Terror Spelled M-O-O

Yesterday, Lauren and I took Kiya (our Husky/German Shepherd mix) down home to see my folks for a make-up Mother’s Day/Father’s Day visit.  We ate, drank and made merry for a few hours and then headed home.

I should pause for a moment here for a little background. I’m from a small town in Missouri and, before I moved away, I lived with my family on a farm where we ran cattle.  Lauren, for her part, has experienced cows mostly from a medium rare standpoint.

Ahem.

So a few miles from the highway that leads us back to the big city, in a pause between deluges of rain that we’d had the entire trip, we see that a calf – no more than two months old – has gotten loose and out onto the farm road.  Wanting to help, I pulled into the drive of house nearby and knocked at the door, only to be told by a little old lady that yes, it is her calf and that she’d have to call her son to come take care of it.  I told her not to worry about it, that Lauren and I could corral it back into her field for her.

As I ran down the road toward it, Lauren pulled along behind me in the car to help angle the calf where I needed it to go.  I noticed the rest of the herd, numbering around thirty head, slowly taking interest in what was going on and coming over to the fence line where we were.  Lauren, it’s important to point out here, did not notice.

In what was the quickest corrals I’ve ever been a part of, we got the calf to slip back through the fence.  Job done, Lauren stopped the car and I hopped in the passenger seat.  Kiya started to get excited at all of the commotion and began pacing in the back seat.  While it started to sprinkle again, Lauren began trying to turn the car around so that we could go back to the farmhouse and tell the woman that her calf was back in her field.

It wasn’t going well.

As we ended up broadside in the middle of the road, I suggest she merely back up the quarter mile to the woman’s driveway.  I noticed that more of the cattle where coming to the fence line now.  Again, evidently, Lauren did not.

Uncomfortable with that idea, Lauren wanted to swap seats and let me drive so we did a quick swap out.  With the rain starting up again, we each left our door open so the other could merely hop in.

It was at this point that all thirty-plus head of cattle quietly collected at the fence line ten feet from us.  Just unobtrusively staring with thick-headed curiosity.

It was also at this point that Lauren noticed.

And lost her mind.

I’ve never seen fear on my wife’s face before then.  Unbridled scared.  See, having a little history with cattle, I knew that the job was done and these cattle were just looking at us.  Nothing at all to fear.  But, in Lauren’s imagination we had messed with the young of these cattle, and every story she’d ever heard of mothers protecting their young in the wild raced across her mind.  I’m still not sure how that translated to not only the mother protecting this calf, but also its uncles, aunts, cousins, but Lauren wasn’t seeing cows at this point in the story.  No, these were a zombie horde, bent on feasting on us.

Kiya, unable to take the excitement any longer, took the opportunity to plan a jailbreak and hopped right out of the car.  That’s when Lauren’s mom instinct kicked in, I guess (what with the angry cattle gunning for us), because she grabbed Kiya and threw her back into the car, jumping in right behind her and pinning Kiya so that the two of them were sharing the front seat.

Now keep in mind that all of this happened in maybe ten seconds.  By the time I registered the look on Lauren’s face I had the two of them trying to keep perfectly still in the front seat.  Kiya, frozen, looking at me wide-eyed like “Dad, what. In. The. Hell. I don’t know this game.  Can I move?” and Lauren looking wide-eyed out the window at a sea of cattle who were growing quickly disinterested.

I backed up and away from the “killer cows” repeating “Calm down, it’s okay.” all the while, to which Lauren’s response was “There’s a swarm! We messed with the baby!  They’re just THERE!” over and over.

Once back at the farmhouse, I jumped out to tell the lady that her calf was back in the field and all was well.  She thanked me and I got back in the car.

Where Lauren was laughing.

Not like a “oh, that was wild!” giggle, no.  More like a “I’ll need to find a home for her” hysterical laugh.  Ten minutes this went on.  I looked in the rear view mirror at Kiya, but she just looked back like “I don’t get this game, but it sucks.”

Finally, Lauren calmed down enough that she wanted to call her parents and share the tale.  Three dropped calls later (we were in the sticks after all) and she was able to share her adventure:

“They swooped in on us; clearly these were cheetah hybrid cows.  Anyway, the first cow, who I call the War Chief…”

Walking In the Footsteps of Giants (or, How Not To Get A Good Night’s Sleep)

I am a huge fan of Stephen King’s work.

Like De Lint and Gaiman, among others, Stephen King is a massive influence on the way I go about trying to write a story.

This being the case, my wife Lauren and her folks thought it would be an awesome Christmas/Birthday present to send Lauren and I to Colorado for a night in the Stanley Hotel, the reputed haunted hotel where Stephen King got the germ of the idea that would one day become The Shining.

It made for an awesome gift!

I was going to be in the same spot where King stood.  Maybe the muses would throw me a bone, ya know?

I was giddy. I couldn’t wait.  I’d seen the Stanley in the mini-series of The Shining, of course, the one with Steven Weber and Rebecca De Mornay (a far better adaptation than the Kubrick film) and on the episode of Ghost Hunters, but this time I’d be there in person.

Oh the joy.

Little did I know that Lauren was in fact not giddy with anticipation.  That’s not really accurate.  She was excited for the trip; the flight to a state she’d never been to, driving through the mountains for the change of scenery and all, but while I was constantly “Stephen King, Stephen King, Stephen King!” she was quietly pondering every spook flick she’d ever seen.

Fast forward to our arrival at the Stanley Hotel.

It’s a beautiful hotel, steeped in a rich history that has nothing at all to do with ghosts or the supernatural, and all of which we learned about on the tour of the place, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

When we got to the concierge’s desk to check in, a nice young lady handed me an envelope and said, smiling, “I think someone has a surprise.”

It turned out that, unbeknownst to us, Lauren’s folk had established a tab for us in the hotel and upgraded our room.  To room 401.  Now, for those of you not in the know, the fourth floor of the Stanley is reported to be the most haunted of anyplace in the hotel, and room 401 the busiest room, from an unexplained happenings standpoint. (It’s the room where one of the Ghost Hunters crew stayed during their investigation only to have his water bottle implode.)

Reading the card made me smile.

Reading the card made Lauren gasp and say “Oh no!”

The concierge was so concerned (I mean Lauren had actually teared up) that she asked if we wanted to switch to another room.

“No,” Lauren told her, “it’s my husband’s birthday.  I’ll be okay.”

She’s a trooper.

Now me, I’m bouncing around and wondering “Did Stephen King stand here?  Did he look out this window, maybe? I wonder what he had for dinner that night when he woke up at 3:00 a.m. and wrote down the outline of The Shining?” on and on until we dropped our stuff off and went downstairs to join in on the tour.

Like I said, the tour was cool, very informative on the historical stuff that I dig, all the while keeping us in the know about the ghosts in the joint.  Our room, of course, was on the tour.  As was the infamous room 217, where Stephen King had stayed:

During the tour, outside of our room, the tour guide told us about Lord Dunraven, the ghost of our room.  The story went that if a woman (seems Dunraven doesn’t dig men) climbed into this closet:

and shut the door, she would feel something touch her hair, arm or leg.  To which, upon hearing, Lauren turned to me and whispered “Hell no.”  Also that the closet door would open of its own accord, jewelry would move around and that you’d hear children laughing and playing, running up and down the hall outside.

The Vortex was another “hot spot” for spook activity and everyone on the tour was encouraged to take as many pictures as they liked.  As you can see, we got bupkis:

The tour was a blast, though, and well worth the money. (The Stanley Hotel FULLY embraces their haunted reputation, with guided ghost tours at night and a live in psychic.)  But both Lauren and I were pretty beat (she’d only had an hour of sleep the night before, as I found out later) so we were ready to go chill out in our room for a bit, where Lauren took a much needed nap and I turned on the television to the Stanley Hotel’s all Shining, all the time channel and caught up with the Torrances.

Later on we had an amazing meal in the Cascades, the restaurant in the Stanley.  They also have a fantastic whiskey bar.  As a whiskey fan, I thought to avail myself of their amber goods.  I’d never tried Crown Royal XR (at $26 a shot it’s a bit outside my price range) so I thought, hell, when would I get the chance again?  I ordered one.

