Archive for August, 2012

Butt Scoot Boogie; Why Do We Call It “Defense”?

Wednesday, August 29th, 2012

So.  I’ve had my alarm bells rung and it’s time to head back to Austin.  The lovely Dr, Sam I. Am-Johnson has decided that I’m to be either in her offices Friday in the am or check myself in over to the Loony Bin.  The simple fact that I find those two options as reasonable debatable choices is reason enough for me to head back to Austin, and pronto.   Sammy left me a terse comment to yesterday’s posting.  She thinks she’s so very clever. That whole “I have four words to say to you” dealio is a tired trick.

I’ve got things here to Santa Fe to a manageable state, and I have stuff to do there to Austin and people missed.

Which reminds me.  Nobody has complained about the fat pig Rush Limbaugh or his wife Rick Perry.  And don’t even start on me that they are both males so they are each a husband.  Rick Perry is the wife in that marriage and a long-suffering wife at that.  The fact that Gram hasn’t bitched at me about my pet pig and ostrich might be a sign of danger.

I have Sirius Radio in all my cars and we were listening to Tom Hartman yesterday on one of our many trips to the Ace Hardware.  Tom was interviewing one of the Republican delegates and this asshole was going on and on about how America needs a strong Defense so we can patrol the World’s oceans and “keep the peace” on land around our ever-more uneasy globe.

At commercial break, Squirt turned in her harness and said to me, she asked, “Why do you assholes call wasting all that money on your military “defense”?  You haven’t used your military to defend any fucking thing since World War II.”

I puzzled at the question and wondered at the mental prowess behind it’s development from facts to thoughts to question.  I have always known that my little brown-furred bundle of puppy meat was smart, but this was different.  As I formulated a response, she interrupted my thoughts.

“Offense,” she blurted out.  “America’s military should be called it’s Offense.”

We then had a lengthy discourse about why the military is important and how much military is enough military.  The final words of the debate were the Squirt’s when she said, “Well, I think that each branch of the military should be governed by a tribunal consisting of one man, one woman and a third not heterosexual General.  Then it will be deserving to be called Defense.”

With that we entered the Ace Hardware for some diamond grinder blades to cut flagstones, a new garden hose to replace the one damaged during construction, and to drag our ass for a while.  I headed straight for Aisle One where I know the 4-and-a-half-inch grinder blades sit locked into their display.  When I arrived a dozen steps ahead of the Squirt, there was a nice lady already there reviewing the blade display.

“Need assistance?” I asked her.

She turned to me with a dazzling smile and said, “With what?”

“What, where, who, when or why, Mademoiselle, Mooner Johnson’s the name and solving Grammar’s big questions is my middle name.”

The dazzling smile faded and a look of question mixed with disgust filled her face.  “What,” she asked, “is THAT?”

I turned to see the Squirt heading our way doing her ass-scoot shuffle–face all scrunched-up, hind legs pointing skyward, a squiggly  trail swiped into the dust of the floor.

“Isn’t she just the most adorable little bundle of dog fur you’ve ever seen?  She’s got an anal gland thingie going on, and…”  I turned to say, “and she loves to come here to the Ace because the ridges in the tile give her some relief.”  But I was speaking to the woman’s back as she walked away, quickly.

“That’s it, kiddo, I’m taking you to get your glands removed.  Get your brain latched around having surgery and I don’t want any guff about it.”

Squirt scooted to my feet, looked me in the eyes and said, she said to me, “Fuck you, asshole,” and scooted off.

She really is adorable.

Anyway, I’ll be packing our personal kits tonight before we hit the sack and heading out to Austin whenever the first of us awakens Thursday morning.  I just opened a can of cat food and set it at the base of the big Ponderosa pine.  Yoda and Squirt are on alert for when Honor the fucking cat comes down to eat.  She’ll have the choice to stay or go.  I’m starting to discover that the only sane way to interact with a fucking cat is to mirror the cat’s give-a-shit attitude right back in their face.

“Tell her I said ‘Come, don’t come, as I don’t give a shit either way.'”

The older I get, the better parent I am.  Manana, y’all.

 

 

Get Your Finger Out My Ass; Ace Hardware And Anal Glands

Monday, August 27th, 2012

So.  I find myself awake before the crack of dawn this morning and writing to you.  If it weren’t for the Squirt’s infected, impacted anal glands, I couldn’t be happier.  I managed to vent my spleen yesterday of the toxic steam built up re: asshole right-wing Christian conservative politics, realized that I’ve gone three weeks with the psycho theraporizing of the good Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, and I left the animals here to la casita last night and went to the casino to play poker.

I played in a little tournament–my first poker since I’ve been here–and won.  I managed to focus my ADHD swirling swill of conflicting brainwaves for four solid hours.  I played smart poker and only made one small misstep in all of that time.

Wait a fucking minute.  How does Sheldon Adelson fit within the finely-framed boundaries of the right-wing Christian boy’s club.  Sure he’s a billionaire, and of course his vast business empire was built on bribes and other questionable business practices.  But he’s a Jew for Christsakes.

Wasn’t it the Jews who murdered our beloved Jesus?

OK, wait another minute.  Mitt Romney isn’t REALLY a Christian either.  Right?  I mean, how are these assholes deciding how to inflict their intemperance?  I guess since Adelson is giving $70 million to arch conservative Presidential campaigns, and Herr Schmidt Rommel is willing to say anything they want him to say, the rules can be bent just a touch.

Which reminds me.  Question:  What do the Chinese call a bribe in America?

Answer:  A political contribution.

This Adelson character, he’s the guy who paid Tom “Dancing Shoes” De Lay to kill a bill in the US Congress that condemned the Chinese for human rights violations.  Shelly–his buds call him Shelly–  was planning a massive gambling empire in the Tong gangs ruled area of Macau, China.  Like Hong Kong, Macau is the other “special administrative region” of China.

