Archive for July, 2012

Sunday Interrupted; Stolen Paper Caper

Monday, July 30th, 2012

 

So. It’s only 10 am and I’ve had an event-filled day. I was going to comment my thoughts on two concurrent events stories this morning but something happened to change my plans. Not that my plans don’t change often.

OK, stop. Not that my plans don’t often change. I’mma cure my ass of that danglie hanging dealio if it kills us. I seem to compulsively hang modifiers and prepositions off the ends of my sentences constantly. I’m now dedicated to obsessively correct these grammatical infractions always.

Intent being the controlling factor to the logic string herein, I was going to speak to first, the most obvious political absurdity of the hour, and two, the current most silly issue within the Catholic church. For starters, how predictable was it that Mitt Romney would publicly announce that he would support Israel should they unilaterally decide to bomb Iran into finer dust than currently inhabiting its desert borders? Oh, and that is the Jewish culture that makes them more successful than the Palestinians.

Really? Are you kidding me? You mean to tell me that Mitt’s crack team of advisors would support a full out war in the Middle East? Not since Doctor Strangelove has a possible American president had such a blood thirsty and extreme hawk panel of advisors trying to pull the puppet strings. Of course Herr Schmidt Rommel wants war in the Middle East—there’s money in them there sand dunes!

But enough of that and on to my second not-to-be-written story. Very quietly, the Catholic women wives of God have been struggling to gain somewhat equal rights with God’s boy wives. Yeppers, the nuns want the church to treat their wifely status more akin to that of priests. The Holy Roman Catholic Church, however, expects girl wives to be subservient to the boy wives because…

Because who really gives a shit when what happened this morning happened. As back story, someone has been stealing my Sunday newspapers. I think I know who it is but can’t manage to catch them. They don’t do it every week so a stakeout offers a low percentage of success, and the mud dobbers love to build nests on the shiny lens of my surveillance cameras.

Today’s paper was missing and I decided to go down to the Starbucks and grab an espresso and read the paper. I donned my UT ball cap of the month, cranked up the GTO and headed out. The coffee shop I chose is in the Arboretum, an affluent shopping area of high end stores that is surrounded by affluent housing and offices.

I got my coffee and sat to read the newspaper at precisely 7:02 am. This I know not because Jesus told me so, but rather, because my cell phone rang and I looked at the time of the call. That call interrupted me from reading the second article that was to be centerpiece of today’s ramblings—the Nuns versus the Vatican story. Around me, several of the well-dressed patrons gave me the same aggravated look I give to persons answering their cell phones while in the company of strangers. So, as I always fucking do, I clicked it to V-mail.

I settled back to the paper and was reading about Syria, when a not-so-quiet whisper went through the crowd. I raised my eyes from the newsprint, but my quick scan saw nothing worthy of the misplaced rich folks breath. Then I heard, “That’s disgusting!” and, “Go away, you’re making my wife sick!”

As I raised my eyes this time, I saw the centerpiece of my neighbors agitation. An obviously homeless man was rifling through the trashcans for coffee cups and leftover foodstuffs. As fate would have it, I know this man. He’s a very bipolar fellow who spends his days hanging out at one of the underpasses nearby this Starbucks and his name is—he thinks—Robert Something.

Robert was in this one trashcan up to his chin when a large man of maybe forty years got up from his chair to confront the situation. “I said you’re making my wife sick, asshole. Get out of here!”

At the “here” part, the big guy grabbed Robert Something’s filthy shirt sleeve and started to pull the crazed man from his meal service station. Robert’s weight stuck down into the trashcan was more than expected, and big guy stumbled nose-first into the tangle of Robert’s quite dirty head.

Now let me tell you guys something about homeless people. Some homeless actually have homes of a sort—shelters where they can sleep and eat and take a bath. Others, like my main man Robert here, either have been banned from the shelters or they make the conscious choice to not take baths at the shelters. I have twice taken Robert to the emergency room and each time I wrapped him in the plastic tarp I carry in the trunk of my car. And each time the tarp was torched afterward and replaced.

In the middle of the Austin summer, a man who lives outside and hasn’t taken a bath in three years has a certain bouquet.

Sensing a possible upgrade of additional indignations once Robert Something’s stench reached big guy’s olfactories, I jumped up to render aid. “Take your hands off Robert,” I said. He’s my guest.” I patted big guy’s back just as his brain caught up with his nose.

“Ewe… Oh God, what is that stench?” Big guy obviously had little experience with the unwashed masses. “Now I’m going to need another shower before church.”

Robert, oblivious to the commotion, was still deep in the bowels of the trashcan and now big guy is deep in Modern American Christian compassion. “You fucking homeless prick. Get back in your cardboard box where you belong.”

And he stuck his shiny-loafered shoe in Robert’s ass sending can and Robert in a tumble. Me, I thumped big guy in the ear. Then when he turned, I thumped his nose, hard, and then the other ear. “Help him up, shithead. Now!”

The big man glared at me, his balled his fists for a fight while rubbing nose and ear. He took a half step towards me when, “Stop, honey, don’t do it. Stop, I said!”

It was the man’s wife. “That’s Mooner Johnson, Steve, Streaker Jones’ friend.”

When Steve hesitated, his wife said to him, she said, “Streaker Jones promised he’d come back to see you if you ever messed with his friends again. Now LETS GO!”

Big guy deflated like an overinflated balloon. “I’m sorry, sir, I was just protecting my wife.”

“It’s not OK, Steve, you’re an asshole,” I told him. “As a Christian, have you ever taken the time to consider how a man like Robert got to where he is?”

I got no answer as Steve and his quite smart wife walked away. I gave Robert Something a twenty-dollar bill and told him he should move on. I finished reading to the stares and mumblings of my fellow coffee drinkers and took off. In the car, I dialed Streaker Jones’ number. When he answered I said, “Thanks.”

“Yea, I heard. Anytime,” he replied. “Need sum else?”

“Nope, I’m good. See ya.”

“See ya too. Tell yer Gram I got some new product fer her.”

“OK.”

Friendship is a powerful force. So is compassion. I’ve never been homeless and I’ve never been hungry for more than a couple days at a time. But I know some of the unwashed masses who cluster at our street corners and huddle in communities under freeways to escape danger. Many will never be anything but homeless and many are too fucking crazy to understand their lot.

But each and every one is a human being and deserving of whatever comfort they can find.

Manana, y’all.

Diplomacy: It’s In The Dictionary, Mr. Romney

Saturday, July 28th, 2012

 

So. There’s an elephant in the room, folks, and it’s name is Mitt Romney. If you want to gain a keen insight as to how a wealthy, privileged, rich American asshole views the rest of the world, take a good gander at Herr Rommel. For months now, the Republican Presidential front runner has given we Americans that snotty-nosed rich prick attitude wherein he, and his ever so lovely wife, call us “you people”.