Not thinking about it once the bartender (who wasn’t Lloyd, sadly) placed the glass in front of me, I shot the whiskey in a gulp.  It tasted so…I can’t express how good in words.  It was too late when I realized what I’d done, when the bartender, eyes wide, said, “Wow, most people kind of nurse that for a bit.”

It was a sad time, hugged in a wonderful sense memory.

Anyway, we went back to the room.

Except this time it was night.

Dark.

I was exhausted.  “Curl up on the step and use my shoes as a pillow” kind of tired. I just wanted to climb into the king-size bed in our room and sleep the sleep of the fattened and happy.

Lauren, who, let’s remember, had only slept for an hour and forty-five minutes in the last two days (counting her nap when we arrived), well, she had other ideas.

She had nearly every light possible turned on in that room.  The lamp on her side, the lamp on my side, the bathroom light AND the television.  Now, I’m a light sleeper.  I need it dark and I damn well can’t sleep with the television on.  But by this time, Lauren was nearly hysterical with fear of…she didn’t know what.  She was to the point where if I turned over in the bed, trying to get comfortable, she’d say “Where are you going?  No, turn back and face me.”

It was a long night.  I slept for maybe twenty to thirty minutes at a time before waking up to a light in my face or once, around three in the morning, to find Lauren watching Grease.  She was calming down some, sleep seemed to help and we both said we would never knowingly spend the night in a scary place again.

Eventually, while Lauren slept off her fears, I got to watch the sun rise over the mountains in Colorado.  That sight is definitely going to stay with me.

So, we got out of bed, cleaned up and got set to go.  Lauren was a little bummed that we didn’t have any spook stories to tell our friends and family when we got back.  We had stayed in the Shining hotel, after all.  I agreed but figured we still had a blast.  As she got out of the shower and was getting ready, she mentioned that she needed to grab the hair dryer.

“I think I saw one in the closet.” I told her and I opened the door to grab it.  Turned out it was an iron.  Lauren, who has extensive hotel management experience, just looked at me like I was the slow kid who can’t figure out why the square block won’t fit into the round hole.

“No, babe, I packed my hair dryer.  It’s in the bag.” she said.

I shut the closet door and started to look around the room at the framed photos from 1910 of little women in long white dresses.  Like I said, I was digging the history of the joint.  First I looked at the framed picture just outside of the closet door and then at the one hanging on the wall across from the closet, all the while Lauren was blow drying her hair.

All of the sudden, in the reflection of the glass from the frame, I saw movement come from behind me.  I turned around and the closet was open a crack.  Now this was a heavy, solid door that creaked really loudly whenever you opened it.

“Babe, did you open the door?” I asked Lauren.

She put down the dryer and came out to look.  “Nooo.” she peered around the corner at me.

“Huh, maybe I didn’t close it completely when I looked in for the hair dryer.” I figured.  I went over and closed the closet door tightly, checking the handle when I was finished.

“Well, now you’re coming in here while I finish getting ready.” she told me.

Fine, I thought, and brought my book to read while she wrapped things up.

Seconds later she walked out into the main room.

“Baby?” she asked, “Did you open the closet?”

By this time I was frustrated due to sleep deprivation, high altitude and just plain being ghosted out.  I shut my book and walked out into the main room to find…

The closet door was completely wide open.

So, that was weird.

We finished up packing and gathering our trash.  While we did, Lauren kept looking thoughtfully at the door.  Finally, I asked her what was up.

“I’m going to regret it later if I don’t try out the whole going into the closet and shutting the door thing.” was all she said.

So, before we left, she did:

And, of course, nothing happened.

But she came full circle, did my wife.  From freaked out to ghostbusting adventurer.

All in all I had a blast.  Another thing to check off my bucket list.

I highly recommend it!

Doing 30 Right

Turning thirty is a big deal.

Not so much from a time passing/turning a page aspect, though there is that, too.

No, where the significance comes into play – the art, if you’ll allow – is how you celebrate it.

(I, for instance, had a three-day extravaganza that is still talked about to this day in some circles.  Sigh.  Good times.)

To commemorate my wife Lauren’s birthdays, two things happen: I write her a birthday tale with help from any and everyone who wants to participate in it online, and I chronicle the party’s events in a bullet point blog post written as only the lone designated driver can.

What you’re about to read is the latter.  If by story’s end you feel extremely full and/or slightly intoxicated, well, it’ll be like you were there with us.

*     *     *     *     *

This year, being Lauren’s thirtieth (don’t bring that fact up to her as she’s still a little “this is bull$#@+!” about the whole thing) we had two weekend long parties in two cities; Kansas City and St. Louis.

KANSAS CITY

– We started the party with friends meeting us for sushi. (Lauren loves sushi.  When I say she loves sushi, I’m fairly certain that whatever emotion you may be applying in your mind’s eye to that love is incorrect.  You’re missing the mark, as it were.  Try this: imagine how you would feel if your hero, whomever that may be, met you out on the street and proceeded to tell you that you were the most amazing person to ever live.  Then that hero gave you money and property and saw to it that your home city threw you a parade.  Now, picture Sonny the Cuckoo Bird reacting to Cocoa Puffs.  That’s how Lauren feels about sushi.)

– Our group headed down to Prospero’s, a used book store, where Lauren picked up her free birthday book while we listened to jazz playing overhead and lamented the final fate of a stuffed jackalope.

– Then on to the Mud House where we had vegan junk food.  A contradiction in terms that tastes yummy and goes down well with hot chocolate.

– On to the record store.  I don’t remember buying anything here, but we may have.  Some of us were preoccupied with needing a restroom. (Which in no way should serve as any sort of statement about our previously having noshed on vegan junk food.)

– We then went bowling (after stopping at yet another bookstore first, where we found more books and, saints be praised, a bathroom).  We bowled three games.  Bowling three games when you only go bowling about once every three or so years turns out to be bad math.  I don’t recommend it.  The first game is fun, the second grows competitive and the third teaches you new cuss words.

– Tapas for dinner! Our crew swelled with friends from out of town and some more locals.  We ate, drank and made merry.  Our server made certain drinks that involved a process of making them using open flame.  For those of you who may not know, Lauren lives a life that is just shy of being a functioning pyromaniac. (It’s the illegality of such a profession that’s really her only stumbling block.) The grin on her face while she watched the drink being made was a little creepy, sure, but she was the birthday girl.

– The bar!  The birthday celebration commenced with fru-fru drinks that were pink and smelled of cherry but closed with Irish Car Bombs.  Hilarity ensued when Emma, one of our group, thinking she was drinking a slippery nipple, had her shot mistakenly given to another of our group, Josh, who thought he was dropping a shot of Bailey’s Irish Cream into his Car Bomb.  Emma made a sour face after her shot, but Josh, man, he looked to be having a stroke preempted with facial tics and his head trying to rescind into his neck.  And we laughed.

– Sunday morning brunch at a drag show (I was corrected in the telling of this tale by my mother-in-law, a woman who has helped more than a few drag queens behind the scenes at a show back in the day, that we don’t call them “drag queen shows”, it’s just not done) was the plan.  We got there early as per the website’s instructions.  We ate while we waited for the show.  Lauren, a few birthday shots too many the night before, had us leave ten minutes before the show started.  She was pretty done and wanted to speed up the rest of the day’s events so they’d all take place in a three hour period.  As we couldn’t control the show, we missed out.

– Off to the museum because, as everyone knows, nothing closes out a birthday weekend of too much food, booze and cross-dressing like a little culture.  We hit the Nelson Aitkens at about noon (three hours earlier than planned).  Our friend Victoria joined us and the three of us walked around for about another forty-five minutes.  Around the forty-six minute mark, Lauren, apropos of nothing, began to head butt my shoulder.  Just put her head down and started ramming me at five minute intervals, not saying a word.  I took that to mean that the birthday girl was done and so we went home.

St. Louis

The second weekend took place in Lauren’s hometown.  Lauren loves St. Louis almost as much, if not more, than she loves sushi.  Emma (from the slippery nipple mix-up) joined us for the trip and the three of us crashed with Lauren’s folks.

– First up, Fast Eddies where we had shrimp, burgers, fries and booze.  Our buddy Bohannon joined us to kick things off as we ate too much and loved every minute of it.

