Archive for October, 2010

ADHD Calm; F Rick Perry Anyway

Saturday, October 30th, 2010

 

So. First an update on our contest to rename Sandra, the OR Nurse for my most recent ass procedure, and needer of a new name. Sandra got with me to express her thoughts on the first batch of suggested names, and was impressed by only one.

Ninja Butt Operation Girl is the only one to strike her fancy, and she thinks the submitter is quite clever. I told her I thought it was spot on as far as defining her professionally, and a great idea for a Halloween costume. But it doesn’t feel Hispanic, isn’t very personal and likely would require too many hyphens when put to use with her last name. The Hispanic people are big on hyphenated names.

Same kind of dealie like with Anna the Amazon, my third ex-wife and Sister’s now wife. Sister is my sister and a lesbian mover and shaker here in Austin. The two of them make the perfect lesbian couple.

See, Anna was Anna Johnson when she married me, which made her Anna Johnson-Johnson. After her marriage to Sister, she’s become Anna Johnson-Johnson-Johnson.

Most people will tell you that two Johnsons are several Johnsons too many, but three is way over the top. And to be thorough, Anna’s maiden name was Anna Jones-Johnson. Test drive that mess.

Anyway, my ADHD has been strangely calm this morning in spite of the fact that everyone keeps interrupting me. SAC Ellen is pissed at me, again, and refused to spend the night after finishing dinner.

She loves Johnson family cooking but thinks we use too many fattening ingredients. I carefully, and quite thoughtfully, attempted to explain to her that butter, pork fat, crisp chicken skin and apple smoked bacon looked good on her ass, so eat up!

She interrupted my slumber at 5:30 this morning with a phone call. “Good morning, Mooner. I’ve got my stun gun, four hours of free time and I’m horny as a goat. But I guess I’ll just go to the gym and work off the fat ass you so thoughtfully pointed out to me.”

Gram has been trying to get me to let her into my master suite so she can see if I’m hiding the ostrich and pig. “I know you got tha two of um hidden somewhere, Mooner Einstein Johnson, ya rotten little shit.” Then she pokes her finger into my chest and says, “Einstein my rosy red ass. If I find you been seceratin Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry I’m taking tha 12-gage to tha three of ya.”

“I think you meant secreting, like I’m hiding Rush and Ricky in my closet or something. I think.”

“Who gives a shit, Mooner. I got a secret fer ya. Them two pets a yers fuck with me one more time- I’m gonna curtinate and bury tha three of ya in a masked grave.”

I decided it would be a bad time to ask her if that was reference to pulling curtains and killing some guys and then putting them in an unmarked grave. See what I mean about the ADHD being on the calm? Normally, I’d have questioned or corrected Gram’s fractured use of language and suffered mightily.

Anyway, Dixie and Streaker Jones are meeting Squirt, SAC Ellen and me for BBQ down to the Salt Lick later this afternoon. To show how I’ve grown in mind and spirit, I’m driving past Dr. Sam I. Am’s house to get SAC Ellen, then driving the fifteen miles back to get the Squirt. As “I love you and I’m sorry I’m such and asshole” peace offerings, I have a dozen roses, a small box of chocolates and a casserole of Gram’s famous deep fried chicken with chitlin and chicken liver gravy.

Am I a romantic fucker, or what?

I’ve got plenty of Carta Blanca on ice left over from our last fishing trip, so I’m ready to roll. The Salt Lick doesn’t serve beer, and who can eat BBQ without beer?

Manana, y’all.

Rename Sandra Contest Day 2; I Think I’m Better

Friday, October 29th, 2010

 

So. We’re but a few hours into the first day of our contest to re-name Sandra, and you guys are amazing. I remain unsure, at this point, why you are amazing, but you are amazing none the less.

Entries to date include: Samantha, Bruce (3 entries), Sandie, Grace, Hortensia (even after I told you it was rejected), Ninja Butt Operation Girl, and my personal favorite- Gladys.

Now that this thing has gotten some legs on it, I guess I’d better work out some arrangements with Sandra to see how to pick a winner. Does she get to choose her new name, will we have another contest and let readers vote the best selection, or do I simplify things and use my autocratic tendencies and just make my choice?

Details.

The dealing of with, which are not my best attribute.

Holy shit was that an awkward sentence structure.

Allow me to try again. I have ADHD, and one of the many symptomatic tendencies of its sufferers is the inability to pay attention to details. Fact is, the paying of any kind of attention is the major symptomatic tendency.

Like the instructions that come packaged with a replacement fluorescent light fixture to go in the master vanity area over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s house. A made in Indonesia replacement fixture.

Here’s the back story. For you non-authors, a back story is history on a person or event that provide a foundation for understanding a character’s actions, or the importance of an event.

So. I was in therapy last month, and I was bragging about how much better I have been feeling, even though I haven’t been feeling so hot.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson says to me, she said, “Oh for shit sake, Mooner. Are you telling me that you feel better because you’re crazier, or are you saying you’re crazier because you feel better?”

I hate when she gives me complex questions and any of my answers is going to end badly for me.

“Neither,” my smart reply. “All I’m saying is that even though I can’t concentrate on anything, I feel like I’m concentrating better.”

She seemed ready to laugh- her face got all screwed up like when your child says something they think highly serious and profound, and you’re ready to bust a gut laughing. Sam gives me this look often in therapy.

Once she composed her features, Sammy said to me, she says, “OK, Mooner. Let’s put that insight of yours to a test.”

Then she tells me she needs a new light fixture in her vanity area, and gave me the make and model number. “They carry it in stock at Lowes. If you can get it installed anytime before Thanksgiving, without an electrician, I’ll give you a free session.”

“Deal!”

I’ll do most anything to save $150.00, so I go to Lowes but forgot the paper with the model number, so I bought the fixture I thought best. That didn’t work out so well so I went back with the paper.

“How does this dealie work?” I asked the helpful Lowes electrical partner.

“Simple, Sir. You just snap a few parts in place and install it.”

Now if I truly was better, I’d have known to unpack that fucking light fixture right there in the store, and make the little snivel shit assemble it for me. Being delusional, I thanked him for his help, paid for my purchase and headed to Dr. Sam’s place.

Squirt greeted me as I unlocked the garage door and punched in the alarm code. “Salamu, willcommen and bienvienda Senor Mooner.”

“And a big hello to you my mixed breed cupcake.”

Squirt asked me what was on our agenda for the day and I said, “This light fixture, kid. You wanna help?”

Of course she did, but we decided to have lunch first. We relocked and alarmed the house, and I put the light fixture away and out of Sam’s sight. I was determined to surprise her with my accomplishment.

Anyway, we went to What-A-Burger where I had a Number One Combo, with a Coke. Squirt had a breakfast taco, a bacon cheese burger combo, and a fish sandwich. I had to refill her Dr. Pepper three times before she finished.