“You people don’t need any more of my financial or tax records,” and, “You people just don’t understand how business actually works,” or my personal favorite, “I just don’t care about you poor people.” Mitt Romney has been stomping around America and talking down his snooty nose at us as common people. Now, he’s taken his blue blooded act on the road.

When Gram was reading the paper this morning at breakfast, she came to the story of the Mittster telling London, and all of England, that, “You people don’t know how to run an Olympics.”

“What tha fuck is that silly asserholie doin’?” Gram asked the table full of gathered Johnsons. “A man wants ta be President cain’t be sayin’ silly shit like that.”

“He’s just speaking his mind, Gram,” said my mother, “the British can’t even keep their promise to protect our athletes from the Muslim terrorists. Somebody should be saying something.”

Gram gave Mother a look that was only a notch below the Evil Eye. “When are you gonna forgit yer a assholie fuckball again? You say some a tha stupidest shit I ever heard.”

“Well,” Mother started to answer, “I, ah, well I think these are quite tasty pancakes, Mooner. What did you say you did differently?”

“I added buckwheat today is your answer, Mother. ‘Now,’ should answer you, Gram.”

Lucidity is a transient concept at best and totally homeless when combined with dementia.

Some of my blogger buddies jump started my thoughts and gave me the idea of how to keep up with Mother as her memory worsens and she starts to wonder off.

“Hey, everyone, I had an idea how to keep track of Mother when she starts wandering off the Reservation. I’mma take her over to Dr. Mays and get him to plant one of those ID/GPS chips in her neck like I got for the dogs. Then we can track her on Google when she goes missing.” Some of my ideas are classic genius.

“Oh, fuck alla that Oedipus shit, Mooner. Put one a them shockie collars on her and lectrify tha fences,” was Gram’s better idea. “Hell, give me a clicker fer tha collar an I’ll keep up with her.”

My mother gasped and clutched her throat at the spot where chip and collar would meet. “Why I never! You people are treating me like an animal. How dare you!”

The vet’s office scheduled us for next Tuesday at 10 am and the electrician will be out to juice up the fences Wednesday. Then I’m off to Santa Fe Friday. It’ll just be the dogs, the fucking cat and me this trip. I can’t be worrying about mother wandering off in a strange town while I’m working. It’s hard enough for me to focus my ADHD-addled brain without trying to keep up with her.

Which brings me back to Mitt Romney. Let me try to say this with an economy of words when I say, “Mitt Romney is not Presidential. He can’t park his own ego long enough to let the engine cool before he says something really stupid. Strong leaders are required to be diplomatic and you, Herr Schmidt Rommel, are not diplomatic in any fashion of the word.”

If you can believe recent polls, America could possibly elect this effete and totally snobbish asshole to our Presidency.

Holy… Fucking… Shit!

Ugh, and manana, y’all.

Frack This, Motherfrackers; Bend Over For Some Driller’s Mud

Thursday, July 26th, 2012

 

So. Please allow me to begin today’s missive with a hearty “Thank You” to all the readers who offered their empathies to me over Mother’s memory losses. I want to thank all of you who thought empathic thoughts and I especially want to thank those of you who wrote me. Living with a loved one or a family member who suffers from any form of dementia is a mixed bag of tricks. One minute you’re angry at them and the next you’re sad for them, and the entire time you feel emotional losses that match each of their mental slippages.

The costs of administering care for the physical and mental health of dementia patients are astounding. Thank goodness I have always provided the best health insurance I have been able to afford for all my family and extendeds. I have no earthly idea how people without health insurance survive it from the financial perspectives. The cost of medications alone would bankrupt a small country.

But to quote the general masses of conservative right-wing shitballs currently running our country into the ground, “Who gives a shit about them poor folks? I don’t have time to worry about indigents, I got me some fracking to do.”

Motherfuckers are fracking the foundations of our entire society if you ask me. If you don’t ask me, fuck you too. They speak to their “conservatism” constantly yet they are using up our air and water and scarring the beauty out of everything. The truth is, the average conservative wants to conserve what he thinks is his own property and rights and he wants the rest of us to pay him for it. These assholes don’t care about the future, they only want theirs and want it right damn now!

Wake the fuck up, folks. Fracking for oil pumps millions of gallons of chemical swill through a little hole in the earth and forces it miles underground. The claim is that this toxic stew is “chambered”–locked in place with a cement casing along the length of the drilled hole. The claim continues by telling you that when they finish their work and pour cement inside to plug the drilled entry wound, Mother Earth will hold that chambered mess in place.

Right.

This is the same lie as men have used for a million years in their efforts to get some nookie from a naive young woman. That lie goes like this, “I’mma gonna put in everything but the head.”

Conservative assholes are using that same logic and lie to ruin our public school systems, our Medicare/Medicade systems, our public safety sectors and our infrastructure. Every important social system, the systems that have long distinguished America as the best country ever, are getting fracked into oblivion.

I’d like to frack back. I’d start by removing all not-for-profit benefits from religion. I’d run drill pipe deep into the treasuries of churches and first suck them dry and then fill ’em up with driller’s mud made from the earth of ground truth wetted with the tears of the religiously abused.

Anyway, I’m in a pretty good mood today because I’m getting the papers to finalize the purchase of our new hacienda over to Santa Fe. I’m headed over there end of next week to do some stuff to make it ready for occupancy, and I intended to take Mother with me. Not gonna happen. In a moment of lucidity, Mother informed me that Santa Fe is, and here I might give you an exact quote as she said Santa Fe is, “… filled with homo-sex-u-als and hedonistic heretics,” and further that, “You will promise me, Butcher Einstein Johnson, that you WILL NOT take me there, EVER.”

Have I ever told you that my born and given name is Butcher Einstein Johnson? To save us both time, go over there to my Bloggie Roller and buy my silly fucking book, Full RisingMooner. You’ll find the story therein.

Wait, let me attempt to undangle my mangled modifications. Therein, the story is to be found.

I explained carefully to my mother that she had just managed to summarize the whys of my home purchase in Santa Fe, what with all the gays and heathens I would feel more at home than here to home. Then I told her, I said to her, “And guess what—no such promise. I’m taking you over there the first minute you forget that you hate Santa Fe and me. You’ll be all happy and shit one day and you’ll snap to and remember that you’re a bigoted old shitball, and there you’ll be—stuck in a city full of me.”

She cried, I cried and apologized without taking it back, and then we had a debate on the Mittster’s tax returns and that whole Bain Capital dealie. Every time Mother would make a stupid-ass remark about the issues, I would simply say, “Santa Fe.”

She said, “We don’t need to see his tax returns because they are his private business,” and I said, “Santa Fe.”

“He said he wasn’t involved with Bain after 1999,” and I said, “Santa Fe.”

Then, she said, “Well, Mr. Romney is a Christian and Obama is a Muslim!” and I said, “You really are a bigoted old bag, Mother, and I’m packing your bags for a trip over to Santa Fe.”