– City Museum is a huge building filled with the bizarre things for adults to climb on, in and around and crowned with a giant metal praying mantis on top.  Kids are allowed, nay, encouraged to play there too, but I say leave ‘em at home the first time you go.  It’s more fun that way.  For instance, I got stuck in a tunnel made of rebar suspended five stories up in the air.  A group of small kids, climbing through the tunnel as easy as they were walking, started to pile up behind me, trying to be patient as they waited on me.  Finally, a parent yelled from somewhere down below, “What’s taking so long?  Hurry up!” to which a little redheaded boy replied, “We’re trying, but there’s a big guy in the way!”  Good times.  Lauren, for her part, promptly slid down a slide that had muddy, rusty water on it moments after we arrived.  She had to walk around the place with my sweatshirt wrapped around her to avoid a “I tried, I really tried to find a bathroom” look.

– Lauren’s folks took our group, who now counted five, to an awesome restaurant, Eleven Eleven Mississippi, for some great food and drink.  We all ate, drank and conversed the evening away.

– We closed the night at a bar where a local band that Lauren loves, The Bottoms Up Blues Gang, was playing.  We ate more and they drank more.  It then, surprisingly enough, dumped about five inches of snow in forty-five minutes.  Lauren, now three sheets to the wind, was trying desperately to get anyone to make snow angels with her.  When that didn’t work, she instigated two snowball fights.  From the look of her when she got back into the bar, drenched as she was, she lost.  She lost real bad.

So there you have it.  It’s like you partied right along with us.

Say what you will about us Conaways, but we know how to celebrate right!

Honeymoon: Day One

Some asked for this story, but the rest of you shouldn’t be surprised that I’m telling it, given that Lauren and I are writers.  Let’s just start at the beginning…

We spent the bulk of the first day in Kansas.  Before you ask, no, not because we were lost (though I see how you could go there, given Lauren and I’s rep) but because when one plays Follow the Signs, one should not be expecting linear travel.  Follow the Signs wandering tends to take on a meandering quality akin to Billy’s adventures in the Family Circus; lots of left, left, left, right, climb the tree, right, left, swing on the swing set, etc.

We started the morning at IHOP because my fian – I mean, my wife (still getting used to that) has an unhealthy obsession with their blueberry syrup; to the point that, given the choice between me and a giant bottle of IHOP blueberry syrup waiting for her at the end of that aisle, onlookers would have caught a glimpse of the Graduate’s ending unfolding in real life.

From pancakes we went to the bank to settle up our travel funds.  While there, I caught our first Sign: West from a poster on the wall at the Bank and 4840 written in black marker on a random cardboard box.  Lauren figured out that 4840 is the coordinates for a mountain range in Las Cruces, New Mexico and we were off!

On the road, however, Lauren caught sight of our second Sign, ironically enough on a billboard about a school for the blind.  So we headed south toward Olathe, Kansas because I thought I knew where the school was located.  (It turned out that I didn’t, but that’s neither here nor there.  Moving on…)

Now that we were headed south on I-35, we figured maybe we’d head through Texas until we reached the ocean.  Less than an hour after Olathe, Lauren saw a little apple orchard/winery called Pome on the Range, so we stopped in and got a few snacks to add to our arsenal of soda, bottled water and leftover candy from our Groom’s dinner: Jordan almonds and butter cream mints. (Incidentally, when we started this road trip Lauren explained to me that I could have the Jordan almonds, because I like them so much and she claimed she didn’t like them, and that she’d get the lion’s share of the butter cream mints, to which I agreed.  It’s now the end of day one and the bag of butter cream mints hasn’t even been opened, while the bag of Jordan almonds, inexplicably, is all but empty.  I take that back.  My wife does have an explanation for it.  She claims that, while Lauren Berger didn’t dig Jordan almonds, Lauren Conaway rather likes them quite a lot.)

Back outside, at a little pond nearby, there dwelled about twenty or so ducks.  Lauren wanted to feed said ducks from the quarter machine of duck food that the proprietors of said winery/orchard cleverly placed near their front door.  As she started to feed them, the ducks quickly surrounded her en masse, Night of the Living Duck style, which freaked her out a little.  I stopped laughing long enough to duck whisper them back to the pond and then we were back on the road.

Then the next Sign led us to Melvern Lake just outside Lebo, Kansas, where we spent some quiet time just listening to the wind, wildlife and the water.  It was nice to just chill for a bit, eat some of our snacks and unwind.

By the time we hit Wichita, Kansas, we figured we’d eat a real meal.  Lauren used an app on her phone that let us search for non-chain restaurants and, for obvious reasons, we landed at the Bella Luna Café.  There we told the tale of our adventure thus far to a woman who ended up being the manager of the joint and she gave us awesome dessert for free!  Fattened and happy, I was ready to get going again.

Now, in talking to her, the manager of Bella Luna Café had said we should head back toward New Mexico, to check out Roswell, so we took that as our next Sign.  BUT, once we started down the highway for about another hour, we were passed by a diesel whose trailer read TESLAA.  As anyone who has ever talked science with Lauren before knows, my wife is a HUGE Nikola Tesla fan.  Tesla, as it turns out, had a history with Colorado Springs, Colorado, and not where we are currently headed, Roswell, New Mexico.

So, as we cross the Kansas border into Oklahoma and get a room for the night, we’re left with two Signs to discuss: New Mexico or Colorado?

We’ll have to sleep on it and decide tomorrow.

(Author’s Note: As it stands, we’re planning to hit both unless the Signs state otherwise)

Birthdays Come But Once A Year

I am deeply in love with Lauren.

I tell you this now because, after I share the following with you, it might seem like my telling the tale is not a very loving thing to do.

But she and Katie asked me to write this since they remember little of it.

That being the case, let us begin the story I like to call:

Bella’s B.B.’s Birthday Bash!

or

In The Land of the Drunks, the Sober Man Is So Very, Very Bored

Our story begins on Lauren’s annual birthday weekend in St. Louis.  She has a list of certain stops that she has to make in her hometown to consider it a happy birthday.  After visits to her family and friends, Modesto’s ranks highest on that list.

Modesto’s is a tapas restaurant.  If, like I didn’t, you don’t know what tapas is, let me give a brief explanation.  Basically, tapas are a sampling of various Spanish foodstuffs, passed around your table on tiny plates and you take a little from each plate as it goes by.  I know, it sounds like you’d still be starving after dinner, but I’m always surprisingly full afterwards.

They serve sangria there that Lauren loves.  That should be noted here, to fully understand where the night takes us.  A prelude, if you will.

All save two of Lauren’s bridesmaids were with us at Modesto’s.  Isabel and Leslie, who live in St. Louis, and Katie, who Lauren’s folks flew in from Chicago as a birthday present to Lauren.  These ladies shared at least four pitchers of sangria there at the table.

At one point, as I watched, our table exploded into a heated conversation about the general public’s overall opposition to using words beyond the simple vernacular of hobos.  How so-called ACT words get no love and that we wordsmiths are all but drawn-and-quartered for shining any kind of spotlight on said words.

The most surreal part of the evening, for me, was sitting with my future mother-in-law to my left while my future wife was to my right and having them both thunder on about personal lexicons simultaneously.  It was downright eerie.  Also, the fact that both mother and daughter like to start statements with “Can I just say” and sprinkle the word “actually” in everywhere became quite defined.

Eventually, after enough flash photography to bring on an epileptic seizure, dinner ended and Lauren, Katie and I headed for some live blues at Lauren’s favorite bar in St. Louis, B.B.’s.

This year was the second year that I played designated driver/wrangler/babysitter for our group over the course of Lauren’s birthday weekend.  A sober driver is a very important, responsible role, sure.  But let’s not, you and I, pretend for a second that it’s in any way fun for a would-be joiner in said frivolity.  (Damn SAT words, sneaking in everywhere.)

This year I tried to get a buddy in St. Louis to join me, so I wouldn’t just be sitting at the bar, waiting for the night to end.  Last year we even brought friends with us, to alleviate my boredom.  But each year, for whatever valid reasons, I was flying solo while the drunken folks ran rampant all around me.