Since I was feeling so well, and good too, we decided to go fishing. I carry everything required for a fishing trip in each of my vehicles, so we headed straight to the lake. Our only stop was to fill the cooler with ice and Carta Blanca beer.

Look, I’ve got to make some phone calls. Manana, y’all.

Contest to Re-name Sandra; Operation a Success

Thursday, October 28th, 2010

 

So. Yesterday is over and, therefore, my ass-region’s medical maladies should be over as well. I’m sore back there and still have a slight “weeping”, as Gram would put it. But fuck it, I’m ready to celebrate.

But first I need to say, “Thanks,” to North Austin Surgical Center, and everyone there. This time I want to single out Ashley- new from Dallas and in love with her job, Tanya- Ashley’s training overseer, Renee, Sandra and Dr. Poreddy.

Ashley was what I’d guess you’d call my in-take/prep nurse. Under Tanya’s watchful eye, Ashley asked me all the questions and got me to initial and sign all of the forms needed in modern medicine to perform “procedures”.

Because lawyers have ruined the entire fucking world, it took fifteen minutes to do the forms. If I was God, I would have heaven, hell and Lawyerville. Lawyerville would hold all of the lawyers that I decide care more for themselves than they do the law. Everybody in hell could take out their frustrations on the inhabitants of L’ville in whatever methods they choose.

Ashley is a person I think would make a caring girl buddy. I don’t girlfriend, because I already have SAC Ellen. But she has those caring, doe eyes that set me off, and a very caring way.

Tanya is a very sharp cookie with a keen sense of humor, and the kind of woman that I would get in trouble over. I’m a sucker for a quick wit and a withering stare. But she’s engaged and I might as well be.

In the actual operating room, Renee was my nurse, again. She was my OR nurse for my last butt operation, and she remembered me. I was laying on my side with my ass exposed to the chilled air, trying to decide if this dealie was going to hurt.

“Well if it isn’t my lucky day,” I heard. “I’d recognize that butchered posterior with my eyes closed.”

Before I could maneuver myself to see who it was, she said, “Good morning, Mr. Johnson. How’s your butt doing?”

“Maybe better after today, Renee,” I told her. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Drew short straw, Mooner.” And she chuckled like she thought she was funny.

But the highlight of my entire experience was chatting with Sandra, the Doctor’s assistant, as we got ready for my thingie.

“Sandra,” I said when she introduced herself. “That’s a pretty name.”

“Hate it,” was Sandra’s sharp reply.

“How come,” I asked. “You look like a Sandra to me. Or maybe a Veronica.”

Sandra is Hispanic, pretty face and piercing eyes.

“My daddy named me after his last girlfriend,” she said, and rather clinically.

I tried to think of something to say.

“Well, thank God he wasn’t dating Bertha. Or Hildagard.”

I got the full heat of those piercing eyes, and she said, “That the best you’ve got?”

Sadly it was.

But I got to thinking, how can I help this situation? What might I do to ease her pain?

“How about we have a contest to get you a new name?”

“You’d do that for me?”

I didn’t even need to think about it. “Of course I would. Will.”

So. Here’s the deal. We’re having a contest to find Sandra a new name. No rules except that I’ll give the winner a copy of my book when it comes out, and I’ll publish their name.

This will be fun, right?

Don’t suggest Lupe, Mary, Hortensia or Blancita because those are my suggestion- already refused while I was under the knife.

Make your suggestions by comment, and let’s help Sandra!

Drink Carta Blanca and come back manana, y’all.

Pickled Pecker Plight and Beagle Sniffer Search Engine Bots

Wednesday, October 27th, 2010

 

So. I’m going to dress and head to North Austin Surgical Center for another ass procedure. I just checked my bloggie stats as I do each morning. I like to see who has been reading, where they live and I am fascinated by how they got to my site.

My WordPress blog setup has a feature that shows me the page a visitor was on when they check onto my site. Camel toe inquiries via search engine are number one, followed closely by various publishing queries, and so on.

But this morning one of the search engines referenced my bloggie in what I felt a hurtful manner. Someone from New York City typed in their Google Search screen the words “over active gag reflex- causes and cures”, and was given me as an option.

My initial impression was to see this as a negative. I mean really, do I write so badly as to make people gag? Are my actions terrible enough to induce vomiting?

Maybe. Even probably. OK, of course.

There was this one time I fell into a patch of prickly pear cactus as a kid. I had cactus needles piercing me from my knees to my belly button. When I got home and removed my clothes, it looked like a thousand miniature Indians had shot me with tiny arrows.

If you’ve never been attacked by a prickly pear, the needles are stiff with sharp barbed tips. I don’t know if they actually carry a toxin, but they poison as if they do. When you remove them with needle nose pliers, each extraction leaves a small wound in the shape of a red bump. After I got all of them removed, I was all red and swollen and looked like I had a nasty rash. My penis looked like a red dill pickle.

Between History and Spanish class I showed Woozie Wozniac, now Sheriff Wozniac, and little Suzy Ashburn my perforated pecker. Woozie fainted straight out, and Suzy gagged and puked.

So. After my initial reaction of hurt feelings, I’m choosing to see the bright side. First, I was able to reach someone forcibly with nothing but my words. That’s powerful.

Second, whatever I did caught the attention of a search engine beagle bot. It sniffed me out and pointed this unsuspecting visitor to my site. And like my Gram always says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Long as they find ya, yer done found.”

Drink Carta Blanca beer because I can’t.

Manana, y’all.

Celebrity Camel Toe Mystery Dim Sum and Other Tasty Delights

Tuesday, October 26th, 2010

 

So. Monday night’s dinner was my medical enforced last supper, part of preparations for Wednesday’s second medical procedure on my already abused butt. I love food and I love to eat, so this meal was important.

Menu selection should have been easy. I’ve been such a shit to everyone lately, bitching and complaining about my problems, I figured nobody would want to cook for me and I could just fix what I wanted.

As usual, I read things wrong. When I got back from walking Rush Limbaugh, Rick Perry, the Squirt and my bruised ego yesterday afternoon, I secreted the pig and ostrich back into the closet, and Squirt and I sat on my bed to discuss dinner plans.

Squirt was lying on her back on the bed in the same pose as when she sits like a bunny to speak, except lying on her back. I asked her what she would like for dinner and after a bit of thinking, she got an embarrassed look on her face and whispered, “Je voudrais profiter de fleish von nguruwe, bwana Mooner.”

We both snuck a look at my closet to be certain the door was tightly shut.

I whispered back, “We can bacon wrap some quail and grill it with the last of that sausage Scott gave us. Would that satisfy your pork cravings?”

Now her tail starts its mad wagging and she says, “Oh si, Senor Mooner. Oui, oui, oui.”

“You’re a funny little shit, Squirt. But remember, pork’s not good for you, so you only get a couple small tastes.”

We headed to the kitchen to start our dinner plans expecting to find it empty. Instead, Mother and Gram were there and neck deep in food preparations.