Basically, a special administrative region is where the Chinese Communist Party elite are allowed to practice the free market capitalistic game called “Highest Briber Get’s The Prize”.  Sheldon Adelson was the highest briber in Macau.

Does anybody give a shit about that?

Not Squirt.  My adorable little puppy is suffering from what I can now say is chronic ass pain caused by her malfunctioning anal glands.  I express them for her whenever she asks me to and sometimes when she doesn’t ask. She bitches at me for doing it but is grateful for the at least temporary relief.  I keep telling her that it gives us a time to bond and she says I’m a pervert.

But they have gotten quite painful for her, and as she said to me last night when she caught site of her backside in the mirror, she said  “Holy shit.  I’ve got baboon ass!”

Then there is my embarrassment when she drags her ass down the isles of Ace Hardware, back feet poking skyward and leaving a squiggly line on the floor where her swollen butt wipes the dust off the floor.  It is extremely difficult to use your adorable little brown puppy to attract the attentions of attractive women when said adorable puppy is leaving squiggly skid marks all over the fucking place.

Rather than the typical, “Oh, what an adorable little doggie you have,” the most typical female response to my ass-dragger is, “Eeew, that’s nasty.”

Have you guys ever smelled the swill that comes out of an impacted anal gland?  If I had the time, I’d invent a crowd dispersal device using vaporized impacted anal gland juice.

Who needs tear gas?  We’d call it “Gak, Puke, Run and Burn Your Clothes When You Get Home” gas.  You’d take the fight out of any crowd with a canister of this shit.  We’d need to invent new gas masks and protective suits for the cops as well.   We could all be rich.  We’d donate all the profits to Planned Parenthood.

We were over to the Ace Hardware yesterday to get some caulk and a wire brush.  The dogs love to go there with me.  Yoda loves to go because they keep a popcorn machine loaded with just-popped corn.  He sits beside the machine and does tricks for each patron who stops to get a bag.  Maybe I should ask my vet how much popcorn is too much popcorn.

My precious little Squirt likes the Ace Hardware for quite a different reason.  The floors at this Ace are older square tiles.  From the wear patterns over the years, the seams at the butt joints of the tiles have slightly separated leaving small ridges every twelve inches.  She drags her smelly ass across the old tile floor and says, “Oooh,” and, “Ahhh,” when her little butt rubes over a ridge.

I told her I’d make her a sandpaper rug to rub her ass on.  She told me to go fuck myself.

Anyway, it’s Sunday and flagstone patio day once more.  I’m hoping to get finished by Wednesday with what I want to get done and we’ll drive back to Austin Thursday.  My two weeks trip stretched to a full month and I’m missing all the folks back to the ranch.

I even miss Mother, bless her little pea picking heart.  I just hope she remembers what I look like.

Manana, y’all.

 

Wee Willy Koch Plays Cowboy; When Does A Horse Have Two Assholes?

Saturday, August 25th, 2012

So.  Here we all are on a fine Saturday morning in America.

America.  Land of the Free, Home of the Brave.  Right.  Free–if  you’re rich enough–to buy the US Supreme Court, the US and States’ Congresses, and enough pristine Colorado wilderness to build yourself a real-live old western town like our boy Koch.  But Brave?  My dictionary defines brave as, “Possessing courage and valor…,”  and has something to do with Honor.

How Brave is it to send the truly Brave among us to fight wars started by and based upon,  lies?  How Brave is it to use bald-faced lies to push your religious-based political agenda?  How Brave are you to lie to get ahead?

How fucking Brave are you when you grab your banana-clipped automatic weapons and shoot up women and kids in the name of white bigotry?  How Brave are Glen Beck and Savage and the other assholes when they wind up their Nazi toys to do their killing?  How Brave is it to hate based upon nothing more than a difference?

America.  For amber waves of grain; For purple mountains majesty.  Right.  Amber-stalked, dead corn and soy beans and amber-bleached animal carcasses spread across our drought-plagued infertile plains.  Amber is the color of the gold lining the pockets of the oilmen and financiers who profit from the greenhouse gasses that cause the extremes in weather that cause the droughts.

As for your majestic mountains…  Better not have coal or gold or uranium or another valuable commodity buried within its geo structure.

Which reminds me.  Tennessee’s state song is Rocky Top, or at least it seems to be.  Do you think those 100,000 plus Volunteers are thinking about the dozens of their rocky topped mountains that are getting dug into flattops by the coal industry as they sway and sing at Neyland Stadium?

America.  American Industrial Might.  Right.  Man walks into a bar in Detroit and says to the bartender, he says, “Say, barkeep, I’m a foreign journalist and I’ve just flown in to do a story on American Industrial Might.  Where would you suggest I start?”  Barkeep says, “China.”

America.  America, where all men are created equal.  Really?

Ugh.  I’m getting all pissed off with the state of things in my beloved country.  The story about that asshole William “Wild Bill Willie” Koch building his own old west town in the back yard of his Colorado home has hit me hard.  Go read just one of the stories and see if you don’t get pissed as well.  Motherfucker has enough money to pay for all that excess of greedy ego and he still wants to manipulate our political processes to gain more.

There is a group of Christian-based robber barons who want to take us back to the 1800’s, when labor unions were dreams and a man could buy any fucking thing he wanted.  That, dear friends, is why Wet Willie Koch is so fascinated with the Wild, Wild West.  He wants to buy the fastest gun in town and be the land baron.

I guess Wild Willie wants to play gunslinger and shoot up Dodge City.  Maybe that’s what it takes to get his pecker stiff at age 72.  Me, I hope his little adventure turns into a true life Westworld.  I can envision Yul Brenner’s The Gunslinger character staring him down, and…

Wasn’t Yul Brenner a scary fucking human being?  If he had been born anytime in history before 1850 he’d have been a military dictator.  If he were to give me that stare and say, “Eat that plate of cat shit, boy!” I’d be forced to reply, “Just one plate, sir?”