Maybe I should feel badly for calling my mother a bigoted old bag. Maybe I should have tried living with women a few months before wedding them. That said, I attempt to have honest relationships with everyone I love, even the bigoted old bags.

Which reminds me. I had an epiphany, or whateverthefuck those things are, and I decided to build a Kiva oven in the back yard to the new house. That’s the Native American oven used for centuries to cook and especially to bake bread. Maybe it’s the one thirty-second’s worth of Native blood mixed in with the rest of my hemoglobin that epiphed me. But like Gram always says, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Build yer fuckin’ oven and make me a peetzer.”

Gram loves thin, crusty crusted pizza with fresh tomatoes, pork sausage, basil, garlic and what she calls “moots yer fella” cheese. Last time I made pizzas out back on the big grill, Gram came out of the kitchen with a giant stainless steel tray with all of the fixings. Her ropey, muscled arms were shaking with the effort required to carry the heavy tray and she tottered to set it on the work table at my side.

“Yer mother’s being a downright cranky bitch, Mooner. Don’t put no moots yer fella on her peetzer. If’fn she bitches, I’ll tell her she told me not to put no cheesies on it.” Gram giggled and added, “I’ll tell her she done forgot.”

I laughed and Gram snickered like a schoolgirl. She said, “Mother’s gittin’ battier than a fuckin’ fruitcake, sonny boy, an’ we’re gonna have us some fun with her.”

Anyway, now my ADHD has taken over Mission Control, and among other things, I’m wondering what the Native American population of New Mexico want to be called. I’m guessing that they would want to be called Navajo or Arapaho or like me, Blackfoot. You know, distinguish them by tribal connections as opposed as to a group. Like Native American.

Then again. That would really screw up my mess kit because I don’t have that good an eye. Then again, again, who really gives a shit? Manana, y’all.

The Bright Side Of Dementia; A New Cure For Bigotry

Wednesday, July 25th, 2012

 

So. I’ve finally let Mother’s cat out of the bag and I cannot even begin to tell you how good it feels. To share with you Mother Johnson’s trip down Memory Loss Lane has freed me in ways I hadn’t realized. Most importantly is freedom from censure and censorship. I don’t like bridled truths because real truth is unbridled. If I’m going to talk about anything, I want to be able to talk about that anything’s anythings.

It’ll take a moment, but that made perfect sense.

See, when I started this stupid fucking bloggie dealio, I promised that I would be full disclosure on all things except the children I have with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson. I only made that promise to Sammie to save myself from a/an extended stay/stays over to the Loony Bin at Shoal Creek Mental Hospital. My lovely first ex-wife’s precise words were, “If you do anything to draw unwanted attention to our children, Mooner Einstein Johnson, I’ll lock your ass so deep into the bowels of The System you’ll never again see the light of day.”

I wonder how she learned to speak so properly and not dangle her modifiers or prepositions. I would have said, “… you’ll never see the light of day again.”

She was right, Dr. Know It All, and I’m glad that I’ve kept my kids off limits to the blathering. I don’t have a need to disclose anything about my children because I don’t say anything about them. But when Mother asked me to secret her memory losses from you, I didn’t feel right about it. Not because the landlord of my initial Earthly home has become a bigoted old gas bag and I want to make fun of her in all ways possible, but rather from, again, the full disclosure perspectives.

How can I fully-disclose my life without fully disclosing it? How can I address my life with my mother and withhold her dementia?

It’s like the fucking Republican lawmakers back East to Washington in the D.C. Yesterday, the Congressional Budget Office—those stalwart non-partisan bookkeepers for the US Congress—announced that the Affordable Health Care Act, aka Obamacare, would actually SAVE about $84 billion. That’s right, folks, a bunch of accountants with no political ties or agenda have said that not only will all Americans be afforded top notch health care, that in the act of providing that care we will also save $Billions in debt!

Affordable health care for all Americans saves all Americans money. Me, I say, “Yippy-Skippy and a Hip-Hip-Hooray!!!”

The Republicans, however, responded with their typical fuzzy mathematics to make a misguided and decidedly stupid point. Ignoring facts and hiding realities, they continue to snark about this Bill. “It’ll cost $Trillions,” said Speaker of the House Johnny “Does My Skin Match My Cleveland Browns Cap Yet” Boehner.

How can these assholes sell that load of non-disclosed bullshit? Who, inthefuck, is buying it? And they say they are Christians, for shitsakes. Christians? Really?

They can’t even help their neighbors with health care and save the entire country billions of dollars because they hate our first black President so thoroughly. And don’t you even start to tell me that Obama’s skin color doesn’t matter to the likes of Cantor and Romney and Limbaugh and Beck. Do not even start!

I thought the fucking Dark Ages were over. I thought the days of persecuting people for their thoughts or who they are was history. Patricia, from over to Polygon Blog has asked if maybe we should bring back the Stocks. You remember the Stocks, right? It’s that dealie where an offending person would be seated with arms and legs sticking through holes in a wooden platform and made to sit for days.

Oh, and Patricia, darling, why can’t I comment using my name and URL? I don’t have any of that other shit to use as ID for a comment. I spent thirty minutes this am writing a thoughtful and clever response to your “Stocks” posting and then discovered that I can’t comment thereto.

Thereon, maybe? Wait, might it would be therewith? Am I dangling shit again? Whateverthefuck, I was really bothered, from the intrinsic perspectives, by hiding Mother’s fast creeping dementia. I was forced to not tell you when she was acting like a true Christian woman because the only times she acts it are those times when she forgets that she became a right-wing bigoted asshole.

And that is the foundation for what I want to say today. Why is it that when my mother forgets things, she forgets to be a bigot? Why is she forgetting to hate people just because they are gay or Muslim or liberal? Why is she forgetting that she thinks that abortion is a choice to be made by politicians? Does that mean that her bigotry was learned or taught and not truly her thoughts?

I have always wondered at Mother’s views on abortion. See, my mother didn’t want a third child when the third seed sprouted in her womb. I guess that Sister and me were burden enough. So she starved herself until she miscarried, what we might call a do-it-yourself abortion.

I could never understand how she can now oppose a safe medical procedure when she spent sixty days starving a fetus she had already carried almost three months. If abortions had been legal when she got preggers that third time would she have had a medical procedure instead?

The Squirt and I took her to her brain doctor yesterday afternoon for a checkup on her short term memory. It wasn’t good. Twice she asked me where we were going in the car on the way, and she likewise had to ask me twice if I minded taking her. Her doctor told us that she thinks Mother’s dementia is fast-paced and was inherited from her mother, my grandmother who was murdered. I told the doc that Grandma was sharp as a tack at a ripe old age and she told me it didn’t matter. “Your mother’s dementia looks genetic in nature. A family sort of thing.”

“Huh?” I asked. “You’re saying this is an inherited malady?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Johnson, and it likely doesn’t skip any generations.”

Fuck me running.