“We planned a surprise for you Mooner honey,” my mother beamed. “I’m roasting a pork shoulder and Gram is making Chinese side dishes.”

I felt tears start at the corners of my eyes. “I’ve been such a pain in the ass I figured you guys would leave me to my miseries. This is so sweet.” Then I added, “I don’t deserve this.”

“Yer right about that shitbird,” snipped my Gram. She’s doing something with a stack of egg roll wrappers, three cutting boards of chopped and diced foodstuffs, about a dozen bottles and jars of condiments, and a hammer.

I walked over to wrap my arms around her. “I’ve been a little out of sorts. Thanks for understanding.”

Gram shrugged off my hug and said, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner. I been wantin ta cook up some a this damn soon shit fer quite awhile. Now git out tha way.”

I kissed the top of her pointy head. “I think it’s dim sum, Gram. The Chinese call it dim sum.”

She glared and pointed the 12-inch chef’s knife in her hand at my chest. “Then that makes it all tha more propriated fer yer dinner. Dim sum fer a dim wit.” Then she laughed at me.

“You aren’t that funny old woman,” but said laughing. “What’s the hammer for?”

Mother jumped in before Gram could answer. “You don’t want to know, sweetie.”

I decided I didn’t.

The dinner was terrific- Mother’s pork roast with a spicy wild plum sauce, and than a smörgåsbord of Gram’s dim sum. The little packages were tasty, and quite interesting. One was a long, thin strip of fried dough, filled with mystery meat. This one I attached to the hammer, and didn’t ask its filling’s origins.

But this one was a dough package masterpiece- delicately shaped bundles with a familiar shape.

“Them’s my interpolation of one a them giraffe knuckle thingies you been dreamin’ about, Mooner.” Gram held one up to admire. “Had trouble decidin’ what ta fill em with, so’s I used calf balls and chicken butt meat.”

They were tasty as well. And suggestive. I had another celebrity camel toe dream last night, no doubt the result of Gram’s suggestive dim sum. I was sitting in a chair at Wolfgang Puck’s place out to Los Angeles. The chair was quite comfortable, but seemingly too short for the table. My eyes were at a level only a foot above the white linen tablecloth.

“Don’t worry about that, Mr. Johnson,” Wolfgang Puck told me. “This is my special camel toe dim sum mystery sampler table. Tonight I’ve prepared you a little moose knuckle du jour of Chelsea Handler, Sarah Palin, Kathy Griffin, Oprah, Demi Moore, Hilary Clinton and Lindsay Lohan.”

“Oh, goody.” I clapped in delight.

“The mystery is that you must do your sampling while blindfolded and then take a test. There’s no charge when you guess right.” Wolfie sounded like Bob Barker.

“What happens if I guess wrong?” Even in a dream this seemed an appropriate question, but all I got in reply was a wicked laugh.

I was right on all but two. I mixed up Mrs. Clinton with Sarah Palin- a likely mortal mistake outside my dream world. Here, it only cost me $125.00 each for the mistake.

And Wolfgang even bought a case of Carta Blanca beer for me. It was a special night. I asked for seconds of Chelsea and Kathy, but just as they arrived back to my table I was awakened by the symphony of snores rattling from my closet.

“Today is going to be a great day!” I exclaimed. I had decided that today was to be great, my gracious act for Monday’s blessings.

I walked to my bathroom to brush my teeth and start my daily routine. Then I noticed it was pitch black outside and checked the time. The bright red digital numbers of my alarm clock read 2:49 am.

“Fuckballs!” was all I could get out.

Manana, y’all.

Book Rewrite Restarted; Microsoft Vista Sucks.

Monday, October 25th, 2010

 

So. I finally got back to my rewriting chores today and the first 25% is in the books. That’s the good news. The bad news is that my wonderful Windows Vista operating system has decided that it will not allow me to copy from the old document and paste to my rewritten file.

Vista sucks!

I spent the better part of two hours attempting a fix. Open and close docs, start and restart the computer, contact Microsoft central to be abused by those rat fuckers.

Would somebody please tell the people working computer help lines that if I knew what was going on with my computer, I could fix my own fucking problems problems.

It’s like with my business and customer service. You call out to Mooners Compost Plant with questions, we assume from a starting point that you know nothing about compost, and work from there.

If you don’t know what compost is or what it does, we’ll give you as much education as you need.

That isn’t what typically happens with computer service though. Especially on the phone or I-net service. Its like they hire sadist personalities to work the phones and then lock them in a room, deprive them of light and food. Put shock collars on them and provide a jolt whenever they are helpful or nice.

I say it’s just another conspiracy designed to get us to buy new hardware. Frustrate the ever-loving shit out of you to where you’ll buy a new one just to stop the pain.

Actually, that’s not a bad business model.

If you’re a fucking right-wing religious Republican fuckball!

Gram made me a special potion to help me cope. “I call this un Mooner needs to pull his head outta his ass. I fortify tha magic mushroom tea with a pinch a persimmon juice, elder wood bark an nanny goat piss.”

“Nanny goat piss?” I exclaimed. “Why nanny goat piss?”

“Couldn’t catch tha billy goat.”

The potion didn’t get my computer fixed, but I don’t really give a shit. I grabbed my beer wagon and dragged Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry out of my closet and took them for a walk. We walked all the way to the lake and sat for awhile drinking beer. Squirt’s been keeping me company and interpreting for me, so she went along.

“Ich denke, dass Rick Perry est dans l”amour mitt Rush Limbaugh, Mooner.”

I answered, “Yea, I agree with you Squirt. It seems that my pet ostrich is quite smitten with my pig.”

“And something else, bwana Mooner. Su ostrich es muy fucking amusant.”

She and I watched a tipsy Rick Perry attempting to nuzzle Rush Limbaugh as Rushie chased a bottle of cold Carta Blanca beer across the grass. “He gets a couple snorts in him and he can’t hold his head up. He’s a funny bird alright.”

I need to decide what I’m having for dinner tonight because I’m on liquids Tuesday in preparation for my next visit to the surgery center Wednesday morning.

Ugh.

Manana, y’all.

Rick Perry Shits in Closet; Day of Hope Ruined

Sunday, October 24th, 2010

 

So. Today started with hope.

That’s the best I can say about today, and if I was a believer in “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say it”, this would be a very short story. A four-word story: “Today started with hope.”

Since I have no problems with talking bad about anything, let me say that I have managed to fuck up this pretty fall day eight ways from Sunday. I wish I could blame outside influences for the fuck-uppings, but I can’t. Fuck-uppances, maybe?

When I awakened this morning to the synchronized snoring that rumbled from my closet, my first thought was, “Today will be a good day.” The reason I thought this was arbitrary. I have had so much stress lately that I have been feeling what might be considered as mildly depressed.