The night started off well.  Lauren, Katie and I were joined by Isabel and her boyfriend Steve at B.B.’s where we all sat around up at the bar talked.  Soon, though, the drinks started flowing and, as you well know if you’ve ever partaken in a night on the town, cigarettes need smoking and bladders need emptying.

Every ten minutes or so, Isabel and I, the only non-smokers, were the only two left at the bar, tending the seats.  It was like a Monty Python skit or something.  Swoosh, they’re here.  Swoosh, they’re gone.  Swoosh, they’re back again.

In between smoke breaks, Lauren would end up having someone hand her a birthday shot.  There’s a shorthand that you pick up on when you’re drunk with other drunks; a mental melding that allows you to read between the static of drunken conversation that a sober person just can’t crack, no matter how hard they try.

For instance, Lauren kept using air quotes as the night progressed.  She pointed out to me that a “shot” made her have to go to the “bathroom” again.  I felt free to conclude that she found her shot to be weak with alcohol (all evidence to the contrary) but, and I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know what you ladies do in the restroom, air quotes around bathroom left me stumped for awhile.

Eventually Katie and Lauren planned to go downstairs to the main floor of B.B.’s to say hi to the bartender there, whom they both seemed to know, while I staid upstairs and listened to the band, Chainsaw Dupont, play.  After almost an hour, the two came stumbling back upstairs.  Katie, in a concentrated effort to give me a play by play of what they’d been up to, had a story that went something like this:

K: “We went downstairs, down the stairs, over there, and Lauren stopped halfway.  So then I came back up the stairs and got her to go downstairs, the whole way back down to where the stairs stopped, on the ground.”

L: “We’re going to meet her for lunch tomorrow!”

Me: “Who?”

L: “The bartender!”

Me: “We can’t.  Remember?  You already made plans.”

L: “*#$^%&!!” Lauren cusses like sailors who have been at sea for years and had only just stubbed their toe do when she’s drunk.  “Oh well.  No worries!”

K: “So there we were, talking.  And I told the band it was Lauren’s birthday.  So they said happy birthday to her.  Over the mic.  And an old guy danced with her so I cut in.  And I bought their cds.  The band, not the old guy’s.  Cuz they’re from Chicago and I live in Chicago.  And I bought a shirt.  And then, we came back here.  Up.  Up the stairs.  Over there.”

Meanwhile, Lauren’s was telling everyone that they were hot.  Guys, gals, old, young, didn’t matter.  Anyone within earshot was hot.  It was possibly the worst case of beer goggles I’ve ever seen.

At one point, another bathroom break, while Lauren was waiting in line and Katie was already in the bathroom, I saw Lauren talking to some guy who was in line behind her.  He looked at her like she was crazy, so I was thinking I needed to go over to them, but then Katie came out and Lauren went in.  Once they were both back at the bar, I found out that Katie overheard Lauren trying to sell the guy her place in line for five bucks.  Always the entrepreneur.

Eventually, someone gave Lauren a shot that had whisky in it.  Whisky and Lauren are not friends.  She became a little agitated, so I decided it was time to take the party home.  By that time it was just the three of us again anyhow, so I didn’t figure Lauren would care.  But, she did.  So much so, she didn’t want to walk with me out of B.B.’s and, thus, slipped and fell on a patch of ice while I was starting the car.

Amazingly, after we got Lauren back to the car and saw that her knee was cut a little bit, Katie pulled out napkins and band-aids to clean her up.  I was waiting for antiseptic and gauze to come out of her bag, so at-the-ready with the med kit was Katie.

And how did Lauren thank her after we got driving down the road?

You know that scene in the Shining where the river of blood comes pouring out of the elevator?  Swap the blood for vomit and the elevator for Lauren and you’ve just about got it pictured.  I’ve never seen someone puke that much.

Luckily she got her head out the passenger window just enough to keep most of it out of the car, if not off the outside.  I’m not kidding; a truck behind us braked and passed as quickly as possible, so horrific was the sight.  Well, that and they probably didn’t want to get any on them.

Katie slid over in the back seat, so that she wouldn’t be sitting directly behind Lauren, in an effort to stay relatively puke-free during the rest of our journey.

Lauren, in all her birthday glory, promptly fell asleep.

As we drove home, Katie showed me her new B.B.’s t-shirt in the rearview mirror.  Suddenly, her eyes, like a child’s, lit up.  It was like it was Christmas in the back seat of our car and Katie had just received her favorite thing in the world from Santa.

“There’s a picture on the back!” she gleamed.

Evidently the girls didn’t look over the merchandise much before purchasing.  She held it up for me to see the picture, too.

We were five miles from the exit off the highway to Lauren’s folks’ house, when Lauren woke up and arbitrarily demanded that I turn right, onto the next highway.

“Why, is it quicker or something?” I stupidly ask.

“Just do it.” She grumped.

I did, and the next thing I knew, the GPS told me that I was getting further away from my destination.  After we got to a point where I could turn around, while I tried to find my way, Lauren explained that I needed to turn west.  She didn’t know what road I needed to be going west on, though.  In her mind, it was enough that I was just going west.

I decided to quit listening to her and got us back on track.

After about twenty minutes of silence, what with Lauren having fallen back to sleep, Katie chimed in with, “This seems to be taking a lot longer than it did going there.”

I was never happier to see Lauren’s folks’ home than I was that night.

As we pulled into the drive, after Lauren ran her fingers through her hair and realized that she desperately needed a shower, Katie offered to help her get cleaned up.

“That’s okay, I can do it.” Lauren told her, looking like an extra from There’s Something About Mary.

“Thank you.  So much.” Katie said, happily, having dodged that bullet.

I just headed up to bed, happy that another Lauren birthday bash had come to a close.

2010 Recap: A Gypsy King’s Tell-Some

This year it’s only day three of January, 2011, so I’m much quicker in getting you ‘10’s recap than I was with ‘09’s.  Knocking out deadlines more quickly bodes well for a future in writing, don’t you think?  Anyhow, once again I’ve vagued up certain things while leaving other events out completely so as to not make my business completely your business.

Let the show begin!

In January I learned that:

– I can embrace a “do nothing” weekend and not go insane.  Quite a revelation.

– Giving up sugar, among other things, for a homemade diet of Lauren’s design makes me cranky one-third of the time, moody the second-third and bitchy the third, um, third.  Third-third?  See?  Even thinking about it makes me sound stupid.  It made me thinner, sure, but stupid trumps thin, hence my embracing the Buddha belly.

– Dropping your phone in the bathtub makes it not work so well.  Technically I already knew this, but having the physical evidence to back up the lesson was, well, it was pretty damn annoying is what it was.

– Lauren wants a dog.  Like, really, really wants a dog.

– Playing Super Mario Bros. while eating thin mints dipped in cheesecake and washing them down with Mountain Dew is like reaching the tip of Nirvana.  Some people will tell you otherwise (I’m lookin’ at you, fiancée), but they are mistaken.  Jump, dip, crunch, swig: the mantra of the wise.

– Birthdays celebrated in St. Louis are a wild ride.  Gazing upon a giant praying mantis whilst climbing inside a three story cage, all before dinner, keeps you on your toes.

In February I learned that:

– People now react the same way to my telling them that I’ve passed another kidney stone as they do when I tell them I’ve clipped my finger nails.

– Lauren and I, while dressed in Superman shirts and swim trunks, can survive jumping into a frozen lake.  Having recently regained the feeling in my middle and ring fingers, I can now type this post.

– Peyton Manning’s stupid interceptions are expensive.  Especially when factoring in that Lauren seemingly has the luck of the Irish once you explain what a point spread is.

– I suck at giving surprises.  I learned this after first trying to send Lauren flowers at work on her day off, and then after buying us tickets to a musical that she couldn’t attend.

– Proposing to your beloved in a bookstore by placing the ring in a copy of a book written by her favorite author, handing the book to her and saying “Check it out, it’s autographed!” tends to make her facial expression go from elated to let down, because it’s not signed, and finally to happy once she puts two and two together, all in about a second.

In March I learned that:

– You know it’s love when the girl who couldn’t stand the utter silliness of the flick Army of Darkness gets you tickets to see Evil Dead: The Musical.