America’s infrastructure is crumbling–roads, bridges, dams and all the rest are in a terrible state of repair.  We manufacture less than we consume.  Our forever free and quality public education system is getting ruined by extremists.  We are losing the important personal freedoms gained by Americans starting with our Revolution to gain freedom from England, and from slavery, and the Suffragettes, and segregation and women’s reproductive rights.

Women’s Rights.  There’s your oxymoron if Mitt Romney can steal enough votes to become President.  Do you realize that in more than thirty of our glorious states, if a woman who gets pregnant as the result of rape and decides to have the baby, she is REQUIRED by new laws to take that child to visit the rapist father while he’s in prison?  That’s right, a rapist get’s visitation rights to his little love child in the majority of our states, and the mother is required to produce the child to the prison gates.

Are… You… Fucking… Kidding me?

What has happened?  How did we get here?  Why is the Jesus of peace and love now used as a battering ram to oppress all differing views?

Which reminds me.  Last night I worked late with the stone masons to lay the flagstone walkways out back here to our Santa Fe casita.  I finished too tired to get cleaned up, so I just washed the red dust off my hands and face and headed to a fast food joint for a greasy dinner of fried fish and chips.  It was just a half hour before closing time and there were but two families seated in the otherwise empty dining room.  One family rose and left as I got my tray of food and the other–a family of Native Americans–were seated in a booth next to the table I chose for myself.

There was a mother-grandmother, and I’m thinking two of her sons and a granddaughter and grandson.  She was dressed classically in Navajo fashion and her grandson of maybe seven years called her “Shímásání”.   That’s how I knew them to be Navajo.  For some weird reason I know the Navajo word for Gram.

She spoke to her family only in her native tongue–quiet, hyphenated rhythmic speech with emphasis on almost every other syllable.  It made me tear up to hear her speak and the reverential treatment she received from her family.  I sat, enchanted, as my tears peppered the fried fish fillets like the sprinkling of malt vinegar I’d just applied. I felt a passion and respect for this woman and her history.  I started thinking about that asshole William Koch and wondered how long I’d need to practice to become a gunslinger so I could go face him down at high noon.

That’s when it hit me.

I haven’t had a psycho therapy session in over three weeks!

Manana, y’all.

 

 

Howdy, Neighbor; Mitt Romney Is A Dumbass

Friday, August 24th, 2012

So.  Neighbors.  By definition, a neighbor is “one who is next to or very near”, and this morning I find myself contemplating the very essence of neighborhoodliness.  The stimuli hatching these swirling thoughts is, once again, the incredible science of Relativity.

You guys know Relativity, right?  That bastion of critical thinking that Rick Perry and the rest of the Right-wing extremists want to purge from our “Public” schools.  Ignorant fucks.

The foundation and background for my scientific thinkings is that I have lived my entire life calling a ranch outside Austin, Texas my home.  When I was born, our closest neighbors were over a mile away and the only way we knew they were there was if they called you on the phone, dropped by to say “Howdy”, or one of our cows wandered off to their place–the stimulus for a phone call.

Then again, they could detonate an atomic bomb over there–an act requiring critical thinking all the way around–and we’d have likely needed to read about it in the paper to know.  (An aside to readers.  This most recent critical thinking remark is chock full of entendre and complexities)  To provide clarity, I’ve lived my entire life with few neighbors spaced at great distances, relatively speaking.

The close-spaced neighbor yang to our ranch’s yin would be my new neighbors here to Santa Fe.  Our nifty little casita is in a subdivision–paved streets with sidewalks and stop signs and home lots of fewer square feet than my back patio in Austin.  In Austin I could fire a bazooka in any direction and not encounter a structure not owned by me.  Here there is a target-rich environment with houses and businesses spaced ten feet apart.

And each of those structures houses “neighbors”.

OK, stop.  This simple writing is about to be ADHD hijacked and turned into an epic wad of goat shit.  Fuck, and stop again.  Goat shit doesn’t wad, it’s pelletized.   Let me rephrase and tell you the we’re about to step into a pile of elephant shit if I can’t manage to find some focus.

Deep breath.  So, my new neighbors across the street invited me to his sister’s fiftieth birthday party.  Their house was built the year before mine in 1947 and it was her family home.  Originally a small 2 bedroom with one bath home, her parents raised ten children in the house that faces mine.  I have been on a tour and I can tell you that their home defines the word charm and the few additions to the original structure are form fitted.

And it has an aura about it–like you can feel the memories touch you from the walls.  When I first entered the kitchen–the largest room in the house–I got goosebumps.  My first inclination was to look over my shoulder for an Apache with a butcher knife ready to scalp the asshole with Texas license plates.  But I quickly realized the goosies were enchantments from a past.

I was told to go in through the garage anytime after I saw our street fill with cars.  I did just that and when I walked out from the garage onto the covered patio, I found it filled with two tablefulls of Senoras and Senoritas.  The each and every one looked at me in the same moment, and the Mrs. of the house ran across the patio to embrace me with a 5-foot one-inch hug to my six-feet plus frame.

“Who’s that?” was a chorus from twenty seated women.

“Oh, it’s our new vecino, Senor Johnson.  Su nombre es Mooner, como dejar caer sus pantalones.”

We all laughed–me the loudest–and my hostess blushed at my understanding of their native tongue.

One of the women, I guessed her to be late twenties and without wedding bands, said to me, she smiled a wicked smile when she said, “Is tonight a full moon or a dark one, Mr. Johnson?”

I didn’t get a chance to answer as I was whisked off to where the men sat at their tables.  I was seated, introduced, a Modelo beer was pressed into my fist and I was handed the plate of salsa and chips.  “Here, have some.  It’s not too hot.”

This came from the oldest of the men at the table and I could tell it was a challenge before the bowl of salsa even made it to the table under my nose.  I could see the hot Hatch chilis cut in large chunks with tomato, Jalapeno and onion.  And I could smell the fiery heat of the Habanero peppers that were the red and black dice in the bowl.  Since I grow Habanero, Jalapeno and bird chilis because I REALLY like hot stuff, this was a test I knew I could pass.