I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

 

One Man’s Loss Is Another Man’s Mother; Lessons In The Key Of Remembering

Tuesday, July 24th, 2012

 

So. What a week. I have been working hard on all the many aspects of buying a home out of state and I have been dealing with my mother in ways not before with dealt. Not dealt with before? Having never before with being dealt, maybe.

OK, whatthefuck is it with the dangling participle dealie anyway? Wait, stop another minute because I’m not addressing danglies, but rather tag-on prepositions—another preposterous pompous and pretentious grammar rule. Why can’t I say, “… dealt with.” to end a sentence and simply be done with it? When leaving a preposition at the end of a sentence conveys the precise sentiments, why, inthefuck, must we restructure to create words that sound as if they came from a snooty-nosed seventh grade English teacher’s mouth?

I’ve done many real estate sales and purchases in my lifetime, as part of my life and my business. Daddy told me early and often that real estate is the only asset worth owning other than your own business. Having spent that lifetime watching Wall Street and the assholes who run it, I have become a true follower of Daddy’s words. But I’ve never owned real estate in New Mexico, so I’ve needed to pay carefuller attention to this Santa Fe house dealio.

And “Paying Attention” is not my middle name.

Having said that, I reviewed the last of the documents and will be proudly owning our new place over there on Monday, July 30. And please allow me to say this:

“Hoo-fucking-yah, y’all!!!”

Then, on Friday of next week I’ll be headed over to start working on the house to get it ready to furnish in late September. The old place needs a few repairs and creature comforts to make it comfy for me and the menagerie of Johnsons calling it “Home, sweet second home”. I’ll take the dogs and the fucking cat on this trip and maybe I’ll have Mother in tow.

Yea, I know, I said maybe Mother will be along for the ride. Fuck me running.

My mother is the “not with having dealt issue” previously debated grammatically therewith herein. I’ve never before said anything about it here to the bloggie out of respect to Mother, but my batshit bigoted and right-wing conservative Christian asshole mother has dementia. According to her doctor it is, “Non-Alzheimer, non-specific organic dementia—what we used to call ‘losing it’ in the old days. And it’s progressing rapidly, Mr. Johnson.”

Said another way, Mother is getting to where she can’t remember shit. And I mean shit as in specific shit and likewise, shit in general. When it first started she made me promise that I wouldn’t write and tell you about it, so I didn’t. But it’s gotten so bad lately that I asked her if I could tell you guys what’s going on and she forgot how pissed she is at me and OK’d it.

This thingie started maybe five years ago when Mother’s usually sharp wit became less sharp and more pointed. As she began to forget things she seemed to become angry more often and with more edginess. Instead of simply snapping at you she would snap and then comment on you as a human. After that trend progressed for a couple years, she started snapping and commenting on her disapprovals of us without just cause.

In the last year or so, she has progressed to become the angry right-wing conservative Christian bigoted asshole I write about so often here—a trend that seems to be a contagion of sorts all across America. Makes me wonder if it’s dementia that is making so many formerly decent people into conservative assholes.

Anyway, ever the silver lining sort of guy, I’m seeing Mother’s memory losses as an opportunity. I was laying in bed last night and thinking about the dramatic U-turn Mother made with letting me discuss her “little problem with something”, as she calls it, and I had what might be a brilliant idea. I was thinking to myself, I thought, Maybe I can reprogram Mother’s memory and return her into a decent human being. You know, treat her mind like Herr Schmidt Rommel’s Etch-A-Sketch, and return her to decency.

So, we were at breakfast this morning and Mother had the expression plastered on her face that I now recognize as the look she gets when she’s lost cognizant connections with her memory. “Here, Mother,” I told her as I passed the biscuits to her, “I made these with your favorite recipe, just for you.”

She gave me the just-mentioned expression and followed it with one of confusion, then one of delight. “Oh thank you, son, you are such a thoughtful boy.”

I then handed her a fruit jar filled with deep purple goodness. “And I know how you love the blackberry jam Sister and Anna make, why don’t you slather some of that on to make it perfect.”

Mother popped a biscuit open with her fork, coated the top half with the seedy jam and took a huge bite. “Mmmmmm, that is a little taste of Heaven, Mooner.”

She chewed and swallowed the bite and washed it down with a sip of coffee and her facial expressions began a slow transformation from delight into abject hate. Her face turned red and her eyes bulged out. “I hate biscuits and I refuse to eat food prepared by homo-sex-u-als. You people are all alike,” and she stormed away from the table.

My Gram was watching this unfold from her perch across from Mother and on my right. “If’fn ya can git her ta eat liver an’ onions an’ vote Democratic, Mooner, I’mma nomilate ya to the Noel Peach Pride.”

“Hells bells, Gram, I don’t need a Nobel Prize. I’ll be happy if she’ll simply accept the fact that her daughter is gay and her son’s a liberal.”

But I lied. I’m now starting to think of Mother as my Eliza Doolittle, and I’m fixing to reprogram me a true progressive thinker. That’s why I might take her over to Santa Fe for a couple weeks. Get her away from her asshole conservative touchstones and get her to thinking straight. I’ve a lot to do but I can always find time for a little community service.

Manana, y’all.

 

An Eagle Almost Landed, Or, “Hello, Boy Scouts, Reality Calling”

Thursday, July 19th, 2012

 

So. I’m pissed. Major League, big time pissed. The Boy Scouts of America has continued to run any openly homosexual member or employee ceremoniously out their doors. That’s right, if you are openly gay, you can’t be affiliated with the Boy Scouts and they are more than happy to announce it to the entire fucking world. I’m so pissed about this that I have written to them, as follows:

 

Mr. Wayne M. Perry

President, Boy Scouts of America

1325 Walnut Hill Drive

Irving, Texas 75015

 

Dear Mr. Perry,

 

I am writing you as a former Boy Scout—a Life Scout who quit Boy Scouts with 23 merit badges and lacking only the completion of my community service project to become an eagle scout. The reason I quit is because my adult Scout Leader raped me at aquatics camp on the night of my thirteenth birthday. He raped me after spending several years grooming me for that night. It was only after decades of psychotherapy that I came to realize just how much harm was done to me by that man. I also now know I likely had not truly earned my ranks and merits. How many boys have become Eagle Scouts before their fourteenth birthday? I now understand that this man groomed me—he maneuvered and manipulated me to gain my trust and to get me to like him.

Then he raped me. The rape changed me in ways you will never know unless you have suffered likewise. What he did was hideous and unconscionable. Were he alive I would prosecute him.

Having said this, you might think that I support your anti-gay policies. But you would be dead wrong. You see, Mr. Perry, the man who raped me wasn’t an openly gay, mentally sound scout leader. He was a pedophile, an animal who rapes children while hiding behind the veneer of respectability. He was a married father and a Deacon of the same Baptist Church that sponsored our Troop. He spouted religious platitudes like a preacher and he worked closely with his scouts’ parents. He was upstanding and well thought of, he was above reproach.