I already had the malingering recovery from ass surgery, a new medical procedure now scheduled for Wednesday morning, a near arrest for disturbing the peace by inciting crazy people, the enduring of political ads and phone calls and door knockers, waiting for and on repair people to make multiple trips to fix minor problems- all of which have prevented me from working on the rewrite of my book.

The capper happened yesterday, as the reason I wouldn’t be working on my book was because I watched my beloved Texas Longhorn football team play the Iowa State Cyclones. I had imagined that my team had righted its ship and would finish the season on a roll. An imagined up-hill roll.

Ugh.

By the time we sat down to dinner last night, I was so down in spirits that my ADHD was fritzing worse than an overloaded circuit board. Unusually, all of my many disparate thoughts were of the negative variety, thereby the slightly depressed state. Or should that be therefore or maybe thereon?

We were having sweet corn, late season sweet corn which is smaller than summer corn, and for some reason that bothered me. “What the fuck is this, some of that miniature Chinese corn?” is what I think I said when the corn platter was passed to me.

“That’s a plateful a what I’m shovin up yer ass iffn ya don’t settle down,” snapped Gram.

She jabbed her finger in my direction and fixed her beady eyes on me and added, “You been pissin an moanin fer a week, Mooner. Git yer shit ta-gether.”

“But,” I started, and then I laid out all of my many miseries in an effort to garner a touch of sympathy.

When I finished, Gram said, “Is that all?”

When I nodded my head she says to me, she said, “Who gives a shit, Mooner? Shut up an eat yer corn.”

Sometimes my Gram’s methods are maddening, but she’s right. Nobody really gives a shit for my troubles. I’m not dying, I’m not broke and destitute, I have a family that loves me, good friends, great lover, and two dogs who provide great conversation and companionship.

So. When I laid my head on my pillow to go to sleep last night, I decided that today would be a day of hope. I would make my first thought of the day be, “Today will be a great day!”

When my eyes cracked open first thing this morning, I remembered and thought, “Today will be a great day.”

Then the snores rattled from my closet again and I realized that it wasn’t the 6 am alarm I set that woke me. I looked at the clock and it showed 3:37 am, so I rolled over to go back to sleep.

Have you ever heard a pig, a grown hog, snore? What about a 350-pound ostrich? Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh are still hiding in my closet, and each has rag weed allergies. The stuffy snout and beak regions they suffer cause them to snore. Loudly.

Ostrich snoring is almost as unsettling as ostrich rutting.

I can’t get back to sleep and for the first hour or so, I tell myself that they can’t help it and that they need sleep as much as I do. After that hour, I debate who needs sleep more for another hour, and at 5:30 I decide it’s me.

I get up and open my closet door to find the two of them spooning in a pile of my clean clothes. Rick Perry must have pulled all of my shirts from the closet rod and piled then for a mattress. I lost it.

I poked Rush Limbaugh in his ass with my toe and shouted, “Goddammit you two.”

Must have scared the shit out of my pig because he jumped from the floor with a nimbleness unexpected from 500-plus pounds of porcine slumber, and knocked me onto my backsides. Now the giant bird is scared shitless, and literally.

Did I tell you that the figs and quince were a late harvest this year, and coincidentally, on the top of an ostriches wish list?

I’ve been cleaning three gallons of ostrich shit from my closet in preparation for the haz-mat team’s arrival. I haven’t gagged so much since Gram forced dishwater down my throat when I ate a cat turd as a kid.

I just hope that Carta Blanca beer will cut the cloying taste in my mouth.

Manana, y’all.

Commonality of Interests- Uncommon Ground

Friday, October 22nd, 2010

 

So. I stopped by Shoal Creek Loonie Bin this morning to visit sweet Mrs. Plunkett and Marvin Travis-Kensington. They are the two lunatics that got wacky in Dr. Sam I. Am’s office yesterday. Actually, I think Marvin is a raving right-wing religious lunatic and Mrs Plunkett is more misguided than anything else.

Turns out she was married to Professor Plunkett from down to Texas State University in San Marcos. He taught in their paranormal sciences department, and she tells me that he used her as a guinea pig for many of his experiments.

“Well, Mr. Johnson,” she sweetly told me in answer to my question. “If you must know, I’ve had sex with alien creatures from across the universe.”

Now, don’t be pissed at me because I didn’t ask her if she’d had sex with aliens, I simply asked in what kinds of experiments did she guinea pig participate.

When I then asked her to elaborate, she said, “Professor Plunkett,” and she always calls him Professor Plunkett, “dear man, would medicate me with special potions he obtained from from a medicine woman, and then tie me naked to trees, or rocks, during each Fall’s harvest moon.”

She got this dreamy look on her face and continued. “The medicine made me so happy and relaxed. And lustful,” she whispered. “Oh my heavens, I couldn’t wait for those savage aliens to come and take me.”

Me, I’m now starting to wonder just how small the world truly is. “When the good professor gave you these medications, what were they like?”

“Well, each one came in a small tincture bottle made of brown glass. The brown cap held the clear glass dropper, which was topped with a black rubber bulb.”

She scrunched her face up in thought, the went on, “I remember that each little bottle had a paper label with an illiterate handwritten name.”

Now the dreamy look again, and, “Names like This ain’t yer momma’s elixir, and Party potion number nine, and my favorite, Who gives a shit when ya got this potion?”

Like I said, small world.

I wanted to ask more about the alien sex because I think it’s happened to me, but it was time for her electro shock therapy.

I did tell her that a dose of direct current was all the elixir I need to promote healthy sex. She asked me if I wanted to go with her, but I passed.

Anyway, when I stopped by to see Marvin, he tried to arrack and head butt me. That’s difficult when you’re tightly bound in a straight jacket and pumped full of psychotropic drugs. The times I’ve tried it, I ended with nothing but frustration for my efforts.

I tried to sit with him and tried to find some common ground, but it was fruitless conversation. In my endeavors to find commonality of interest with everyone I have conflict with, and thorough that congeniality reach some common ground, I have discovered that some people are just too fucking crazy to have commonality of interest.

Except with other really crazy fuckers. And that’s another way I can justify my claim that I’m not really all that crazy.

Which is a good reason to celebrate, so I’m gonna crack a cold Carta Blanca beer.

Salud! Manana, y’all.

Not Working on Book- A Conspiracy

Thursday, October 21st, 2010

 

So. I’m at Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s office early this morning when I had one of those, as Oprah calls them, “Ah-ha!” moments. As I sat in the waiting area with Dr. Am’s other crazy patients, I was watching the big TV attached to the wall. Of course, all that was on was a bunch of negative political ads.

“Why is that TV placed so high on the wall,” asked the little lady sitting to my left. “Damn thing gives me a crick in my neck every time I come here.”

Since I know the answer, I told her, “It’s all part of the evil plan. Like subliminal advertising only more devious. The more complaints you have, the more psycho therapy you need. The too hot coffee and tepid drinking water are other aspects.”