I also noticed that the bowl looked full and fresh as if it was yet to be dipped from.  I loaded a chip with a heaping pile of salsa, lifted it to my nose and said, “It smells kind of hot guys, is it really hot?”

“Oh, no, brother, it’s not too hot.”  We say brother instead of dude in Santa Fe and the not too hot comment was backed by a round of “No’s” and “Unh-uhs” and head shakes.

I popped it in my mouth and started chewing one of those salsas that has a three-pronged attack that is of the delayed action variety.  The first taste was of onion, tomato, Jalapeno and cilantro–a refreshing flavor.  Just as I was ready to swallow, the Hatch green chili hit the back of my tongue and throat.  When I swallowed, the Habanero struck like napalm at my lips and mouth.

Sweat pooped on my upper lip and forehead.  My nose started running and my eyes watered.

“Wow, guys,” I said.  “That is some tasty salsa.”  And I grabbed another chip and loaded up.

“Told you cabezas de nudillos, he was eating raw chilis with me just the other day.”  This from our host.

I loaded a third chip and passed the bowl back towards the man who had offered it to me.  He waved me off and said, “No thanks, I’m saving room for the hamburgers.”  Everyone laughed.

My host told me that his cousin Edna–the lovely young woman who had questioned me about the phase of my moon–was the salsa maker.  “Her salsa is her test for a husband, Senor Johnson.  She says she needs a man can take her heat.  Is your heart as strong as your tongue?”

Everybody laughed again and they poked and joked at me like I was a cousin myself.

Which reminds me.   Mitt Romney unveiled his fossil fuel-based energy program yesterday and said the stupid-most thing of this election cycle.  I’ll quote that dumbass here.

“We’re going to drill America to energy independence.”

Holy fucking shit!  We’re going to become independent by becoming dependent upon a limited commodity that ruins our environment?  Am I the only one that thinks that is the dumbest energy statement of the last ten years?  He’s going to drill it up the ass of all Americans to make his rich backers even richer.

Fuck Mitt Romney.

Anyway, what I wanted to say about neighbors and the Theory of Relativity is this.   In my entire life we have had my Austin neighbors over to our house for a party once every year.  I have always felt it neighborly to invite families who have been in our close proximity over for the Fourth of July BBQ.  But none of them has reciprocated in lo those many years.

Yet here in Santa Fe I’m invited to a neighbor’s sister’s fiftieth birthday party and family reunion within three weeks of my owning the house across the street from them.

Maybe it’s the close proximity that makes for more neighborly neighbors or maybe it’s that whole Land of Enchantment thingie.  But who really gives a shit so long as I can get him drinking Carta Blanca beer instead of Modelo.

Manana, y’all.

 

People Get Ready; Impressions Of Changes

Wednesday, August 22nd, 2012

So.  I just spent the morning Skyping with the folks back home.  We were hooked up for a total of almost three hours as we gossiped and updated each other on the news/events in each city.  That would be me supplying the news from New Mexico and the gathered Johnson women and Mr. Dave responding with Austin’s activities.

Each in turn made comment as to the status of Mother’s dementia.  It seems that she has slidden further into the icy grip of memory loss in the several weeks I’ve been gone.  And don’t even start with your “slidden is not a word” bullshit.  It is now.

I feel like the chronicler of my mother’s final days with sane memories as I tell you the goings of her mind.  It’s not a comfortable role for me to play but a role I was, obviously, born to play.  To provide background, I’ll remind you that last Thursday was my birthday, and I’ll tell you that I try to talk to Mother each day to help her maintain a touchstone with the present.  Since her most recent twenty-four hours seem the most difficult to keep trapped in grey matter, I feel a daily call will be a good reminder.  Should that be “gray matter”?

Having said that, let me give you the gist of these daily phone calls from the Thursday a week before my Thursday b-day, and today.  A twelve-days’ conversation.

“Who is this?” Mother answers into the phone.

“It’s me, mom, my name is on your caller ID.”

“Oh “Hi”, Mooner.  Where are you?”

“As we have discussed each day for the last eleven days, I am in Santa Fe.  I’ll be in Santa Fe until you see my face in Austin–at least another week.”

“Watch out for the homo-sex-u-als, son.  Santa Fe is overrun with them.  Pastor Browningwell said that we should do a mission to save their rotten souls.”

I think Pastor Browningwell needs me to thump him on the nose.

Next I say, “How are you, Mother?  You OK?”

“Oh, I just don’t know why the good Lord keeps me around.  Where are you?

“Santa Fe, Mother.”

“Did you get my birthday card yet?”

“No, same answer as the previous eleven days.  Did you mail it?”

Pause with dead air.  “I can’t remember.  Should I mail it to your place in the mountains or should I mail it to you here at the ranch?  Where are you?”

My turn to pause and shake my head.  “Mother, if you want to mail it to where I am, mail it to Santa Fe.  Gram has the address.  Or you can keep it and hand it to me when I get back to Austin.  Your choice.”

Pause with more dead air.  “Where are you?

My pause to shake and choke my phone.  “Santa Fe, I’m still in Santa Fe and I will be in Santa Fe until you see me face-to-face.”

“Oh, alright.  But you need to heed my words, Butcher Einstein Johnson.  Those homo-sex-u-als will trick you and make you do things,” pause for deep breath, “Did you get the card I sent?  Did I send it to the right address?”

“Nice talk, Mother. Can you put Gram on the line?”

Twelve days in a row, and my birthday was six days ago.  Instead of smashing my phone to bits, I’ve decided to ask Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson if she’ll take Mother in over to her house.  She’s got plenty of room and has way more patience than I ever possessed.

