. After all, it’s a moral imperative. Dads are supposed to embarrass their kids. It’s an inalienable right. It’s handed out to you the minute you become a father. Trust me. It’s in the paperwork. No kidding.

And so it came to pass that coldness crept into our city as winter descended upon us. And with said cold came bundling up when walking the child to school – what with being an overprotective dad and all, not to mention that I’m wheels down and about to do a three point on that half-century mark, so the doc wants me to exercise. I sit on my ass all day, slinging words, so my fingers are getting all the workout.

But I digress…

Like I said, so it came to pass, and with it passing came the following conversation:

“Do I look sufficiently weird?” I asked.

E K looked me up and down. “Oh yeah…”

“O-SPRING!” I yelled. “Time To GO!”

(thumpita, thumpita, thumpita… came the child down the stairs.)

Around the corner the O-spring came, then screeched to halt, staring at me. Then she moaned, “Daaahhhh-ahhhhhhhhddddddd!”

“What?” I asked.

“You’re wearing THAT to walk me to school?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Daaahhhh-ahhhhhhhhddddddd!” she moaned again, rolling her eyes in the process.

“What? Do I embarrass you?”

“Well, yeah…” she replied.

“Good,” I told her, suddenly channeling Macaulay Culkin from the movie Uncle Buck, in a paraphrased sense, of course: “I’m a dad. It’s my job.”

And so off we went. I trailed along behind at a short distance… Until we got close to the school, of course. Then I closed the gap. I had to make sure all of her friends knew I was her dad…

ANATOMY OF AN EMBARRASSING DAD

TO READ CAPTIONS CLICK PHOTO AND ENLARGE – MAY TAKE A MOMENT TO LOAD

TO READ CAPTIONS CLICK PHOTO AND ENLARGE - MAY TAKE A MOMENT TO LOAD

More to come…

Murv

It was cold. Especially for Florida. Of course, it was also early November and George Bush had stopped denying global climate change, so those were just the dice Momma au Naturale dealt us. The Sunshine State caught in the grip of a cold snap of epic proportions. Unbelievable as it may seem, when the sun dipped below the horizon the mercury would plummet into the danger zone. Yes… the 50′s. I actually had to wear my hoodie.

EK, John, and Murv - Prior to the ill-fated Trick or Drunking Expedition

Earlier in the day, provisions had been running low. That’s how it is with Corona and lime when you are at a festival in Florida. One minute there’s enough, the next, not so much. We scraped together a twenty from my wallet and handed it off to the provisions maven. We never saw her again. Who knew a Jackson could take you that far…

Well… Not far enough, because that’s about the time the trolley broke down. Any seasoned Festival-goer knows that when the Trolley breaks down you’re as good as dead – but we weren’t ready to give up. Steeling our resolve, we grabbed our plastic cups and set out down the pass to go “Trick or Drunking.” We’d heard a rumor that Pirates had set up camp below, and if we could make it there, perhaps they would share their rum with us. Or not. One never knows about Pirates, but we had to try.

The trip was arduous. We lost three on the way, not sure if they succumbed to the cold, were eaten by the rogue bear, or simply turned back. Eventually, however, we made it to our destination. After much parlay, the assignation of Piratey names, and selling off E K to the “Feral Cathouse” run by the Buccaneers, we were accepted into the fold and beaten severely about the head and shoulders – and livers – with rum that had been shown a picture of fruit punch. But it wasn’t allowed to look for very long, as it was only supposed to pick up a hint of the fruity punchiness…

Sometime during the darkness, a roving band of strange women, each dressed in black and adorned with bright red lipstick, descended upon the Pirate camp. Even the Pirates cowered, powerless against their overwhelming osculation. And yes, they scurried about like little pixies, kissing all of the male types and leaving gihugic Angelina Jolie lip prints on our faces.

We were sore afraid, and a bit titillated as well, but that’s a different story.

Eventually, seeing as we had brought the strange women upon them, the Pirates made us walk the plank. Being on land already it wasn’t much of a plank, however, there was the mountain, for we eventually had to return to our base camp at the summit.

John – as in John Gramling… Yes. THE John Gramling – downed what was left of his punch drunk rum and pointed at the distant lights in the sky. He burped, hiccuped, and then said, “I ain’t climbin’ that mountain.”

E K, who had been kicked out of the “Feral Cathouse” for torturing the clientele looked ahead and replied, “Psshaw! It’s just a gentle incline.”

“It’s a damn mountain,” John repeated.

And so we braved the cold, the wind, and the bear, stalking off into the early morning darkness (it was after midnight) and climbed the Altoona Mountains there in Florida. Just her worship THE E K, and me…

We never saw John again. Rumor has it RD ate him when the Pirates finally ran out of rum, but then, RD is like that. (You’d understand if you’d ever met RD…)

And there you have the true story of The Gramling Party. I’m sure that mountainside is haunted now… By John and a case of Corona. Maybe I’ll go back and look for him some day. I’m pretty sure he forgot to take the lime with him…

More to come…

Murv

If you’ve been waiting for IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER, wait no more… Well, unless you are actually waiting for a bleak sort of midwinter. In that case you have a month or so yet to go. However, if you were waiting for the first installment of the new Special Agent Constance Mandalay novels, then you are in luck, because here it is, shiny and new, and shipping to readers everywhere.

Links below will take you to Amazon, B&N, and direct to the publisher (where they actually have AUTOGRAPHED copies). I also highly recommend visiting your local, independent bookseller for a copy. If they don’t yet have it on the shelves, tell them to order NOW!

FOR THE PEOPLE OF HULIS, MISSOURI, THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS ARE HELL…

THE 20% SOLUTION: READ A SAMPLE BEFORE YOU BUY

PURCHASE PAPERBACK: Amazon – Barnes & Noble – WTP Direct

PURCHASE E-BOOK: Kindle – Nook – Sony/Kobo/Other Readers

More to come…

Murv

More to come…

Murv

Here are the official #Coffinhop Winners from over at M. R. Land (mrsellars.com)…

I have been informed by my lovely and talented publicist, The Amazing Wendy, that after employing a highly technical piece of equipment known in the industry as “A Hat,” three names have been drawn, and the winners notified via email. And so, drumroll please…

The winners of the IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER ARCs are as follows -

Anne Michaud

Susie Branch

and

Virginia Witt

Congratulations ladies! I hope you enjoy reading the book as much as I enjoyed writing it…

More to come…

Murv