And he was a child molester, a pedophile. A monster. He was a rapist and he was sanctioned by The Boy Scouts of America. Except for the pedophilia, he was your model leader, Mr. Perry, the kind of man you say you wish you had more of to lead young boys into adulthood.

That man is the sort of man you need to exclude from your organization, Mr. Perry, not proud openly gay men. It isn’t openly gay men raping children, sir, and it isn’t openly gay scouts turning their fellow scouts homosexual. It is rather the deviants in your midst who prey on young children. The rapists in your organization will not openly identify and mark themselves with a red “H” on their foreheads. No sir, Mr. Perry, your rapists are cloaked in capes adorned with the medals of Christian platitude and living “model” lives outside Scouting.

Use you head, sir, and stop reacting politically. It’s time you pull your head out of your ass, scrub it down and do something smart. Do the right thing and stop persecuting some of America’s finest men.

Me, I never thought that your organization was responsible for my getting raped by your fully sanctioned and authorized leader. I, maybe mistakenly, thought that you only had my best interest at heart. But I might be wrong, Mr. Perry. Maybe just like the Holy Roman Catholic Church, you have taken the road to punish the innocent rather than truly fix your problem with child rapists. Maybe you are no different from the Pope and you care more for your institution than you do for your charges.

Should you decide to change these stupid and useless policies against gay men, I applaud you, sir. Should you not, then please allow me to say, “Fuck you, asshole.”

 

Sincerely,

 

Mooner Johnson, Life Scout (retired)

 

Manana, y’all.

President Obama Is In Town!; Hot Cha Cha

Tuesday, July 17th, 2012

 

So. President Obama is coming to Austin Today. And the loonies are already out. I don’t know if this freakish phenomenon is exclusively a Texas sort of dealio or if the President’s visiting other places creates Halloween in July.

Here, assholes are going door-to-door in our poorer neighborhoods telling people that the President is coming to Austin to pay their utility bills, getting folks all hopped up for their leader to help them cover the costs of staying cool in this era of Global Warming. My guess is that these door bangers are a few conservative shitballs taking stupid to a whole new level.

Once word spreads over to East Austin that folks are fucking with their President’s reputation, the next dumb ass knocking on a door will be in for a shock.

Which reminds me. It was 98 degrees with 81% humidity today at 3:30 pm. That, dear friends, is a fucking shock. I’d been inside working on some business and when I walked outside to check on Gram, I almost feinted. I try to keep indoor temps at 73 and the humidity in the 20% range. Stepping into the sauna outside was like entering a weather-induced sleep apnea. All my breath left me, my mind went all fuzzy and my body gaped and gasped involuntarily, greedily attempting to grab a lung full of air.

In the distance I heard Gram’s voice, tinny sounding, tell me, “Ya look like one a them grumpy fishies out tha water, Mooner. Here…” and with that, she squirted me with the garden hose.

I must have been doing that fish-out-of-water dealie with my mouth. “Whatthefuck, Gram!” I felt the same shock as that one time Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and I were over to Sweden and ran between dips in boiling water and a hole cut in Arctic river ice.

“Are ya OK, sonny boy? Want another squirt?”

I held my hand up to say “No”, but Gram sprayed me again anyway. Our drinking water out here to the ranch is from a well dug deep, deep down into the soft limestone that forms the crust of most Central Texas geology. That water comes from the well at a constant 66 degrees, and when added to the mix of relative differences in outside and inside weather, it was the shock I needed to regain clarity.

“Thanks, Gram. I guess I needed that. Now I want you to come inside for awhile, you’ve been out in this heat far too long.”

I rarely worry about my grandmother as I think she’ll outlive us all. But a buddy of mine just put his mother into a partial care facility that houses old folks with early Alzheimer’s and mild dementia. His mom is Gram’s age and almost as feisty, but her incarceration was involuntary. She got all mean and nasty, and badgered her family to their breaking points.

I guess when you can’t remember shit, you can forget how to act as well.

I’m starting to think that the dementias—all of those maladies that waste our memory—might be the worst of all human conditions. As humans, I hold the firm opinion that it is the vastness of our memory that sets us apart from all other life. Reactions are genetic, as even one-celled amoeba have auto responses to stimuli. The farther up the cell structured ladder you climb, the more memory is added to control and influence reactions.

I know that most of the really smart people say it is the ability to reason that sets us humans apart, but I disagree. Almost all primates are proven reasoners and I met a snake this one time who could reason as well. We were down to Mexico one summer and Streaker Jones and I were out looking for some Peyote cactus. It was hot as hell and we sat on a pile of rocks to rest and hydrate. Stupidly, I was lounging back with closed eyes while lazily lifting the flat stones with the toe of my sneaker and letting them drop with a clunk.

“Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz… Bz-Bz.-Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!!!”

“Don’t move, Mooner, she’s a big un,” Streaker Jones warned.

I opened my eyes and saw the head and beady eyes of a rattlesnake with a two-inch girth swaying, daring, as she danced her warning at me. Then I head a dozen small “Bzzz’s” coming from under the rock. I had uncovered a nest buzzy snakes and, basically, screwed the pooch. Gram calls them buzzy snakies.

If you think about it, everything an organism does is a reaction to something. Our memories only serve to store data for future use in evaluating what reactions to make. Initially, Momma rattlesnake was reacting to my intrusion instinctively and I was reacting rationally, with thought. While my instincts were to run like hell, I knew from personal experience that Momma snake would have me pierced several times before I could get all the way to my feet.

“She’s a eying yur pecker, Mooner. You might ought’a wore some undie drawers this trip.” And with that, Streaker Jones started laughing maniacally. “It appears she sees a tiny one-eyed snake here to harm her family.” He laughed some more and finally, slowly, unsheathed his large hunting knife.

As careful as he was, the knife blade made a small “hiss” as it slid from the leather scabbard. The big snake swiveled, whipping her head to face the knife. And then something interesting happened. She sighed, A deep, breathy, mother’s sigh—the kind I hear often from my own mother when I disappoint her.

Her nostrils seemed to flare with the sigh and then her eyes softened and her body un tightened. Here head tennis-matched between Streaker Jones and me as she slowly recoiled and backed under her rock.

“Move yer foot, Mooner, slowly. I reckon she reasoned that she was in one of them lose/lose propositions.”

Me, that experience built a rattlesnake memory that will serve me at some point in the future. I’ll process it with the other rattlesnake memories lodged in the rock piles of my mind next time I hear a “Bzzzz” and my reasoning will, hopefully, be more precise.

OK, I have to go get my teeth cleaned so I’ll be stopping here. I’m unsure of what I just said about memory but I know I’m on to something. See you manana, y’all.

 

 

Clarity Of Thought; A God Story

Friday, July 13th, 2012

 

So. It’s Friday and this Friday has started on happy notes. My good buddy BJ from over to Dumb Perignon has posted a pleasing summer ditty, it’s not too hot this am to spend time outside, and God came to see me again last night.