– Learning to play the guitar is great for those days when the stories just aren’t coming.  Welcome to the family, Jack.  (Yeah, I know, guitars are supposed to be named after women.  Just didn’t work out that way in my case.)

– Frugal friends who send texts saying “Happy Birthday! Did you know Corey Haim is dead?” start to make you wonder if the events are related.

– Sergei, the dance instructor, can unlock the inner ballroom dance talent you never knew you had.  It’s true, that vodka does the same thing, but Sergei makes it so that you’re not the only one who thinks so.

– Driving to Oklahoma for a weekend in a bed and breakfast was only made cooler by Lauren’s reaction to seeing her first, in person, tumbleweed.

In April I learned that:

– Our cat, Roxie, the ninja assassin, can leap from atop an entertainment center faster than you can say “But, that was my plastic Easter egg!”

– Holiday candy deemed mine is merely the basis for a funny joke at our house.

– Having my utilities turned off due to a missed phone call makes me wish I could invent cuss words that didn’t just devolve into a mishmash of random words like “Penny-faced rock head can of soap candle!”, but after ten minutes of running through the real cuss words, you start to run out of steam.

– The DMV in my county is located in the back of a pet store.  Makes the police here seem much less intimidating, what with their only being allowed one bullet in their gun.

In May I learned that:

– Atchison, while not living up to the whole “Most haunted city in Kansas” tag, was equally as good a place to write and drink whiskey as Osage.

– Mall walking in Joplin on Mother’s Day weekend is also a good time to drink whiskey.  Thankfully I had my mom and sisters there with me; else I’d have lost my mind.  Granted, they were the reason I was there to begin with, so I dunno.

– Staying at home by yourself for a week while your significant other is away on business is not as exciting as movies had led me to believe.  No new neighbors moved in with any shady activity for me to spy on.  I wasn’t mistaken for an international spy while leaving the airport to drop her off.  Nothing.  Basically I ate a lot of pizza and watched bad t.v.  Hollywood sucks.

– To never watch flicks I haven’t seen yet with jet-lagged, emotional, sleepy people.  They’ll ruin the ending and then say, “Huh.  I don’t know why I just did that.”

In June I learned that:

– Sometimes, when you want people who don’t write but who should write to, eh, write, you have to call them out in a public forum, shaming them into using their talent.  And I didn’t feel the least bit bad about doing it.

– People, mostly friends at first, actually will read and follow the mad things that I write about when I’m not working on short stories.  www.timberhaven.wordpress.com is a grand ol’ time, and I’m happy people are having fun with me.

– Shakespeare In the Park is awesome.

In July I learned that:

– Introducing Lauren to some of my favorite flicks is a great time.  Except Lost Boys.  Lost Boys started a debate that had to be taken to Facebook for proper judging.  I’d like to once again thank the judges for backing my argument.  You strengthen my faith in good taste.

– Fireworks look even better with a pint of ice cream to go with them.  Watching them from your car with the sun roof open is pretty snazzy too.

– Free, live jazz is my new favorite activity.

– Six a.m. is way too early to watch an outdoor production of The Persians, even if you have a kickin’ fruit and cheese breakfast to go with it.

– Inception is the first flick in a very long time that actually lived up to its hype.

In August I learned that:

– You can, in fact, go home again.  If only so someone can break into your car and steal pocket change.

– That with only one, lonely episode on the Discovery Channel about a post-apocalyptic world, Lauren will go from zero to sixty in seconds in the hunt for bottled water and Spaghetti-Os.

– My truck is in fact, flammable.  You go around thinking that your truck is different, but alas, it’s not the case.

– After a night of planned shenanigans to celebrate the meeting of Lauren’s maid of honor, we all promptly flitted out around 10:30.  Getting old sucks.

In September I learned that:

– Dad’s heart likes to keep us all on our toes.

– Meeting in St. Louis for a Geek Con, or Fest, or whatever, is good times.  Zombies, Munchkins and chain/blade-wielding ninja folk all around!

– After almost fifteen years of the same glasses, a new eye prescription makes you feel like someone spent the night kicking you in the head after you downed a fifth of fire water and fell down some stairs.  I imagine.

– Having a root canal is a nice reprieve from passing a kidney stone.

In October I learned that:

– Bookshelves don’t build themselves.  And then after you build them, your books won’t fly neatly up into them.  And then after you put the books away, you still won’t be able to walk from here to there without tripping over books.  Mary Poppins was a liar.

– Apple Butter Makin’ Days in my hometown.  That’s about all the energy I had left to type about that particular topic.

– After 40 years, my parents can still celebrate their love in a way that leaves me speechless.  And I was, come speech time.  Ask anyone who was there, they’ll jump at the chance to tell you.

– Having your very own Mystery Science Theater 3000 Halloween party with friends is a great way to laugh until you wanna puke.

In November I learned that:

– Being laid up for two months (and counting) is a very, VERY good way to drive myself insane.  Back surgery is to my Zen as flaming, metal shrapnel is to a paper towel house.  I don’t even know what that means, that’s how infuriating this is.

– Having Thanksgiving at our place with my folks and soon-to-be in-laws makes me feel all grown up.  Plus, Lauren puts on one helluva good spread.  (I knew that already, but it needed repeating.  Turkey.  Yum.)

In December I learned that:

– While some people can write really well while intoxicated, I cannot count myself among them.  Pain meds ruined my flow, making me keep circling back to the Adventures of Sugar Salvatore and the Candle Shop.  The title was the most exciting part.

– My xbox is part of the reason that I didn’t pack up the family and move to Table Rock Lake.  See?  That’s how bad bed rest got.  I couldn’t even explain to you why Table Rock Lake.  It’s just crazy talk.

So there you have it.  2010 in the blog equivalent of a nutshell.  Sure, some stuff I kept for me, but the rest I gave to you.

As for you, 2011, your brother’ 10 knocked me around a bit.  Why not make it up to me by being safe, calm and sweet during your run of things?  I mean, Lauren and I did choose you for our wedding day, after all.

Seems a fair deal to me.

Another Name For Sappy

It was one year ago today that I was done in by the beautiful blond girl whom I refer to as Bella.  (No, let’s just clear this up now, my calling her Bella has nothing at all to do with Twilight, so stop asking me that.  It’s Italian.  Look it up.)  We were in Columbia, MO, away from all who knew us.  One second we’re roaming the local bookstores, swapping tales of travel adventures and playing Follow the Signs, and the next I’m in love.

I know what you’re thinking:  “Good God, man, that’s just sappy.”

And I’m right there with ya!  I’ve somehow become the guy that I would have thrown things at if I heard talk like this.  Characters like me spouting dialog of the variety that I’m typing/saying are one of the many reasons I don’t watch chick flicks or rom-coms or whatever the cool kids are calling them.

And yet I don’t care.

Before I started dating Lauren (aka Bella, in case you weren’t following), I held three things to be true about relationships:

1. Love makes people weak.  They act stupid and say things that are cheesy, all in order to make someone else happy.
2. It’s impossible to be in a relationship without compromising what you want out of life.
3. People in love made my gag reflex work overtime.

I’m not the most pleasant guy to be around sometimes, I admit it.  Okay, I’m an asshole.  I tend to keep the wagons circled around my family and friends, the folks I care about; doling out what love and attention I can to those on the inside while viewing the rest of the world through distrustful eyes.  I’m grumpy.  I’m aloof.  I have no patience for stupid people.  I don’t care what you’re selling or who for.  You look after yours and I’ll look after mine, that’s my motto.

But Lauren is nothing at all like me.  She’s nice.  Friendly, even.  (To a fault, I’d argue.  Then again, of course I would.)  She cares about the world in general.   She laughs a laugh that kills me.  In short, in some respects, she’s my exact opposite.

So how does it work?

Because our similarities take my breath away.  She’s my equal, the only I’ve ever met, in ambition.  In dreaming.  In cutting our own life path, regardless of the nonsensical alleyways we venture down as we make our way.  She’s my balance.  Where I want to force, she’ll finesse.  She’ll politely finish the conversation I just walked away from out of boredom.