The older woman thinks on this for a minute and says, “I believe you might be on to something sonny.”

Then her face went all slack, and her eyeballs did that tree frog dealie where they go in different directions and bug-out. “We need to do something about this.” When she said this last bit, I shuddered instinctively.

The man sitting to my right, and two seats away, pipes up with, “It’s one a them gov’ment conspiracies. Like Obamie’s health care and sales tax. Let’s shoot somebody.”

“Wait a minute here,” I try, “I didn’t mean to upset anybody, I was just joking about the evil plan stuff.”

“Nah, yer onta sumthin. I seen a black helicopter last week. That’s a sign from God.” He stands up and starts pacing maniacally. “What would Alex Jones want me ta do?”

“Wait a minute, hang on sir. Alex Jones is a shitball right-wing conspiracy theorist,” I counseled, “that brain dead moron would want you to kill yourself and blame the CIA.”

Now here’s my Ah-ha! Moment. See, I’m thinking I’m having a polite conversation with a couple of nice people as I wait to be charged $150.00 for my ex-wife to tell me how crazy I am. What I was actually involved in was not so polite.

The old lady jumped from her seat and said, “Let’s write letters and put them in envelopes that say, ‘Open upon my untimely death.’ The letters will detail how Mooner Johnson here works for the CIA and Homeland Security, and he hypnotized us to shoot each other to cover up his clandestine activities.”

“I got guns in my truck.” Then the loonie old bastard added, “Here,” and he handed her a serrated hunting knife that I never saw coming. “You hold down the fort and I’ll get the guns.”

The rest of my morning went, as so many do, with me getting blamed for causing a disturbance and talking to the Sheriff down to the jail. My morning was typical in many ways. So now the Ah ha! part.

Sheriff Wozniac released me without filing any charges and I’m driving to work, and my cell phone rings. It’s the ring tone that plays the Wicked witch’s voice from The Wizard of Oz, so I know it’s the good Doctor.

“Just wanted to tell you I’m charging you $450.00 for the three therapy sessions you managed to interrupt this morning,” Dr. Sam I. Am tells me in that snooty psycho therapist voice of hers. “I’ll let you know what the final bill is for the redecorating.”

“Wait a fucking minute,” I start, but I’m talking to the buzz of a dial tone.

I’m driving and stewing, trying to figure where I went wrong this time, because quite honestly, this dealie was not my fault. An old lady makes a comment and all I did was try to help her. So, I’m driving and stewing, and starting to get angry when it hits me.

“Sonofabitch!” I shouted and slapped the dash with my free hand. “I’ve been set up!”

Sammie was telling me last week how she was wanting to redecorate her waiting room and get some new HD TVs for the walls. “Ah ha!,” I shouted again. “It’s a fucking conspiracy after all.”

I called over to Shoal Creek Mental Hospital and told Martha, she’s the admitting clerk over there, that I would cover any deductible costs incurred by Mrs. Plunkett and Marvin Travis-Kennsington during their stays.

“You are a very nice man, Mooner,” Martha told me. “When are you planning to come stay with us again?”

“Not something I plan, Martha. But with all of the conspiracies plotted against me, it might be soon.”

“OK. I’ll keep the light on for you.”

The staff are all quite nice over there.

The moral to this story is that I think we need to outlaw negative political ads on TV. If a fucking politician can’t tell us what he/she is going to do to fix things, they can’t say anything.

Makes me want a cold Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

Stress, Fritz then Cry

Wednesday, October 20th, 2010

 

So. Have I told you how stress effects ADHD? Affects it as well. Have I explained that stress can disorganize an already disarrayed brain, causing significant fritzing?

If you have ADHD, the real variety and not the “I-have-ADHD-as-an-excuse” variety, you can tune out now and allow your focus to stray. Acute sufferers of ADHD will understand what I’m talking about before I say any more.

You ADHD pretenders are no better than those assholes who fake injuries to collect insurance, so you can go fuck yourselves. Asswipe right-wing religious Republican pretenders.

Stress does incredible things to living organisms when said organisms are under stress. Anxiety, rapid heartbeats, sleeplessness, loss or increased appetites, and all of that stuff are typical symptoms of stress. Researchers have even discovered that an amoeba, a one-celled organism, will react to stressors.

I wonder how they test for stress in an organism with no brain. Maybe they yell at them, or hit them with a teeny-tiny jolt of direct current, or tell them their in-laws are coming for a visit. Maybe they file a lawsuit against them.

In-law visits never bothered me, none of the ten sets of them. Anna the Amazon has a brother who bothers me, but that’s just because he’s a lawyer. I want to like him because he’s thoughtful, interesting and funny. But he’s still a lawyer and my instinct is to have reservations.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s mother was one of my favorite people ever. She, Marie, and Daddy are the people I miss most now that they are gone. I still bawl like a baby whenever I hear that song, Time to Say Goodbye. That’s the one made famous by the blind Italian Tenor, Andrea Bocelli.

I’m now discovering I don’t need to hear the fucking song to bawl like a baby because telling you has opened the floodgates. Pardon me while I wipe my nose.

Must be the stress and attendant brain fritzing. I’m stressed over health insurance, my still nasty oozing ass, a broken tooth, lawyers, a recent near arrest, and most stressing- the rewrite of my book.

Ugh!

Which reminds me. Those shoes called UGGs. I can’t decide if them naming comfortable foot-ware “UGGs” is clever marketing, or if it pisses me off. Right this minute is pisses me off. Maybe I’ll gather every pair from home, take them to Mooners Compost Plant and grind them up. Put the grindings in a pile and decompose them into worm food.

And don’t start in on me that they don’t spell their name “Ugh”. Like Gram says, she’d say, “Who gives a shit? Spell it how ya want, it’s still Ugh-ly.”

But I’m digressing a touch.

I’m so fritzed that I can’t perform a moon show because of my ugly ass I could cry. In fact, I’m crying again. Now I’m thinking what a great man Lloyd Lebow is and I want to cry some more. And why didn’t I ask Tennessee Williams that question I wanted to ask him when I had the chance.

See what I mean? I’m a total fucking mess over all this stress.

Maybe I should take Dixie and Squirt on a short road trip. We’ll go down to Driftwood to the Salt Lick for some BBQ. I’ll drive Gram’s Ferrari and take the back roads. Pack a sixer of Carta Blanca beer since the Salt Lick doesn’t serve any booze.

Conversing with those two dogs always brightens my mood.

Manana, y’all.

Oh yea, and Ps- Rush Limbaugh, the pig, and the ostrich Rick Perry, are still in the closet!

A Tennessee Williams Memory

Tuesday, October 19th, 2010

 

So. I obviously needed an attitude adjustment after getting pissed about our country’s treatment of veterans. I decided to dust off my copy of Where’s Poppa?, the great movie from back in the ’60’s. I attended a lecture by Tennessee Williams at UT, and halfway through he said to the audience, he said to us, “Fuck this. Let’s go next door to the Dobie Theater and watch Where’s Poppa?”