Having said all of that, I’m set to wondering why decent Austin weather and blog posts from Beej are happening less frequently than my visits from God. Visits by God? My deity has been coming around so often I’m starting to think I might be imagining things.

When we were conversing last night, I asked the big Him—He was a him when I asked this question—if maybe it was my ADHD that attracted him to me. It has seemed that I’m more distracted with rampaging thoughts these last few months when God has been stopping by, so I asked him, I asked, “It seems that both the levels of my deficited attentions and the frequencies of your visitations are connected in some way, Big Guy. Have I scratched a scab of truth here or am I delusional?”

“Yes,” was all the response I got and all I needed to gain the requested insight.

To some folks, having their God tell them that they are delusional would be unsettling, but to me it’s merely conformational. Hell, I know I’m crazy, for shitsakes, a fact that I admit, and often. But like a blind boar in an oak forest, I do occasionally trip over an acorn, or two. I do stumble and bumble through the smoldering swill that is my ADHD-addled thoughts and hit a thick vein of Truth.

And here I do mean capital “T” Truth. Truth as in God confirms that both the essence of the thought is spot on, and that it’s importance makes it worth repeating. Now you might be thinking at this particular point—a mere 280 words into this missive—that I’ve lost control of my faculties. But hang tight because first, I’ve never had control of said faculties and, second, what I’m about to tell you was sanctioned by God.

Unh-huh, that’s right, God Her Veryownself authorized that I disseminate this information to the Inet-mosphere. Here I say “Her” as He had morphed from a Western Biblical image of God into the spitting image of Jane Fonda as Barbarella.

God came to see me yesterday evening as I lay on the fishing dock dangling my legs, from the knees down, in the water and a fat doobie stuck in my face. I was maybe eight Carta Blancas into my day and I was alone on the wooden planked structure. I needed some time to myself to sort a few things out so I went down to the lake for some solitude.

Like I said, I was laying on my back and swinging my dangled feet back-and-forth as I tried to grab a single thread of thought from the jumbled mess inside my head. Something has been nibbling at my soul for a week or so and I couldn’t put my hands on it. Some something was bugging me and I just couldn’t figure it out. I had lay long enough to get fully relaxed and I was just stoned enough to have a fully opened mind.

“Are you ready to talk about it or are you too fucked-up to deal with me?”

“Whaaa?” I barked, as I almost leaped into the lake from the flat of my back. “Who the fuuu… Oh, it’s you, God. How’s it hanging, Sir?”

God laughed deeply, heartily. “It’s hanging deep and wide, dude, deep… And wide.” God told me with more laughter.

“You scared the bejesus out of me again, Big Guy. You’re not quite as funny as You think.”

More deep rumbles of almost demonic laughter and then, “Yes, I am that funny, Mooner. As a matter of fact, I invented funny.”

Hard to argue with God’s logic.

“I stopped by to help you out a little bit here. You’ve had your thoughts all pantie-twisted so tight that its tugging your mind’s pubic hairs into those painful little knots. I’m going to take them panties off your brain and shave you down to clear your head,” God informed me.

And that’s when he morphed into Barbarella. I had to try hard to look in God’s eyes and not at her stuff. “This is somewhat unsettling, Ma’am. As you are well aware, I masturbated to Barbarella for months after watching that movie.”

God looked at me like I had said something funny. “You saw that movie eleven-and-a-half times, sonny boy, and you still masturbate to Jane Fonda.”

OK, guys, right is right and God was right.

“So what’s this big advice dealio you’ve got for me. I’m sort of busy now trying to be alone. Can you yippy-Skippy things for me so I can return to my solitude.”

“Don’t be boorish, shithead, I’m pretty busy myself. Look, think back on your trip to Santa Fe and a specific moment of clarity. If you think it, it will come.”

And with that, God flashed me a dazzling smile, flipped Her hair off her shoulder, and vanished. I was left with nothing but God’s memory and a faint scent of Summer’s Eve.

Clarity in Santa Fe,” I thought, “clarity, in Santa Fe?”. And it hit me. I was in a store on The Plaza called Santa Fe Hemp—a nifty place with hemp clothing and clever political statements. I stopped by to see if they are a customer of our factory but I never even checked their clothes. I was so enamored by the progressive message bumper stickers and cards and stuff that I never looked. I had spent at least an hour reading and commenting to the guys when I came across a postcard with a statement by Laurence W. Britt.

Mr. Britt has studied fascist governments, including Hitler’s Germany and Benito’s Italy, and he determined that there are specific early warning signs when a government or society are turning towards fascism. I was so impressed with this list that I bought the postcard for all of my friends. Here is what the card says:

 

Early Warning Signs Of

FASCISM:

  • Powerful and Continuing Nationalism

  • Disdain for Human Rights

  • Identification of Enemies as a Unifying Cause

  • Supremacy of the Military

  • Rampant Sexism

  • Controlled Mass Media

  • Obsession with National Security

  • Religion and Government Intertwined

  • Corporate Power Protected

  • Labor Power Suppressed

  • Disdain for Intellectuals and the Arts

  • Obsession with Crime and Punishment

  • Rampant Cronyism and Corruption

  • Fraudulent Elections”

 

OK, first, please allow me to say a “Thanks” to Larry Britt. Second, I would like to say,

Wake the fuck up, America!!!”

Manana, y’all.

 

Some Of My Best Friends Are Conservative; Bullshit And Other Lies

Thursday, July 12th, 2012

 

So. I’m sort of back into the grooves after my extended visit over to Santa Fe. I’ve had a knock-down drag-out with Mother, it’s hotter than a two-dollar pistol and more humid than a sauna, and SAC Ellen just called to say that she won’t be back to Austin until next weekend. Maybe.

Maybe. And maybe I’ll have some skin left on my pecker by then. It’s been three weeks since I’ve had any sort of multi-person sexing and I’ve just about gone through a 12-pack of Ivory bath-size soap bars. Why is it that I’m happy with actual sex a couple times a week yet, when deprived of actual sex, I masturbate six times a day?

Whatthefuck is up with that silliness? Maybe it has something to do with the relative levels of satisfaction each variety of sex provides. While I’m quite adept at bringing matters to a successful conclusion when placed in my own hands, I must admit that I’ll never hold a candle to the sexual pleasures provided by a woman.

Which reminds me. Today is comedian/actor/author Bill Cosby’s birthday, which reminds me of Mitt Romney’s visit to the NAACP yesterday. Cosby was the first black man to have a lead role in an American television series when he starred in I Spy. As I recall, the show started in 1965 and it had huge viewership and ratings all across America.

Except in NBC TV stations in Georgia, Alabama and Florida where bigotry and racism were the program directors. As recently as 19-fucking-65 America harbored that kind of racism. Which puts Herr Schmidt Rommel’s visit to Houston yesterday into sharp perspective for me.