And because of things like these, I now hold three new things to be true about healthy relationships:

1. Love does make me weak.  But not in any way that really matters.  The strength that I get in turn more than makes up for it.
2. I do have to compromise.  But compromising doesn’t mean that what I want doesn’t matter.  (Sounds simple, as I type it, but that one took me time to learn)
3. My stomach still turns at cheesy sap.  Unless I’m the one saying/writing it.  And even some of my stuff pushes the envelope for me but, overall, I don’t mind so much.  (This particular blog post very much included.)

So the gypsy settled down.  So what.  I think it’s a good thing.

I got this brilliant, amazing girl to agree to marry me and I didn’t even have to trick her.

Speaking of which, for those who have asked, here’s the tale of how I proposed:

I had Lauren meet me at our Borders.  I call it “our” Borders both because we love it there and because I’m pretty sure that we’ve singlehandedly paid their rent for them since we moved here.  I had gotten their early to scout out things.  Lauren was getting wise to the fact (for some reason, in the telling here, I’ve begun narrating our proposal tale as though it happened in a noir novel, me wielding a tommy gun while Lauren sings cabaret songs) that I was going to propose, so I had to try and throw her off the trail. (See?  Bogart is knocking.)

I found a hardcover copy of Kurt Vonnegut’s Look At The Birdie.  One, because Vonnegut is Lauren’s favorite author and two, we didn’t already own it so it would be cool to use in my plan.

I taped a Post It note inside that read “I have a question to ask you. . .” and then the ring was taped to it.  My plan was to give her the book in the travel section of Borders, as traveling is one of our passions.

Corralling Lauren in a bookstore is not easy.  (Writing while Lauren is home is no walk in the park either.  She keeps trying to sneak peeks at this before I post it.)  She wandered here and there, looking at this and that, until FINALLY I got her attention and waved her over to where I was in the travel section.

“Check this out,” I told her, handing her the book, “it’s a signed copy!”

Lauren’s eyes lit upon the cover.  It was Vonnegut.  A signed Vonnegut!  (Incidentally, Vonnegut had been dead for nearly three years at the time of my proposing.  I’m not really sure how Lauren made peace with the conflicting ideas of his having signed anything in the interim, being dead and all.) She opened the cover and, for the briefest glint of a moment, her eyes looked sad that there was no autograph.

Then I saw the realization of what was going down come across her face.

I took the ring and knelt down on one knee.  (Cliché?  Yes.  But what can ya do.)

Lauren remembers the first sentence of what I said in my proposal.  That’s it.  I could see her watching my mouth, just waiting for me to stop talking long enough to respond.  Luckily, I didn’t spend a lot of time preparing a speech.  I know mia Bella pretty well.

So that’s it.  One year later and we’re planning a wedding for next year.

It’s kinda cool, going from being the guy who doesn’t plan for longer than the next week out to the guy who thinks a year or two ahead.

So, for those of you who walked down this relationship road before me, call me a joiner.

Oh, and sorry about all the things I’ve thrown at you over the years.  Metaphorically or, in some of your cases, literally.  (Told ya I was an asshole.)

I Pay My Debts

I get bored.

When texting first became something that I could do with any sort of regularity, in an effort to help ease the boredom (particularly while at work) I introduced to various friends what has eventually become known as Aaron’s Question of the Day.

At the time I started doing it, there were only about six people I would bug and it didn’t have a title.  I would just send whatever random thought I was having at that moment in a text and get their thoughts on it.  Mostly just as a cheap form of a moment’s entertainment.

Through word of mouth and involving Twitter and Facebook, it’s now become this Monday-Friday thing that’s all but gotten out of control.  Upwards of thirty people play, some of whom get upset if I miss a day (seems in some cases that I’ve gone from the entertained to the entertainer), and Friday’s have a Cage Match of various entities duking it out via the polling results of my players!

It’s fun enough and keeps my boredom at bay, but it also offers me a little insight into what makes some of my friends tick, and I didn’t see that coming when I started the whole thing.

Yesterday, for instance, I asked the question, “What is the first thing that comes to your mind if I ask ‘What is RIGHT with the world today?’”.

Out of nearly thirty friends, seven of them, roughly a FOURTH, said nothing came to mind or that there was nothing right in the world today.

Some of those seven are currently being plagued by negativity in their life in some form or another and a few were simply in a bad mood just then (one, well, they’re negative most waking hours), so I can’t fault them.  They were just being honest, responding to my question as they saw things.

But negative comments, like gentlemen thieves, can break in quietly without any muss and rob you of your optimism one silver spoon at a time.

That being the case (this next part might sound odd coming from me, particularly if you know me in person, since I’m moody and have little to no tolerance for a lot of people.  You’ve maybe noticed this if I’ve ever walked away while you were talking to me at a party, but social niceties aren’t really my strong suit.  If you feel the need to give Lauren, my fiancée, a hug for having to put up with me, I won’t hold it against ya), I’m going to do something.  I feel responsible for lighting the fuse that shot this negativity into the world, so I’m going to try and balance the karmic scales.

Here’s my list of seven things that are RIGHT with the world as I see it, in no particular order:

1. I live in a world where technology allows my friends who are writers and I to create and correspond instantaneously.  We can talk shop, critique each other’s work and stay topical with our lives, vision and worldview.  Like Lovecraft and Howard or Van Gogh and Gauguin did, with the added benefit, through said technology, that ear “incidents” are kept to a minimum. (I’m lookin’ at you, Van Gogh.)  Check ‘em out: Moler at http://daedalus-3.blogspot.com/ for, well, best leave it for you to discover, his wife Rae at http://raesforesthouse.blogspot.com/ for gardening tips from the guru, Bohannon at  http://thebohaagonsaga.blogspot.com/ (his family’s just welcomed a new addition, allowing his wit to shine in new directions), Libby at http://vespaer.livejournal.com/23309.html for some fan fiction from the show Heroes (though you’ve gotta be older than 14 or they won’t let ya in), Jason at http://jasonwarden.com/ for his horror shorts and Lauren, mia bella, at http://sociopathways.wordpress.com/ for great commentary on all manner of different things! (She’s not posted in many, many moons, though.  I’d be willing to write a piece of their choice for any person who gets her to start writing on it again!)

1. …where adventure is around every corner!  You can travel for it: I just went to the Scottish Highland Games in Riverside with my folks.  It even rained the entire time, so it was like I really was in Scotland.  I tried haggis (which I liked well enough until I tried a bite of it cold.  Now it is dead to me.), watched a caber toss and learned that a kilt only becomes a skirt if a man wears something underneath.  You can adventure by book (currently enjoying Songbook by Nick Hornby) or flick (I DUG The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus!) and especially by trying new food, like I did when Lauren and I went to the Kosher Festival in Overland Park a week or so back.  I tried a cabbage roll and it was amazing!  Incidentally, however, it turns out that I needn’t have spelled out my name to anyone in the Jewish community.  Lauren enjoyed my learning that quite a bit.  (See, nobody in KC seems to be able to spell my name correctly.  So when the lady at the brisket table took my order and asked for my name, I said “Aaron.  A-a-r-o-n”, which I’m wont to do, like I said, because most of KC can’t seem to get it together.  Anyhow, Lauren starts to snicker, so I turn to see what’s funny.  Lauren was looking at the brisket lady, who, it turned out, had finished writing my name before I spelled it out and is smiling back at Lauren.  Now I don’t have telepathy, but I’d be willin’ to bet that the conversation/Jewish mindmeld played out something like this:  BL: “Your fiancée doesn’t know much about the origins of his name, does he?”, L: “Sorry about that.  He’s probably just distracted by all of the food.”  BL:  “It’s no bother.  He does look like he enjoys a meal.”, L: “Oh yes.  He probably wanted to order something to eat on while we waited for the rest of the food, but doesn’t know the difference between knishes and blintzes!” BL+L “Hahahahaha!”  Like I said, I don’t know for sure, but I’ve seen X-Men.  I know how these mind talks go down.

1. …where John Coltrane’s music, particularly Lush Life and Giant Steps, exists.

1. …where Snoopy licked his wounds and, with the Great Pumpkin’s battle plan in hand, climbed back up onto his doghouse and kicked the Red Baron’s ass.

1. …where you can fly a kite on a windy day, splash barefoot in big puddles when it rains, build a fort in the snow and hide in a pile of dried leaves.