Which reminds me.  Today’s newspaper had three quite interesting political stories.  The first fits into my bitching yesterday about the extreme right’s attack on women’s rights.  Texas–home of the only state legislature that can out-stupid it’s cousins over to Tennessee–passed a law to deny any health care funding to Planned Parenthood.  The legislation was couched in other terms but it was pointedly directed at Planned Parenthood.

PP filed a lawsuit and won a stay on the funding cuts, but yesterday a George W. Bushkin-appointed Federal Appeals Court ruled that Texas can de-fund PP until the trial.

This was one of Rick Perry’s pet projects, folks, and that pious little prick takes his marching orders from the vilest of the One-Percenters.

Next are two Herr Schmidt Rommel stories.  First, Herr Schmittens has requested that the asshole Akins in Missouri step out of the US Senate race and Akins has refused.  Field Marshall Rommel doesn’t want the race to the White House to focus on civil rights issues ofrthe Republican’s lack of civility.  He wants to keep things focused upon the economy.

Good luck with that one, bub.  Those things are called “Debates”, dumbass.

The second Rommel story has a New Mexico slant.  The Republican presidential candidate will be in Hobbs, New Mexico today to announce his energy plan.  Now first, Hobbs, NM may as well be in Texas because it seems to be filled with right-wing Christian zealots, same as Texas.  And it’s there on the border as well.

But that isn’t the interesting thing about this visit.  What is interesting is that Romney will announce a “New American Energy Policy” that is 100% reliant on fossil fuels.  I’m not kidding, folks, 100% reliant on fossil fuels.

I want to say that it is ludicrous that a man running for president of my country would bank my nation’s future on a limited, dwindling and ecologically destructive commodity.  I really want to say it, but I can’t.

Wonder who is trying to buy the American Presidency?  Those fucking Koch brothers and all their buddies must be sitting there laughing their asses off.  We are letting assholes like Mitt Romney sell our country to the biggest donors.  I’m starting to feel as I did during the 1960’s.

Power back to the people!  Re revolution!  Fight to get our rights back!

Fuck Mitt Romney.

Manana, y’all.

History Repeats Itself; BTW- Rape Is Rape, Asshole

Tuesday, August 21st, 2012

So.  I awoke at five am this morning will a chill on my naked body.  The Squirt was curled with her back against my my crotch as I lay semi-fetally on my side.  The other miniature puppy in my life, Yoda the goat dog, was plastered to my ass with his nose wedged between my legs.  It was his breath tickling the hair on the backs of my knees that woke me.

We had a wonderful, soaking summer rain yesterday evening and that brought the overnight chill .  It was 53 degrees on the thermometer when I took my coffee out to the portal.   Squirt and Yoda sat beside me on the old sofa cushions laid beside my chair for their comfort.

Squirt’s teeth were chattering like one of those sets of wind-up denture toys.  “Arreglar nosotros un chocolate caliente, ass-ss-ho-ho-hole, we’re fr-freezing nuestros bailes y Vigina off,” she told me.

“I’m sorry you’re so cold, little darling.  I’ll walk over to The Pantry for your hot chocolate.  Try to keep your little tooter and the goat dog’s empty scrotum warm until I get back.”

My two half Chihuahua puppies’ are going to have an adjustment to make to our colder environs here to the high desert of New Mexico.  Squirt has already demanded a new fur coat and suede leather booties and Yoda wants a yellow rubber fisherman’s outfit like the guy from over to the Ace Hardware.  I’ll see if Gram and Aunt Hilda can get the outfits sewn before winter hits.  Otherwise I’ll be lugging the two of them around like twin papooses.  Papoosi?

Walking over to the Pantry, I got to thinking about this asshole from Missouri with the “legitimate rape” comment.  I’ve heard all the banter from both sides of this situation and as a victim of a “legitimate rape”, I want to say that I’m almost angry enough to go over to Missouri and knock the piss out of that pious shithead.  This is one of the few times in my life where I feel the not-so-soft fire of violence burning in my belly.

Rape is rape.  There is no way to legitimize it.

But what has me even more concerned than the stupid anti-women sentiments of this Christian asshole is what I perceive to be the end game the Republicans are after with all of their abortion rhetoric.  Here’s how I’m seeing things today:

This is one of those dealios wherein a group use the technique of “Gradual Erosion of Resistance”.  That’s where you identify a long term, big picture goal and then begin the systematic erosion of the resistance using the “First in your face-then compromise, repeat” tactics.  Outlandish statements and claims are made to cause a loss of focus on the real issues.  The best historical example I can offer is Hitler’s program for the eradication of the Jewish race.

First he made ridiculous claims about Jews–Jews are stealing from the common German people, Jews are evil, Jews are blah, blah, blah.  Then, he set about to identify Jewish homes and businesses so that common Germans would know where they were.  Then a few were arrested on spurious charges and things progressed to where they ended.  Harsh rhetoric and confusing contradictory claims start the process.

The big picture goal here is to eradicate women’s rights to abortion.  The objective is to gradually erode women’s abortion rights, and the method to be used is to make so many stupid, ignorant and extremely outrageous claims and proposals that they can get the conversation off the big picture, and on to the extremes.  Then, in an effort to compromise, the opposition (women) will give up some small part of their abortion rights.  Once the first chunk of rights is removed, the very foundation of those rights is shaky and more easily removed piece-by-piece.

This current bunch of baloney is doing just that.  We’re arguing over the definition of legitimate rape and going through all the possible permutations of just what that giant flaming asshole meant, and all the while we debate it the actual issue at hand is in the waste basket.

The abortion issue isn’t about rape, for shitsakes, the abortion issue is about ABORTION!

Who gives a shit why a woman wants/needs an abortion, it’s her fucking right to make decisions for her own body.  The fact that she was impregnated by a rapist is a totally separate issue–it is not germane to what her rights are vis a vis a visit to Planned Parenthood.

But the right-wing Christian politicians are using these kinds of issues to beat and batter the rest of us into a willingness to give up just a little something on abortion rights just to shut them up.  In Texas and several other states, that little something has been enacted already.  The “sonogram” laws are those first steps.