In 1965, whenever a white person wanted to prove that he wasn’t a racist, he would say, “Why I’m not a racist, some of my best friends are black.” Recently the “I have a (fill-in-the-blank) as a friend” justification for bigotry has included gays, Muslims and Hispanics, and if the best you can say for yourself is to repeat that stupid mantra, you, dear friend, are a bigot.

For yesterday’s NCAAP meeting, Romney flew in a group of black Republicans to be his cheering section. Since I don’t know who all of them are I won’t call them Republican houseboys. But I will call them hacks. The candidate attended that meeting to get in the face of America’s major minority for the sake of his fan base, and he made inflammatory and denigrating statements to some of America’s finest people.

When the soirée was over, Romney bragged that he was cheered by the members of the NAACP and then bragged that he spoke with several anonymous black leaders who spoke badly of President Obama and said they would vote Republican.

Mitt Romney is a liar. And a bigot.

For starters, the only black folks he spoke with after his speech were his hired hack attendees and then he used the old “I have black friends” method to demonstrate that support.

Mitt Romney is a fucking bigoted liar. I just can’t get my head around the fact that he is the Republican nominee to be our President.

Ugh.

What do you call a man who will say anything to get what he wants? Among the several things that come to my mind, “Mitt Romney” is one. But how about you—what would you call such a man?

Manana, y’all.

Governor Perry Still An Asshole; A Physics Lesson

Wednesday, July 11th, 2012

 

So. We’ve been back to Austin for a full day and it’s as though we never left. My mother came back to the ranch from her forced stay over to the hotel and has already set my teeth on edge; it’s been raining since Monday night—a good thing so long as you like your watery precipitation in the form of steam; and Texas Governor Rick “Can Somebody Pass Me Another Helping of Stupid?” Perry has pulled another bone-headed publicity stunt.

Ahhhh, home, sweet aggravating and gut-wrenching home.

Mother was sent packing to temporary quarters when we celebrated the gay marriage of my pet pig and his ostrich lover. Being a right-wing Christian religious asshole, Mother refused to attend the holy wedding ceremony of Rush and Rick. As a free-thinking somewhat liberal accountability freak, I kicked her ass out of my house for the wedding and it’s attendant festivities.

Then, as a hard hearted and slightly gloating Lord of the Manor, I invented attendant wedding activities to prolong Mother’s banishment until I could get car and animals packed and off to Santa Fe for our escape. Among those frivolous nuptial activities you could count a fishing trip, washer and horseshoe tournaments, and the first annual “Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry Calf Cutting Ceremony and Mountain Oyster Dinner”.

For those of you new to the musings on these pages, Rush Limbaugh is my pet domesticated hog named after the piggish, priggish and bigoted asshole radio host of same name. Aptly monikered, my giant pig mimics the worst of his namesake’s attributes and—if he weren’t so handsome—would make a suitable stunt double for the right-wing yakker.

Said another way, if I hadn’t paid an exorbitant price for Rushie at the Travis County Livestock Show and Rodeo, he’d have been assorted cuts of prime pork years ago. And Gram would have gladly wielded the butcher knife.

Actually, her exact words have been, “If’fn ya don’t git that fat fuckin’ pig outta my earshot I’mma shove my 12-gager up his ass an give it tha twitchy eye. Now pass me tha fuckin’ butter.”

I love my grandmother and her fractured prose, and I never need wonder where to find the potty mouth genes in my own DNA. If memory serves me, one of the first dozen words I heard when exiting Mother’s womb was, in fact, fuck.

As for the ostrich, I named him after our governor because… Well, to put it as simply as I can, my 350-pound bird is dumb as a rock. He’s just plain dumb. But unlike the Governor, my Rick Perry has a heart of gold and a giving soul and to be brutally honest, it breaks my heart that he fell for Rush Limbaugh the pig. But love is blind and so are many of the followers of religious institutions. Like my very own mother, Mother.

OK, my ADHD and its little brother, the ADD, have derailed this train. While my derailments lack the fire and possibly toxic chemical fumes of today’s train wreck up to Columbus, Ohio, they are no less dangerous to your health. As my ADHD is of the contagious variety, it might be a good idea to inoculate yourself against my infections prior to each reading.

Vaccinate yourself daily with heavy doses of Carta Blanca beer, Cannabis or any other naturally occurring hallucinogenic agent. To be safe, mix-and-match for maximum protection.

In Austin’s weather news, my beloved home city was 91 degrees for the duration of a two-hour storm yesterday evening. The poor raindrops were so afraid to hit hot pavement that they converted themselves into steam and hung in thick clouds at ground level. They hung (hanged?) there in a smoldering mass of steam until midnight. When Cinderella’s hour struck, the moisture reconverted into raindrops and affixed themselves to everything exposed.

They clung separately in fat drops, struggling to avoid Nature’s water controlling physics force—surface tension. But gravity being what it is, by this morning most of the individual drops had been glued together to reach the critical mass required to fall to the ground.

Mother, at breakfast this am, had arisen before me to grab the newspaper before I could. She was sitting at the table when the dogs, the fucking cat and I came into the big kitchen. I deeply sighed my surrender of the paper to Mother, fixed a cup of strong coffee and took my seat at the table next to Mr. Dave. He leaned to me and whispered in my ear. His hushed breath was full of Kahlua’s rich aroma and his words were slightly slurred when he said to me, he said, “I did all I could, Mooner. I tried to love some of the hate from her heart, but she spent two weeks with Mrs. Browningwell, and she’s been saving up. Will you make an appointment for me with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson? I might have a drinking problem.”

Mrs. Browningwell is wife to Baptist Preacher Browningwell, and Mr. Dave is the giant-peckered old geezer I hired to service Mother and the rest of the women at Johnson Manor. Sounds like Mr. Dave is suffering from a Mother overload.

Which reminds me. Our governor has announced that Texas will not participate in the bounty of health care options offered to our state’s citizens by The Affordable Health Care Act. That’s right, Texas will not be accepting and participating in the programs. What that shithead has said, effectively, is that we will not accept heath care programs that were paid for by we Texans in Federal taxes.

That dumbass bitches about paying taxes and then refuses the public services already funded by those already paid taxes.

“Oh, Reeeeckyyyyy! Reekyy Peeerrryyy! Remove your head from your ass for a minute and listen. It’s already funded programs, son, you and I and our brethren have already paid for most of this. Instead of rejecting it to salve the hurt feelings of your Tea Party buddies, take the money, dude.”

How about you say, “While I adamantly disagree with the SCOTUS decision and feel that Obamacare is unconstitutional, I will allow our state’s citizens to enjoy the benefits of these illegal programs we already begrudgingly funded, and I will do all I can to help remove Obamacare from our future lives.”

But Governor Rick Perry is an asshole. Fuck Rick Perry!

Oh, and I just saw a sound bite of Herr Schmidt Rommel at the NAACP. Hilarious, and sad. How can a candidate for President of the United States not understand what bigotry is? The Mittster really is big money’s Manchurian candidate sent to destroy America’s middle class.