1. …where Post It Notes are readily available.  Handy when one wants to leave a secret message for his love to find.  Even if he does have the handwriting of a Turkish assassin.  A Turkish assassin who has been clubbed in the head and has suffered significant blood loss.  And his arms are bound, forcing him to write said secret message with his foot.  His left foot.

1. …where, when you come of age and you so desire, you can have chocolate donuts and Fruity Pebbles.  For dinner.

So there ya go.

Seven, of many, things that I see as being right with the world, owing for the seven bits of negative energy that came about through my actions, if not by my hand.

Paid in full.

Hard At Work

Twelve Days

The First Day

The sound of trickling water stirs me from my stupor, its thirst quenching promise to my much maligned throat akin to the cock’s crow.  I awake to darkness complete, nearly denying my memory of light’s very existence.  As my hands slowly remember their function, I feel through the black for my surroundings.

I am on my back, or so the proximity of the stone floor found by my fingertips would suggest. Yet I am not sure how much I can trust my senses right now, shrouded in this womb of pitch as I am.  My sense of hearing stands faithfully at the forefront, however, as the sound of water is the only constant I have encountered thus far, outside of the darkness.

I try to sit up and am instantly overwhelmed by nausea at the idea of doing so.  With my head dizzy, I opt instead just to lie here a bit longer and ponder my current state.  Try as I may, in the few moments consciousness has awarded me, the search of my recollection as to how I have come here has bore no fruit.  It is this that sets the panic in.

How could I not have acknowledged it at once, this sense of self-preservation?  I am drugged, cast into a stone pit out of which not even light can escape!  Where am I?  I would scream, if my throat would allow, for such is my plight that screaming is the only logic my mind leaves me!  Help!  Please!, my face pleads in pained pantomime, though nary a harsh whisper comes forth in the attempt.  Wet pools well in my eyes.

I sit bolt upright, ignoring vertigo’s call to the sick bristling in my stomach, and instantly take a sharp blow to my head.  Lost as I am to this darkness, the only evidence I have that consciousness, ever the fickle rogue, is fading is that the sound of running water, my constant companion in this hell, is going quiet.

The Second Day

I awake again, this time due to an intense thirst and a throbbing pain in my forehead.  I place my fingers to my brow, digging through my matted hair; a preliminary search to assess the damage. I find it cracked and sticky, the dried blood suggesting that I have been out for some time.

The drug seems to have worked its way out of my system, thankfully, as my thoughts no longer feel as though they are being whispered to me from across a great hall.  The one failing of my sobriety, it seems, is now I notice how cold I am, wearing just my night clothes.

I try to warm myself by rubbing my arms.

I slowly bring my hands back down to my sides, though; remembering that such movements are what got me struck when last I woke.  My captor must truly be supernatural to function in such darkness, as my senses have relayed nothing of my surroundings save the trickling of water.

This truly frightens me!

I’m suddenly overwhelmed by thoughts of demonic wraiths and other foul, fearsome beasts recalled from the shadows of my childhood nursery.  How a billowing curtain, to my child eyes, hid an angry spirit bent on sucking the marrow from my bones.  The sound of labored breathing the only warning one got before the toothy maw of some spawn from hell’s pit had its way with you.

But I am being ridiculous.  I must try and calm my nerves.  Focus my breathing.  Steady my heart’s pace.  Surely I come here by human hands and, if a madman be to blame-for my current state could only have been born of an unhinged mind-a madman I can attempt to contend with.  To do so, however, first I must understand where I am and how I have come here.

Last I recall I had retired for the night, or had started to at any rate.  I do not remember actually lying down to bed, however.  No, I had gone up the stairs toward my room…and then…nothing.  I have no memory of what transpired thereafter.  Was I hit?  I feel no evidence of it if so.

Certainly I was drugged though, that much I can deduce from my state of mind upon waking here; the lethargic way my body had heeded my commands.  No, the only actual proof of violence that I feel, as I cannot look myself over in such an environment as this to know for sure, is the rawness of my throat and the blow I took to the head after last waking.

Why does my attacker not make himself known?  Does he just stand there in the dark, idly waiting for me to move so as to strike me back down?  Lying still like this, I have noticed that my sense of hearing seems to have exceeded its normal capacity, making up for the loss of my other senses’ acuteness.  I have heard no movement, none.  Nothing that would suggest someone is here with me.  All I do hear is dripping water.  It sounds as though it is coming from nearby and I desperately need a drink.

I slowly run my hands out to either side of my body, feeling the smoothness of the cold stone all around me.  It occurs to me that I may be in a cellar, but the fact that I feel no edges in the stone floor suggests otherwise.  A cave maybe?  Surely not.  No cave I have ever heard tell of had such smooth, worn surfaces as this, let alone the lack of even the smallest pebble!  No, indeed, this must be manmade.  My assailant must be quite the craftsman, on top of being undeniably insane, to have created such a place as this.  Pity its only function seems to be housing tormented souls for its maker’s twisted pleasure.

But enough, my deprived throat demands that water.  Maybe if I move very slowly, crawling on my belly, I can find where the water comes from.  I shift nary an inch sideways.  My lower back, buttocks and thighs, if given voice, would groan in anguish at this treatment, having been as still as they have for so long.  I stop and hold my breath.  Mostly to see if another blow from my invisible captor is forthcoming, but also to let the stabbing pins and needles in my legs subside.

As my circulation corrects itself and my blood begins to flow freely once again, I turn over onto my belly.  I quickly put my hands over the back of my head as to ward off any crushing blows, but none come.  Maybe it is safe to start crawling now.  I listen from which direction the water is coming and gradually pull myself along the stone floor toward it, first with my left hand.  Pull, slide.  Then my right hand.  Pull, slide.  The sound of water is getting louder.  Getting closer.  Pull, slide.  The stone is freezing; my hands are going numb.  Pull, slide.  Pull, slide.

I feel the gentlest hint of a breeze now, barely perceptible on my face and hands.  Pull, slide.  Then, icy water droplets hit me!  I quickly jerk forward and my hands splash into a thin, liquid film which is covering the floor immediately in front of me.  The constant nudging from the cracked, sandy pipe that almost certainly resides where my throat had been begs me drink, and so, like a mistreated hound, I begin lapping up what condensation I can.  Thankfully it is water.  As this merely teases my thirst, I edge forward, licking the floor.

I sense the wall just before I hit it, its smooth, cold surface mirroring that of the floor.  I run my hands along it as the water trickles down like a small, ice-cold stream.  I pull my hair out of the way and plant my cheek into the wall, careless of my gashed forehead, and open wide my desperate mouth. As I lay here, my hair and night shirt absorbing the sound of the dripping as well as the icy cold water itself, I drink deep that which splashes past my parted lips, allowing a respite to my body’s tension.

Yet as I relax, my mind, seemingly wishful of relinquishing its grip, cunningly chooses now to conjure an image of an ornate, golden chalice resting on a small table.  The letters and symbols adorning the cup are unknown to me, as is the mercurial liquid, poured to overflowing by a hidden hand from an unseen source, down its sides.

The image shifts in my mind’s eye, and I now see the cup and table from directly above, looking down, instead of, much like a small child would, viewing it from the side, slightly up, as I had been.  The silver-hued liquid, which for reasons I cannot say I conclude to be poison, continues to pour over the cup’s sides, filling up hidden rivulets carved into the table’s surface to reveal a very distinct, very detailed, peacock.

Wait, what was that?  In the new silence of my prison, I think I heard a faint, almost imperceptible-

Scitter-scritch.

The noise, combined with the oddness of the chalice and peacock’s image, breaks the vision’s hold and I push away from the wall forcefully, gasping for breath.  I quickly crawl away, minding to keep my head low, ever aware of my invisible assailant.

The dripping from the water continues again, robbing me of the ability to focus on what I’m sure I heard, somewhere in the dark.  The dampness of my clothes, of my hair, brings on a chill that causes my teeth to chatter uncontrollably, providing any other sounds, other noises, ample hiding ground.

The Third Day

I must have fallen asleep at some point, listening at the darkness; or possibly the intense shock of ice water and cold stone led to my losing consciousness.  Regardless of the how, I have passed out and come to once more; awoken again to the reignited cadence of the dripping water.