Mr. Williams said it was the best movie he’d seen in years and he wanted to see it again. Off we went, maybe a hundred of us, to the Dobie. The Dobie Theater is located adjacent to UT, and maybe a block from where we attended the lecture. Many of us lit doobies on the short walk, and a music student with us started singing about doobies at Dobie.

What a great time. Tennessee Williams is another of the men I most admire.

And what a great movie. I feel better now that I spent the time with the movie and my memories. I’m still unhappy about the vets, but I’m making plans to make a difference.

I’m also aggravated with my lack of progress rewriting my book. I keep getting distracted, both by my ADHD and the outside world. It’s time to renew our medical insurance for all of our companies, and I’m pissed about that now.

Fifteen years ago, insurance for each of our employees cost $37.55 per month for full medical, dental and vision. Doctor visits were $10 copay, prescriptions were free for generic, and deductibles were $500.00 per year.

This year, the closest I can come to duplicate that plan costs $595.00 per month, has $30 copays, $3,500 deductibles and charges 20% after that- it doesn’t cover 100%. Basically, that’s more than a 1,500% increase, 100% per year, and an important decrease in actual coverage. Then you have to haggle over every fucking thing to get them to pay for any fucking thing.

It’s a wonder we don’t have a medical insurance crisis. Asswipe Republican HMO’s.

I’m going to drink a few cold Carta Blanca beers and rejuvinate my sense of humor.

Manana, y’all.

Come Out GW Bush

Monday, October 18th, 2010

 

So. Now I’m truly pissed. Some asshole in Georgia is telling me to lay off George W. Bush- “…or else!”

Or else what?

Fuck you Bart from Macon, and your AK-47. Big American hero and you buy a Russian rifle. Mike Kalashnikov- communist hero and inventor of AK rifles. What, you thought AK stood for American Killer? And tell me, how much did you pay the woman to let her picture be taken with you? And just to be certain, it’s you on the right, correct?

And fuck George W. Bush. In fact, gather up every last one of Bush’s cronies who had a hand in starting the Iraq war, and fuck the whole bunch of them.

I want to call all of them out. It’s time for them to do something to support our homecoming troops besides acting like tough guys when someone calls you out. Why are you angry, huh- can’t stand the truth?

Does anybody have an Email address for Georgie? Drop him a line and let him know it’s time for him to stand up and be a man. Tell him I’ll help- I’ll stand with him.

What about you guys at AmericaCalling? Do you think George owes anything to our troops? Oh wait, you think it’s the Democrats and our President who should be held responsible for the mess that happened from George’s wars. You seem to think everything was just great when Bush vacated the Big House.

Is it just me? Am I the crazy one?

OK, bad question. Am I the only one feeling this way?

Be a Man George W. Bush- Help Our Returning Vets

Monday, October 18th, 2010

 

So. We had a good meal at La Fogata down to San Antonio. Squirt was a scream as she sat like a “good girl”, not begging at the table for food scraps. She so wanted to beg that she was vibrating.

She’d look up at me with this face that says, “I’ve just been released by kidnappers who didn’t feed me for two weeks.” She sat mumbling and whining, but not begging through most of the meal. But when our waitress delivered the fresh guava empanadas with ice cream- she lost it.

She hopped around in circles for a minute and then sat up like a bunny rabbit, this giant expectant grin on her face. But she didn’t say anything, so I said to her, I say, “Good girl, Squirt.”

She thought my comment meant she was getting a bite of my dessert. When it didn’t come, Squirt threw herself to the ground and grumbled. “Good girl my rosy red ass. Ach um himmels willen. Qu’est-ce qu’une fille doit faire to get a fucking morsel ya chakula around here.”

Just as I wound up to scold her, Gram pinched a small piece of her empanada and pitched it to the Squirt. “Stop yer bitchin, ya little German monster. I never saw a mutt didn’t think about nothing but her stomach.”

Now I jumped to grab Squirt before she could slaughter five languages to give it back to Gram. Otherwise, the meal was great.

We got home just in time to catch 60-Minutes on the tube. The piece about homeless vets was on. I can’t stop thinking about it.

I am stoutly anti-war, a position I carried from birth, then lost in the late 1980’s, and found again when Bush Two invaded Iraq. I have come to the conclusion that America knows neither why to go to war, nor how to win one.

I now believe that WWII taught us that war can be big business, so we practiced in Korea to wet our beak in conflict for profits. The Korean Conflict, not the Korean War because we were just practicing, gave us the first shot of societal Novocaine. The drug to numb our intellect and help us adjust to losing wars.

Since Hitler had taught us so much about propaganda in the recent past, we also practiced and perfected the spin doctoring that I think has ruined the art of history forever. How can history ever be accurate again? When special interest groups control news, there is no accuracy in truth.

Now I’m ranting and digressing my point, which is this.

Shame on us, shame on America for not protecting and caring for our soldiers as they return home. Shame on all of us. We recruit men and women to go fight in Iraq and Afghanistan starting in 2001 during the greatest economic growth period in history.

While they are off fighting a stupid ego and business-driven war, the same bunch who sent them to war were busy destroying our robust economy for even more profits. By the time it’s decided to wind things down in the war zones, those brave people come back to a broken economy, broken marriages and broken dreams.

Many come back to a broken America, broken themselves. They endured unimaginable hardships fighting these wars we don’t fight to win. We didn’t even provide them with adequate armor for their bodies or vehicles. SWAT police go to work with better protection than our soldiers have to go to war.

Their Rules of Engagement, which we learned to crisply write in Viet Nam, basically require of troops to take casualties before they can defend themselves. If you want to know if a war is just, I say read the Rules of Engagement. If you want to know if a war is business-driven, therein lies your answer.

So we bust them out of their jobs, take them from their families, put them in harm’s way, then give harm additional advantages. They fight bravely, sometimes heroically. Then, they come home missing limbs, missing life and many missing sanity as well. They return to a hero’s welcome, right?

They return home to a cold shoulder, a hideously under-funded veteran support structure and a corporate business structure with no more need for them. A retired soldier is no more profitable that a dead one, right? It’s all about the bottom line.

Where are you George W. Bush? Why the fuck are you not out in front to show support for the men and women you sent to fight your stupid fucking wars? Show some gratitude and raise money and awareness of the plight of returning soldiers. Help them get medical treatment and housing and jobs.

Do one right thing in your pampered life. Pay these people back for trusting you to care for them. Repay the trust they honored you with.

Get your spoiled ass on the road and raise money. Be a man, George, and do something for someone with actual needs.

You want a legacy other than “History’s dumbest national leader”?

Be a man. Help our vets.

The rest of us need to do something also. I going to grab a sixer of cold Carta Blanca beer and figure out what I’m going to do.

Manana, y’all.