Ugh, need beer. Manana, y’all.

Returning To Austin; How’s It Hanging?

Tuesday, July 10th, 2012

 

So. I admit I’m remiss and haven’t kept my promise to check in with you guys. I’ve been accross to New Mexico for ten days and just arrived back to the ranch in Austin. I feel like an asshole for not checking in with everyone, but I have some excuses. Not that excuses are worth a shit in any context, so maybe I’ll call my absence precisely what it was.

The effort required of me to communicate while gone was more than I was willing to pay. Therefor, and therein, I’m an asshole.

So I’ll apologize here and now and rather than excuse myself, as assholes typically do and I’ll give you the basic travel log of my last ten days. First, I have an old, funky laptop that refuses to connect to just any wireless connection. When you add my lack of tech skills to a balky computer, you get a frustrating mix of dropped connections and half-assed effort. During the first few days in Santa Fe, I spent hours hunched over in coffee shops trying to logon and write missives on both my, and your, places of business. Worthless efforts one, and all.

Squirt told me that if I didn’t buy a new laptop when we got home that she was going to, and here I’ll quote the pint-sized puppy, “… kick your Texas ass way up onto your shoulders.” She’s a cute little shitbird when she makes threats, and she did have a good point.

Second, our home hunt has been furious and successful. On Monday we saw 19 various homes and on Tuesday we viewed another ten. Home number sixteen on Monday was an amazing 1940′s adobe bungalow that we fell deeply in love with. We got it under contract Thursday, inspected it Saturday with all the experts and hope to have it closed by the end of July. More to come on the house if things work out.

Third, this was Squirt and Yoda’s first trip outside the Lone Star State, and New Mexico has, well, enchanted them. I’ll not start effusing about our newly adopted half-home and my pets’ love affairs therewith. However, having said that you need to know that last Thursday night was the first of the free weekly concerts held on the square in town, and we had a blast. Each summer the City provides free concerts on the square downtown and I can see myself making most of them.

We stood in a crowd of fewer than a thousand and watched Joe King Carrasco do one of the best live shows I’ve ever seen. Seriously. The pint-sized singer was a dynamo and even more energetic than when I first saw him in the 1980′s. He was off the stage and into the crowd on every song, and the crowd was remarkable. It was like a huge family reunion where only Uncle Stanly was too drunk to dance, and Mother’s third cousin from back East, Madalyn Morrison, Funky Chickened her house dress up to her waist to reveal a not altogether unattractive bare ass.

I was just a kid and Madalyn was doing the Jitterbug, but the memory of her dancing with this Navy man she brought to the party still sticks with me. She would have been mid-twenties back then and I was just arriving at that age that boys reach.

And let me say that I had no idea Joe King has such mad skills on a Stratacaster. Holy fucking shit. Squirt danced all night with a Bull Mastiff named Hulk, and Yoda danced with an assortment of women who each said, “Oh, isn’t he just the cutest thing.” I have to admit that the bug-eyed little shit has got some moves. Must be his Whippet blood.

Honor the fucking cat climbed a tree to get the best seat in the house and me, I danced with the entire crowd. Joe King’s music is infectious and you can’t help but boogie. I bounced and white-boy gyrated for a solid 90 minutes, and Friday morning I got out of bed with that comfortable all-body ache that happy exercise gives you. Like when you spend a whole night sexing with an energetic lover—starting on the granite counter top out to the kitchen, moving to the cedar bench outside by the fire pit and only then heading to the bed and its cool Egyptian cotton sheets—and awaken the next morning with your nose in the crack of her ass and a vibrator with run-down batteries glued to your thigh.

Maybe the vibrator was stuck to her. Can’t swear which it was.

Anyway, we toured the Santa Fe Opera and saw some local sights, Saturday the home inspection in the am and then off to hunt Peyote buttons for the fucking cat. We packed our bags and headed to Streaker Jones’ daddy’s birthplace—exact location not any of your fucking business—and hiked for a few hours to gather cactus fruit. We took our collected produce to Streaker Jones’ cousin’s place and he blessed the peyote and made some tea in the old style. Laughing Coyote is a medicine man in-training who traded for our remaining buttons, and we got some chunks of uncut gemstones and a gunny sack of pasole. Pasole is corn nuts before they are fried and a terrific food. I love them in salad with celery, onion, hot peppers and cider vinegar dressing. We drank our Peyote tea, cracked a few Carta Blanca beers and put the new Joe King CD into the player.

That was Saturday night. I awoke Monday at 11 am in suitable condition to drive us back to Austin and gathered the troops for the 11-hour drive. The Squirt was, predictably, at the foot of my sleeping bag and Yoda was likewise curled into my left armpit. I got the dogs up to pee and brush their teeth and went outside to pee myself. We slept in an old Air Stream trailer that’s parked under an ancient cottonwood tree at a spring-fed oasis. Coyote—he asked us to call him Coyote—requested that we, “Return our water to a good use,” so we all peed on the parched soil at the big tree’s waterline.

So, I’m standing, naked, with my eyes closed and trying to get that first swollen-bladder pee to start, when I heard the sound of a hundred Mourning Doves cooing on the dry, light summer breeze. The bird music soothed me and helped relax my urinary tract. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and started blindly pee writing in the powdery red dirt at my feet. The sounds of my water hitting the soil blended with the doves’ voices and, I must admit, created a symphony of Nature. As it was my first emptying of the day, it was somewhat dramatic and provided a two-minute track of splats and coos.

When I opened my eyes I looked around me to take in the wide spaces of southern New Mexico. Or was it Mexico? I took a deep breath of dry, desert-flowered air, blinked and then looked down at my pee writing. I stared at what I had written. Actually, I think I gaped.

“God is in Honor,” it read.

“Whatthefuck?” I asked the world. “Has anyone seen the fucking cat?”

I started to panic as the last memory of Honor I had was when she walked off to find God late Saturday night. Everyone seems to walk off to find God when first imbibing Peyote. I typically go looking for God every time I eat Peyote, but God has been visiting me so often lately that I didn’t feel the need this time.

“I’ll shoot that fucking cat if he kills my doves, Mooner. Better get him down.”

Coyote was looking up at the Cottonwood tree and pointing at Honor, who was hanging upside down on the branch beneath the flock of birds. “Oh, don’t worry, dude, that’s how she sleeps sometimes,” I told him. “She’ll get anchored with her claws and hang like a bat.”

Anyway, I didn’t seem to miss much news when I was gone save that Mitt Romney raised millions from the billionaires, the Episcopalians did right by same sex marriage, and Katie Holmes finally cashed her paycheck.

Maybe now Tommie C. and Johnny T. can de-closet themselves and get married in the Episcopal Church. It’s 2012, you two, so set yourselves free. Or has your silly church got you brainwashed?

Stupid question, Mooner. Manana, y’all.