Wake up America.  Wake up women.  You can’t keep electing these extremists to positions of power.

Which reminds me.  Did I tell you that it was 53 degrees in Santa Fe this morning?

Manana, y’all.

Drink More Coffee Grandma; Lessons In Remodeling

Monday, August 20th, 2012

So.  It’s Monday morning and on today’s list of activities are:

1.  The plumber to replace the nearly collapsed tile sewer line.

2.  The HVAC/Electrician to finish rewiring and install the new furnace.

3.  The Carpenter to finish replacing half the master bath walls from the leaking shower tile enclosure.

4.  The Stone Masons to finish work on the retaining wall and flagstone patio and walkways.

Of those four items, the only work I had planned to do was the flagstone patio.  They have beautiful stone here and I love flagstone patios and walkways in a landscape.

The home I purchased was built in the 1940’s and before modern building codes.  It was right after the war and construction materials were still scarce here in the mountains.  When those scarcities were combined with the already deeply entrenched construction materials practice I have now labeled “Scavenger Materials Acquisition”, you’ll find some interesting things when you scratch the pretty patina of an old Santa Fe casita.

Like the coffee can heating ducts running deep in the crawl space.  Rusty Folgers and Maxwell House cans with both ends cut out and duct taped together.  That part of the crawl space was too shallow for either the inspector or me to travel when I did the inspection.  But my cave rat HVAC guy got back there when I had him here to start working on the electric wiring–a known replacement.  When he managed to wiggle himself over into the tight area of confined space, his laughter could be heard–was heard by me–through the pretty wood planked floors above.

“Yuk-yuk-yuk… Heee-haaa-yuk-yuk.  You won’t even believe what I found,” was an approximation of what I heard.

Then there was grunting and banging and clanging and then the sounds of him crawling back out and also the sounds of him dragging something.  I went to the front bedroom where the opening to the space is, and the first thing I saw was his sweaty,  dirt covered face poke out.  There was this huge shit-eating grin plastered on it.

“Wipe that fucking smile off your face, Brother.  I’ve learned that those smiles cost me money.”

Likewise, I’ve learned that here to Santa Fe we say “Brother” instead of ‘Dude”.

His grin widened enough to allow a cow patty to pass his lips and he said, he told me, “You, yuk-yuk-yuk, are NOT gonna believe this one.  Ha-ha-yuk, this one’s goin’ in my book, Brother.  Here.”

And here he passed me a rusty metal tube that turned into a rust, green, gray and red metal caterpillar of old coffee cans.  I pulled it out of the opening in four sections totaling maybe twenty feet in all.  “Fuck me running,” I said, and then I started laughing too.

“Looks like they had the whole family save coffee cans for a year for this one,” HVAC guy said.

Then there would be the actual foundation of the house.  The original structure sits upon a perimeter foundation and then piers and beams that form the aforementioned crawl space.  When you inspect the foundation, you will see several feet of rough-poured concrete, then several feet of stacked stones, then some poured concrete blocks called “prison blocks” (appropriately-named), then some more poured concrete and repeat.  It is as stable as if a continuous concrete pour, but maybe you can get my drift about Scavenger Materials Acquisition.

Whatever we can find to fit the gap in space and time.

Which reminds me of the 2012 Republican President-Vice President platform.  Except that the gaps are filled with scavenged lies and reality is an immaterial building product.  Hell, in today’s paper the Mallard Fillmore cartoon even retold the lie that claims President Obama said that small business owners didn’t build their own businesses.  That out-of-context fabrication is so fucking stupid to me that I still find it difficult to see why the righties keep at it.

I want to think that they are so desperate that this is all they have.  But my gut tells me that their base is so fucking bigoted and stupid that it plays straight with them.

Which brings up another point.  Whereinthefuck is the mainstream media on all of the lies and swip-swapping of Etch-A-Sketch moments by the R Boys?  Even AP news, likely the most dead-center of all mass media, reports Romney’s contradictory statements on consecutive days without comment.

While I think Walter Cronkite was a cranky old shitball, at least he would have asked what is up with this?  And of course Edward R. would have skewered all politicians for the state of their business.

Which reminds me of something else.  I had to climb on top of the house yesterday and I discovered that Honor the fucking cat has been using the gravel on the flat built-up roof as her litter box.  When I got down I started bitching and going on about the fucking cat to anyone who would listen.  I guess the Squirt had heard enough, so she said, my little puppy told me, “Hang on, Bwana Mooner.  Did you buy her any cat litter?”

“Uh, no,” my reply, “I didn’t even get her a cat box.”

Squirt giggled at me and said,”Scavenger Materials Acquisition, my ADHD-addled boss man.”

She was right and she is totally fucking adorable when she giggles.

Manana, y’all.

Be Carefull Who You Bunk With; A Thirteenth Birthday Story

Thursday, August 16th, 2012

So.  Today is my birthday and I awoke early this morning and found myself in quite a mood.  I’m old enough to not really care about my birthday, but I’ll likely not ever age to the point of forgetting events that occurred on my thirteenth birthday.

As a child, and until my thirteenth, birthdays were a wonderful time for me.  Cake and candles and cards and gifts and parties and all that brouhaha made my birthdays some of my favorite days.  I would look forward to them for weeks as I wheedled and charmed my way to better gifts and bigger parties.  I would do extra chores and be extra polite and promise to not be a disruptive little shit.

In the mid Twentieth Century ADHD and its little brother, the ADD, hadn’t been invented.  My crazed antics were considered to be “behavioral issues” the result of my free will rather than something mostly out of my control as a child.  I would promise to behave and  would do everything I could to be the best boy possible in those pre-birthday weeks because my birthdays were always terrific days with many great memories.

Until my thirteenth birthday.