A dangerous rumble emits from my stomach, as my body responds to my tending to its thirst by complaining of its hunger.  I shush another grumble from my belly with a pat, fearing the possibility of reminding my seemingly inattentive host of my presence once again, like an older sibling might silence a younger one during mass for fear of a parental reprimand falling on both of their heads.

Along with hunger, I feel weak from the cold.  I run my hands under my nightshirt, along my chest and shoulders, to find some semblance of warmth through my convulsive shuddering.  It appears to almost be working, or would, if my legs were not shaking with equal effort.  My skin is hot.  Feverish.

It is possible I imagined the sound earlier.  Was it yesterday?  Longer?  It’s difficult to discern the passage of time down here.  Down here?  I find it humorous, I presume due to my hands having adapted to the constant feel of stone, my supposition that I am underground.  Though arguably it is just as likely that I am in some windowless castle turret.  Both scenarios share equal probability when factoring in that the current turn my life has taken bears no logic!

Enough!  It is time I stopped reacting and thought things through.  What is the purpose of kidnapping me and putting me here?  No demands have been made of me.  No questions asked.  I have committed no crime as to warrant a secret arrest, let alone forgoing a fair argument or trial of any kind, only to do away with me in some solitary dungeon where one spends their day drinking from the floor and starving to death!

I throw my hand out, punching the air in frustration, only to have it hit stone.

I wince in pain, bringing my hand back quickly.  Stone?  Did I crawl under some cavernous overhanging while retreating from my imagined noise?  I slowly put both hands above my face and extend both arms up only to find that it was stone I hit!  A rock ceiling!

I turn over on my belly, crawl a few feet towards the sound of the water dripping and turn back over.  I cautiously reach up again.  More smooth rock!  I sit up slowly and inspect.  The smooth, stone ceiling hangs low, making for a space three-and-a-half feet deep, leaving me just enough room to sit with my legs crossed if I bend my head low.

My head!

I had not been hit by a demonic jailer at all, but rather bumped my head into the ceiling sitting up too quickly!

I hurriedly crawl and feel my way around, surveying my surroundings through the dark with my hands.  The area is about fifteen feet by fifteen feet; roughly four foot deep all around.  Stone, throughout.  With the exception of the cracks where the water is trickling in and a few other small holes in one of the other walls, however, there is no foreseeable way in or out.

No doors.  No caverns.

I am sealed in.

2009 Recap: A Gypsy King’s Tell-Some

We’re almost halfway through with January, 2010, so, without further ado, let me share my ’09 with ya.  (I’ve vagued up certain things while leaving other events out completely so as to not make my business completely your business.)

In January I learned that:

Ice, Ice Baby comes through loud and clear on hotel room radios, thereby covering any other traumatic noises that one may or may not be able to hear.

No matter how well you think your truck handles on the ice, buildings can surprise you.

There’s a comfort in discovering that, even on his sixtieth birthday, we can still pull one over on my dad.

In February I learned that:

While I found some people to be a fantastic match with their significant other on Valentine’s Day, others seemed to have lost a bet.

In March I learned that:

The days of the A Bash are done, but that’s okay.  That kind of party seemed less interesting once I realized that I would never be able to top the A Bash of my 30^th.

In April I learned that:

While Coltrane will always be my go to music when my muse is at her mightiest, Thelonius Monk makes for a brilliant change-up in between sets.

Looking for good deeds (due to hitting my thirties or what, I dunno) to do is harder than Oprah would have you believe.  Where could I be most useful? Who needs help now?  These are questions that I’m contending with.  Money donated to the quake victims in Haiti and a dip in freezing water come February for the Special Olympics is what I’ve got on my plate so far, but that’s not enough.

New phones lead to learning about new technology.  I hate technology.  I’m still not convinced my phone should have the ability to do my taxes, locate the closest Burger King and tune in to the radio.  Remember rotary phones?  I kinda miss them.  True, you could succumb to your injuries while waiting on the rotary to finish dialing 911, but still.

In May I learned that:

Root canals leave you talking like Gopher from Winnie-the-Pooh and everyone within earshot will try to get you to say things like “sure” and “Worcestershire sauce”.

Osage, MO makes for a pretty sweet place to write and drink whiskey.  Not necessarily in that order.

In June I learned that:

My friends and I will most likely murder our bachelor buddy at his own bachelor party via copious amounts of booze.  It’s all done with love, I assure you.

Contrary to popular belief, love doesn’t always hit you between the eyes with an explosion of fireworks.  Nor does it cause time to slow to a crawl while a slow song starts to play from somewhere in the background.  No, sometimes love sneaks up on you so quietly, so subtly, it makes you feel like it’s always been there.

Columbia, MO is a fantastic place for playing Follow the Signs, finding used bookstores, planning travels in a swimming pool or sharing secrets in the rain.  It’s not so good for margaritas, however.

In July I learned that:

St Louis is easier to get turned around in than the brochure lets on.  Especially during the wedding season.  Any rumors you may have heard as to why I would think so have probably been exaggerated.

Dressing as the Joker for a kid’s birthday party is an equally good and scary time.  It’s good because you’re usually twice the size of most early elementary school kids.  Scary, because they’re dressed as superheroes (superheroes tend to HIT villains) and outnumber you ten-to-one.

In August I learned that:

Having your main source for writing (in my case, my laptop) returned to you after a long hiatus of it not working, is, for me, like when Willow returns to his village after his adventure.  Lots of hugging and cheering followed by drunken revelry.  I couldn’t get it to make a bird crap on anybody, though.  Maybe once I finally pay the seventy bucks I owe for the parts, it will.

First Friday, though I’m not knowledgeable about art in the slightest, is a good time when you mix it with friends who are family and sushi.  I still can’t tell you what a Coke can and a bottle of Pledge painted on canvas is supposed to mean, but I had fun.

Co-writing a note on Facebook through the voice of your schizophrenic cat may be the most surreal thing one ever does on a Saturday night.

In September I learned that:

Starting a functioning government, in my case, Yarnism, is very difficult.  Try as I may, I am, as of yet, unable to pay my phone bill or fill our cars with gas by telling the people at Sprint or QT a story.  Once I get my Bill Of Rights ironed out, though, I’ll give it another shot.

A wedding in Eureka Springs, Arkansas makes for a wonderful weekend.  Secret ceremonies offer enchantment after the celebrating in the streets comes to a close.

Kauffman stadium is very blue and, while I never thought of myself as a follower of any particular color scheme, I must admit feeling as though I was cheating on a certain scarlet-colored team.

Betting with a smoker that they won’t smoke past a certain amount in a set about of time is a good way to lose a bet.

In October I learned that:

Apple Butter Makin’ Days will always be the best place to find apple cider and steak sandwiches.  It’s also going down in my memoirs as the first place I ever tried a fried Twinkie.

Moving in with someone is just as crazy and fun in my thirties as it ever was in my early teens and twenties, only the walls are decorated more nicely.

Dressing as a ‘roided-out Eric Draven and scaring the crap out older, bratty kids at an elementary school’s haunted house was probably more fun for me than it should have been.

In November I learned that:

In my youth, my dad was the force that kept the monsters at bay.  In my adolescence, he was the hassle that didn’t seem to understand that I already knew everything.  As an adult, I had forgotten that NEITHER of my parents are just an extension of my life.  They’ve thoughts and scars, pains and joys all their own that have nothing at all to do with me.  A trip to D.C. saw to it that I never forget again.

Thanksgiving doesn’t have to just be about turkey and yams.  Establishing new traditions, whether it’s pork cutlets and green bean casserole instead of the aforementioned turkey and yams or watching Love Actually under a blanket on the couch, can bring you Home too.

In December I learned that:

Dan Brown is, evidently, the devil.

Girls can throw down just as messily as guys can, given the right circumstances.

My girlfriend is infinitely better at buying gifts than I am.  “Beep-boop” shirt notwithstanding.

Hash browns can find their way into any and all moments.  Yes, even that one.

Snow is only fun until around the age of ten.  We think that it’s fun after that, but, after more than two days of the crap accumulating, we come to our senses and realize that it’s just a hazy trip down memory lane that’s got us all confused.

So, that’s me in 2009.

I learned, I lived and I loved.  And I laughed an awful lot.

That’s the point, right?