Squirt Corrects Gram; Rick Perry Feels Stupid

Saturday, October 16th, 2010

 

So. It’s Sister’s birthday, so we’re all heading down to San Antonio to have a late lunch at her favorite Mexican restaurant- La Fogata. La Fogata might be my favorite if it was located here in Austin, but I’m too loyal to break with local establishments.

They do, however, have salsa as good as it can be made, fresh authentic ingredients, a great staff and fabulous empanadas. Their staff is mostly long term employees with happy moods.

Oh, yea, and Carta Blanca beer. Why won’t Vivo carry Carta Blanca beer?

Anyway, I always order El Paquito del Todo, which means a little bit of everything. Two big plates of Mexican culinary wonderment. Way back when La Fogata was just a dining car with a couple tables outside, I ordered a Numero Veinte, a Number Twenty. As the years have passed, I think the little bits meal has been bumped down to like twenty-two or so.

But like Gram says, “Who gives a shit Mooner. It’s jist as tasty at Tainty-Tainty as what is was ta Tainty.”

Squirt’s making this trip to sit on the patio at La Fogata while we enjoy our meal. She tried to correct Gram’s fractured Spanish by fracturing a half dozen languages of her own.

“Mein Gott, Madam Gram, but you masakra la lengua Espanola. You say it Viente e Dos. Zer bestellung einer Twenty-Two, you say, Veinte e Dos.”

I took Squirt for a walk when Gram started giving her the evil eye. We took Rush Limbaugh, the pig, and the ostrich Rick Perry with us. Those two shitbirds are still hiding in the closet- afraid of both their shadows and the truth.

Rick Perry started complaining that people think he’s stupid. I told him that as long as he acted stupid, said stupid things and allowed Rush Limbaugh to tell him what to think- he is stupid.

Stupid is as stupid does. Manana, y’all.

Innoculate Texas School Board Against Indoctrination; Vote For Sanity

Thursday, October 14th, 2010

 

So. We’re approaching voting time for this year’s elections. I’m concerned about the probable loss of seats in many places to conservative, brain dead right wing Christians. However, this year my major concerns are for our Texas State School Board.

I attended a neighborhood meeting for sensible candidates this week, and met Judy Jennings. That would be Doctor Jennings, a professional education specialist. She told me that one of each and every eleven public school students in America attend public school in Texas. That’s right, 9.1% of all public school students are in Texas public schools.

That also means that almost 10% of our nation’s public school students study from curriculum that is determined by the circus act that is our State Board of Education.

This got me to thinking. My first thought was, “Oh, my fucking God! We’re screwing up that many kids.” Then I got to thinking about what this might mean in a more global thought pattern.

Since Texas obviously does not have 10% of all American school age children, then other states have a higher percentage of kids in private schools. By definition, private schools will have biased curriculums (curriculummisses?) chosen by the private parties served by said school. To my knowledge, the vast number of private schools have religious bias, next would be socio-economic bias oriented in nature, and then some other bias like military.

So, in other states, their religious fuckballs are more considerate than our Texas variety. I’m thinking that it’s highly likely that they are also smarter in those other states. After all, here in Texas they have anointed Rick Perry their leader.

Logic tells me that those biased, curriculum-based school systems are good servants to their supporters. You want to teach that Darwin was delusional and that the world dropped from the sky just as it is a few thousand years ago- knock yourself out. But do it in your private school.

If you choose to think that dinosaurs didn’t really exist and that the close genetic proximities of all primates is meaningless, that’s OK too. But prohibit science and reality over to your private Baptist School . Do it on your dollar over there and not on my public tax dollar.

Separate your religious beliefs from fact-based education. Train your future generations of morons in you own schools and at your own expense. Get your smelly asses out of our public schools. Stop using my money to spread your religion.

And please stop the dumbing-down of our children. If you were true Christians, you wouldn’t want to control public school curriculum. You wouldn’t be afraid to have ideas contrary to your own taught in school.

But you are afraid that you are losing your grip on your own kids, so you want to control all kids. You can’t seem to indoctrinate them completely enough in church, so you want to indoctrinate all children through idiotic school curriculum.

When will the Christian religious right realize that they are no better than a Muslim Mullah who indoctrinates his religious ideas by forcing it in school? Please explain to me how you differ.

I say, “Fuck you. Go home to your church and stay out of my schools.”

Dr. Judy Jennings is the right person to occupy seat 10 on our State Board of Education. In our one little piece of the world, let’s have a voice that is sanity based. Let’s have a voice to speak for educating our kids rather than to indoctrinate them.

Inoculate our public schools against indoctrination. Restore common sense to education.

Vote Dr. Judy Jennings for Texas State Board of Education Place 10

And drink Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

Dental Hygiene: To Pee or not to Pee?

Tuesday, October 12th, 2010

 

So. Early this morning I went to Dr. Eickenhorst, my endodontic specialist, to finish my root canal. I don’t know if his actual heritage fits my imagination, but Dr. E’s office is run with efficiencies that Wehrmacht Field General would applaud.

Appointments are precise; the staff is always ready with the next torture device- poised to pass it to the Doc as he labors in your mouth; every second you sit in the chair has a purposeful action attached; the biling staff handles the mountains of insurance paperwork with aplomb.

Yet somehow, all of that organization is greased with human kindness. It is the most incredible thing I have ever seen.

In most doctor’s offices you get either organization or you get human kindness in spades. That is human nature at its basic norm. Rarely can any business merge the two seeming extremes. Seemingly extremes?

Anyway, it seems to me that I should say nice things about a nice medical professional office that is well run to boot. I like to say nice things about any well run business.

And by the way, I always pee more in the morning than any other time, so my procedure was delayed for me to take a pee break. Twice.

Makes a person wonder.

Drink Carta Blanca beer- October is beer month after all.

Manana, y’all.

Publishing Establishment and Self Publishers Agree On Something

Monday, October 11th, 2010

 

So. I have now managed to piss off many on both sides of publishing- the traditional publishing establishment, and the self publishing upstarts as well. It seems that by having appreciation for each method, I’m writing myself out of Twitter followers.

I’m now down to but a handful of Twitter Bugs in an apparent response to my taking both sides of the publishing debate. I have taken both sides because both sides are right.

And both sides are wrong.

What is starting to be funny to me is that everybody takes themselves so… fucking … seriously!

Anyone entrenched in the publishing establishment who thinks that alternate publishing is a passing fad is delirious. If you think that way, we need to help you find a touchstone back to reality. You are losing market share by the buckets full. Bucket fulls, maybe. That one always snags me.

Those who think that in a year that alternative publishing will be the only profitable methods for publication of new works are likewise full of shit. You don’t have enough buckets to steal all of the business. If you think that the big houses will let you take everything, you are wrong.

History is a strong a predictor in this business as it is with any other. History will tell you that if there is but one rule in life, that rule is that nothing ever stays the same. History will also tell you that what typically happens when an established industry faces enormous technology upgrades, new players emerge, many established players go up in flames, and many established players adapt to what’s new and thrive as well.