I got my first BB gun on my tenth birthday and a bow and arrows on my eleventh birthday.  My first bicycle was at age six, roller skates at seven.  I was first kissed meaningfully on my ninth birthday and I touched a breast in a quite meaningful way on my twelfth.  Life and birthdays were truly wonderful days for young Mooner Johnson.

Until my thirteenth birthday.

My thirteenth birthday was fifty years ago today.  On that birthday I was at Boy Scout aquatics camp up to the Texas Panhandle with one other scout from my troop.  My thirteenth birthday fell on the last day of this camp and my mother was going to pick us up at noon on the last day.  She would drive from my cousin’s house in Amarillo to arrive by noon and take my buddy and me back to Austin.  We would stop at Underwood’s BBQ in Brownwood for dinner and roll into Austin at about 9 pm.

So you can imagine our surprise when our Boy Scout Leader, an insurance agent and big wig Deacon of our family Baptist Church, showed up at the camp late on the afternoon of the 15th of August, 1962.  The day before my birthday.  My thirteenth birthday.

He drove an Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser station wagon–white cream body with a candy apple red top. I always thought he was a great man–church elder, Boy Scout Leader and respected family man.  He had a successful insurance business and was great as a Scout Leader.  Under his guidance I was not quite thirteen and was already a Life Scout (the last rank before Eagle Scout),  I was to be awarded my 20th, 21st and 22nd merit badges (21 were required for Eagle), and I had been evaluating community service project options to fulfill the final requirements to become an Eagle Scout.

My thirteenth birthday was to be a very special day for me.

“I told your mother I would pick you boys up on my way back to Austin from Dallas.  She was able to go home from Amarillo yesterday,” he told our surprised and curious faces as he exited his Vista Cruiser.  I loved his car–it had every possible option and he had turned the back into a camping-out bedroom.  All us scouts though it was a neato car.

My first thought was that aquatics camp is NOT on the way from Dallas to Austin.  I had just gotten my Pathfinding Merit Badge earlier in the summer so I knew that as a fact.  I remember thinking that thought in that instant and I have rethought the curiousness of his words many times since.  I sensed something amiss but was too young and too excited to be only one day from completing the next-to-last steps to become an Eagle Scout.  I was to complete these steps on my birthday.

My thirteenth birthday.

Our Leader left us to the rest of our day and he went to pow-wow with other adults.  He told us he would return after dinner to our camp to spend the night, and we could tell stories until late.  He promised we could stay up until midnight because we both had met all the requirements for the badges offered that summer at aquatics camp.  He would pilfer some marshmallows and we’d tell stories and gorge on sticky burnt sugar.  “And I have a special surprise for you–I’ve got an ice chest with Coca Colas hidden in my car.  Don’t tell anybody.  Shhhh.”

OK, let me stop right here because this morning’s Santa Fe New Mexican had a couple stories I can’t let pass. The first says that a man in Sparks, Nevada was in a theater watching the new Bourne movie, shifted in his seat causing his legal firearm to fall out his pants where it hit the floor and shot the man in his ass.  A fitting result if the bullet had hit his balls of whacked his pecker off, if you ask me.  But what if that happened in a large theater instead of in tiny Sparks, and what if that theater had been–as many NRA right-wing Repubbies have recently wished–full of legally gun-toting fuckbags?

Next, the New Mexico tourist industry will lose $50 million of business this year due to Global Warming.  Most of that loss is due to fewer ski days on the state’s beautiful ski ranges because of higher temps.  “Oh, Mr. Republican VP Candidate Pookie Ry-an.  Hello, Poo-kie!”  That quote there was to be read like you were sing-songing it.  Please go back and sing to Pookie Ryan for me.  It’s my birthday, so induldge me, for shitsakes, so do it.

The third and most interesting was that New Mexico has been named the second clumsiest city in America when it comes to cell phone usage.  It is estimated that over 30% of all New Mexican cell phones will be damaged this year from being “dropped”.   Here, again, I have personal knowledge to verify the veracity of this prediction, and once again the evidence comes from a visit over to the Ace Hardware.  I got out of my car last week and this guy was standing outside the Ace store fumbling and cussing at his cell phone.

“Chinga tu madre’, you fucking I-Phone sonofabitch!”  And “BOOM”,  “Down goes I-Phone, Down goes I-Phone!”

Did you know that an I-Phone, when hurled with same force one would use to remove a dirty baby diaper from one”s face, will make a sound not unlike the crack of a .22 cal. pistol as it smacks into a concrete sidewalk?  To me, another instance to cause a rethinking of that whole gun ownership dealio.

Anyway, my buddy and I returned to our camp after our tasks and duties and dinner where our Leader had things all set up.  He had the fire going, ice chest of Cokes and marshmallows and sticks at the ready.  We told stories and recapped our two weeks at aquatic camp and ate and drank sugar to the buzz state.  When we all seemed to be sagging, Scout Leader looked at his watch and said, he announced, “Well, it’s after midnight, boys.  Why don’t one of you bunk in comfort in the Cruiser with me.  Mooner, you’ve never had the honor.”

To place perspectives, when that Baptist Deacon Boy Scout leading, respected family man and successful businessman said, “… it’s after midnight…” those words meant that it was now officially my birthday.

My thirteenth birthday.

My Boy Scout Leader gave me a very special birthday present after I accepted his invitation to bunk in comfort, a birthday present that has affected my life immeasurably every day since.  It wasn’t a present of money of toys or a card.  He didn’t impart great insight or tell me the secret of living a successful life.  Instead, he gave me the worst present any adult ever gave any child.

He raped me.

Fifty years ago today, on my birthday, my Boy Scout Leader molested me and almost ruined my life.  Screw that, because he did ruin giant pieces of it.  And he did it on my birthday.

My fucking thirteenth birthday.

Now look, everybody, and I mean friends and foes alike who trip over this post.  I don’t want sympathies and “poor sweet babies” for something that happened a half-century ago.  What I want–my birthday present from you–is for you to be ever-vigilant and watchful for any abuse of a child.  In my youth, 90% of all molestations went unreported in any way and very few of those offenders were punished unless a child’s family saw to the punishment.  Tell kids to report to you any strange behaviors of any adults when alone with them.

