Returning To Austin; How’s It Hanging?


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.

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9 Responses to “Returning To Austin; How’s It Hanging?”

  1. Katy Anders says:

    Do you need a passport to leave Texas and go to New Mexico?

    I suppose not, but it’s only because Texas is way too easy on those Yankees these days. And by “Yankees”, I mean anyone who isn’t in Texas.

    But you can’t have dual citizenship with Texas, so I suppose I need to watch what I’m saying on this soon-to-be Yankee site, huh?

    I’ve heard the peyote is easier to come by out there, though. So it has that going for it.

  2. Father-of-the-Year Nominee, Mooner Johnson says:

    Katie. As of yesterday there was no paperwork required to enter New Mexico from Texas. I do, however, fear that our Texas governor will continue to do really stupid shit and drive more of our countrymen over to the Enchanted State.

    And speaking of enchantment, I find those desert blossoms to be a close second only to my grandmother’s mushroom potions. Then again, if Gram were your madre de su madre rather than my own, I might like Peyote best myownself. I’m thinking of installing a Peyote patch in the yard of our new place over there, see if I can domesticate them.

    More to follow.

  3. squatlo says:

    Is it known as the Land of Enchantment, or are you working on giving the place a new slogan? I’m damn near sold on Santa Fe myself, now that you’ve gone on and on about it. Somehow I was picturing the town square concert and saw a scene from “Doc Hollywood” where that hot young woman was showing Michael J. Fox the old town charms and the cranky doctor from MASH (who was the mayor of the Squash Capital of the World in the movie) was trying to talk Fox into sticking around forever. Mooner and his date out on the town lake in a flat bottomed boat watching the fireworks overhead…

    ‘Cept of the Mooner and his date part. And the fireworks.

    When do we come down for the housewarming party? Me and BJ will bring Reckmonster and her hooligan to the show!

  4. squatlo says:

    Glad you’re back and on-line again. It was getting lonely coming over here and finding that same ol’ sad post waiting…

  5. Father-of-the-Year Nominee, Mooner Johnson says:

    Squat. L of E is the state motto or slogan or whateverthefuck you call those dealios. But enchantment is the word and I’m giving Rick Perry the bird!

    It was quite unsettling to not be connected to my buds, but I’m back and I’m happy as all get out and mad as hell as well. Posts R Us the rest of the week.

    I’ll be headed to Santa Fe sometime in August to do repairs and landscaping and a little remodeling. I’d like to invite one and all for a visit during those few weeks. We can camp out in the empty house and do shit.

  6. squatlo says:

    Not sure I want to do “shit” but we could talk about it… I’d rather try those peyote buttons you were raving about…

  7. mel says:

    Mother fucker. I had a comment all written and my new computer, which is more sensitive than me, freaked out and made it go away. Anyway, what I was saying was, I read this post yesterday from beginning to end, right after you posted it…from my phone. And if you read my tomorrow post (which will actually post at 8pm EST today…gotta account for the time difference other places), you will see why I have been not making comments from my phone after I read the posts. And I am tired as hell. Also, gave you all kinds of plugs for this Saturday’s guest post. And I plugged your book. Again. I should get a cut.

    Glad you made it back alive.

  8. Father-of-the-Year Nominee, Mooner Johnson says:

    Mel. Cell phones are the worst invention since sliced bread. Neither are worth a shit. I’m sorry you have had trouble and glad you finally made it.

    I would be happy to plug you back, but will require written permission from your husband. I make it my practice to avoid carnal activities with married ladies and only would do so from a sense of obligation. And you have been most kind to me and my book, plus I find you adorable and sexy as all get out.

    I’ll check your stuff later tonight. Again assuming it’s OK with Mister Mel.

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