What I love is that little old me can manage to piss so many people off on both sides, by simply stating the obvious. My guess is that the people who are blocking me on Twitter over this issue are likely angry and narrow minded fuckballs.

When I told my Gram about losing so many followers, she says to me, she said, “Who gives a shit, Mooner? Let’s go pee inna sink down to City Hall.”

My God I love that woman.

“I’ll drive,” I told her.

Drink Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

My Name is Mooner and I Pee In Sinks!

Monday, October 11th, 2010

 

So. Now that cat’s out of the bag, maybe I need to explain myself.

It’s true, I pee in sinks. I pee in the sinks out to the ranch; I pee in the sink at my office over to Mooners Compost Plant; I pee in the sinks at restaurants; I pee in the sinks at Public buildings; I likely have peed in your sink if I peed at your house or place of business. I peed in the sink at the Louvre Museum in Paris, I peed in the sink at at the Texas State Capitol, and I peed in the sink at Vivo.

That’s right, my name is Mooner and I pee in sinks.

So what?

And don’t start with the, “But that’s illegal, immoral and just plain stupid bullshit.” I’ve done the research and it is not. Jeff gave me a legal opinion, and save the routine caveats, I’m approved to pee in sinks ad nauseum. That’s tight, as long as it’s appropriately done, sink peeing is legal.

As for immoral, a man’s got to pee somewhere, and the water that drains from a sink ends up in the same pipe that carries the water flushed from commodes. So like Gram says, “Who gives a shit as long as ya clean after yerself?”

And you can just forget the stupid part. If I can flush a pee with less than one cup of water, and it takes the average American 2.2 gallons- who would be the stupid one? Even if you have one of those great Toto one-gallon flushers like I have, the math is fairly simple: one gallon per flush or less than one cup. And think about this- if you wash your hands after peeing in the commode, my way is a Zero water cost method.

Like I say, simple math.

“But Mooner,” Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson scolded me. “Don’t people notice the smell when they use their sinks after you?”

“I don’t know, Sammy,” I started with a grin, “have you?”

I’ve been peeing in Sammy’s sinks for over a year and she never caught on. Now, of course, she’s trying to catch me and say she can tell. But she can’t. Nobody can because it’s a sanitary method I use.

Nope. If I pee in your sink you’ll never know unless I tell you. OK, maybe CSI Miami could dead reckon me to a guilty verdict, but you know what I mean. The act of washing my hands rinses and sanitizes my ritual, and I wash-up with one cup of water.

My name is Mooner and I am one WaterWise, water saving sonofabitch!

Makes me wants to drink Carta Blanca beer so I can pee some more.

Manana, y’all.

My Name is Mooner and I…

Sunday, October 10th, 2010

 

So. My psycho therapy sessions have become problematic over the last week because, as Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson puts it, “Mooner, this is another of those things you must face if it is to be cured.”

Then I reply, I say, “I don’t want to cure it, I’m perfectly happy with my behavior.”

And then she says, “Listen to me you crazy redneck sociopath, what you are doing is illegal, anti-social and just plain stupid. If you don’t stop, I’m going to commit you to Shoal Creek for a few more months of re-programming.”

“Bitch,” my best reply.

“Look, Mooner, the best way to change your habits is to start by acknowledging that you have a problem, like an alcoholic at an AA meeting.”

This sounded familiar. “You mean like when you made me admit I’m crazy and start a journal?”

“Yes,” she said brightly, smiling like I’m a first grader who just grasped the concept of one-plus-one.

“Oh, like that turned out so fucking great.”

I can’t tell you any more about the crazy journal business because it’s in my book.

Sam gets this exasperated look on her face and says, “Your poor implementation caused the failure of that good plan. Now do this, Mooner. Say it.”

I think my ADHD must have wandered my mind a bit because Dr. Sam I. Am yells at me, “Mooner! Pay attention, and say it.”

“Ugh,” I grumble, as now I’m exasperated.

I take a deep breath and cap it with a deeper sigh. “My name is Mooner and I pee in sinks.”

Sam gives me another bright school teacher smile, and, “Now that didn’t hurt, did it?”

“Yes.”

“Then do it again.”

Bitch.

“My name is Mooner and I pee in sinks. And I need a Carta Blanca beer.”

Manana, y’all.

Mooner’s Rule For First Books- an Agent’s Dream Come True

Saturday, October 9th, 2010

 

So. The more I rewrite on my book, the more deep level thinking I’m doing about the publishing industry. Before writing a book and attempting to get it into print, I thought this was a pretty simple dealie. A, B, C- ,1,2,3 and voilà, I’m a published author.

Wrong-o Chuckie. Nothing is simple in publishing, everything is brutally difficult. I’m just now discovering the true difficulties in writing a book as I rewrite. Beginning to understand editing, and readability, and Fourth Walls, and tense breaks and shit has been an eye opener.

And finding an agent is a bitch. I didn’t get that, really get that, until I read a Tweet from an agent who lamented that she receives dozens of queries a day. At a thirty-page average, that’s 360-pages of reading per dozen. If she got only one dozen in a 24-hour period, she would need to read a book every day before she had the time to do anything else.

Helps explain all of those unanswered queries.

Then we have editors. What a thankless fucking job that must be.

“Here it is,” I told my editor. “This won’t take you long.”

“But, Mooner,” she started, “I know how you think. This won’t be simple.”

I hate to admit it, but she’s right. It doesn’t matter how funny and interesting I think I am, I first must be funny and interesting, and then I must be capable of communicating that to a reader.

Of course, all of you professional publishing types are saying, “Well fucking duh!”

I know you are. Then you’re thinking, “Yea, dumbass, and what about cover design, layout, marketing strategy, interior print design and the title?”

Ugh, I hate my working title. I used to love it but now I hate it. “I’m Not That Crazy, or How Oprah Winfrey Almost Ruined my Life” is my working title. An incredibly accurate and descriptive title for the book that follows.

To quote my editor, she says to me, “Are you fucking kidding me with this title?”

She went on to tell me that first, I am too that crazy, and second, how can I say that about Oprah when she is one of my heroes.

“You read the book, so you know how it happened,” I told her politely.

“Don’t snark at me, Mooner. Just because a lunatic tries to ruin your life after watching Oprah’s TV show, that does not connect those dots. You can’t blame Oprah.”

“I said almost, for shitsakes.”

“Yes,” she replied, “and you said ‘not that crazy’ as well.”

Look, here’s what I’m thinking. I think that we need a rule for new writers that I want to call Mooner’s Rule For First Books.

Simply put, my rule states that every writer must self publish his first book; only published authors may send queries to agents; this rule applies to celebrities and public figures as well.

Genius, right?

I just need to figure out how to get it implemented. Going to need help with that. Carta Blanca beer might do the trick.

Manana, y’all.