And understand that the vast majority of those assholes are friends or family or a respected authority figure.  Like a Baptist Deacon or a Boy Scout Leader or a respected family man or an uncle or auntie.

Having said all of this, I suddenly feel pretty damned good.  It took me forty years of healing and thirty years of intense psycho therapy to get here, and I didn’t even acknowledge to anyone the fact of it until ten years ago.  In this last decade I’ve managed to be able to speak of it and even in an open forum such as here in Loonyland.

But I’m a lucky one and I know it and am mightily grateful for it.  Life has given me a terrific birthday present.  Happy birthday to me!

Manana, y’all, from beautiful Santa Fe, New Mexico.

 

Ace Hardware Encounter; A Crow Bar Of Different Feathers

Tuesday, August 14th, 2012

So.  Today is a stunning day here in the Enchanting Land.  I awoke at 4:30 am with a head full of  To-Dos, and since getting up and starting my day was less stressful than dealing with a head full of ADHD-fueled swill, I got up.  I took the dogs to the backyard for our first outdoor bathroom trip.  The air was crisp and cool and the night’s stars were close and bright.  There was an owl of some sort in the tallest of our three Ponderosa pines and it hooted a greeting at us.

I’m guessing that after almost two weeks it’s his greeting rather than a warning.

Yoda and I have been marking all the territory inside the tall adobe wall that surrounds our place, and all of it each day.  On this morning’s visit to the wall that borders the ally in back, my formerly-abused half Whippet sniffed and went on high alert.  And then he went totally apeshit.

“Fooph-fooph-fooph-fooph… Grrrrrrrrrrrlllll…. Fooph-fooph-fooph………….. Grrrrrlllllllllllll!!!”

The little puppy mill escapee, whose voice box was clipped with a pocket knife because he likes to bark, was taking exception at some odor coming off the wall.  He kept it up for a full minute and if his bark was more than fifteen decibels I’d have quieted him.  As it is I allow him to bark with a free will and spirit–my way of giving him his voice back.

Fucking puppy mill assholes.

I called the Squirt over to translate Yoda’s rantings and she told me, she said, “He says he smells stray cat and raccoon and he doesn’t think we should have any fucking raccoons here in town.  He seems to hate raccoons.”

Go figure.  I try to not hate anything, but raccoons are way down on my list of favorite animals.  They’re mean and nasty and tear shit up for sport. I brought the pellet rifle so maybe we’ll do us some raccoon hunting tonight.  My gun is a .22 cal. pump action and I can pump air into the chamber to a range from “Ouch” to “Please notify next of Raccoon Kin”.  Maybe we’ll try “Ouch, ouch that really hurts” for starters.

Which reminds me.  I went over to the Ace Hardware store yesterday and…  OK, stop. I go to the Ace Hardware every fucking day and several times each flip of the calendar.  I can’t ever seem to get everything I need for any project in one try.  ADHD is a terrible thing to waste.

So, yesterday I was over to the Ace to get a small, flat pry bar and when I got to the right isle there was a man standing in front of the pry bar display.  He was about 6′ 6″ tall, maybe 180 pounds, and he was dressed like a Down-Easter fisherman–yellow rubber rain slicker that was hooded with the hood up, black matching knee-high boots–and he had a burned-out cigar stump poking out the side of his mouth.  His hands were hanging limply out of at the ends of the slicker sleeves, and he was stock still save the crinkling of his rubber suit as he took deep, wheezing breaths.

I watched him for a few minutes, mesmerized.  Why in the hell was he dressed like this in Santa Fe, what the hell is he looking for, and, I’m wondering, what task requires this level of focus that needs a pry bar?

After some time, he grunted.  I took the grunt as an entre so I asked him, I said, “Might I offer some assistance with your choice of pry bars, sir?  I have quite a lifetime with pry bars and I can be of some good for you?”

Gloucester fisherman guy grunted again and slowly turned his entire body to face me.  It sounded like thirty school kids in new tennis shoes walking on a clean marble floor as he twisted his tall, skinny frame to face me.  The yellow rubber hood framed ET’s face–giant, round and leathery, with huge blue-grey eyes that were focused a thousand yards beyond the present.  He remained silent.

“What task requires you to purchase a pry bar, sir?” I inquired.

He grunted once more, and said, “Crows,” and re-squeeked his way back to face the display.

Huh? Oh, he’s thinking “crow bar” and thinks he can pry the birds out of his barn.  “Sir, maybe you need another type of tool.  Have you tried getting a cat?  Crows hate cats.”

This got another grunt and a second, slower and noisier 180-degree turn.  “I have the spirit of a Crow Indian stuck in the wooden  baseboards of my home and he wants out.  His entreaties are keeping me awake at night.  What will I use to free his spirit and not abuse the spirit of the wood holding him hostage?”

A very good Santa Fe question. I selected a small, flat bar that had a thick rubberized coating and held it up to his face.  “See, this is thin enough to slip behind the baseboard trim but won’t gouge or dent the wood so long as you’re careful.”

I held the pry bar out to him to hold but he didn’t move to take it.  That’s when I also noticed that his eyes didn’t move or blink either.  He was blind.   I placed the bar into his hand and said,  “This one’s $9.80, sir.  Do you need anything else?”

He grunted once more, his official favorite word, said “No,” and walked off.

Me, I chose my little bar, paid and left.  When I got home I grabbed an icy-cold Carta Blanca and a lump of this medicinal pot in cream chocolate that a buddy gave me, and went to sit on my portal with the dogs.  Without invitation, Yoda sat down on my feet and stared at the spot where he caught the Raccoon scent and the Squirt sat in my lap and stared up at me with adoration in her eyes.

“You’re a good man for a loony fuckball, Bwana Mooner.  I love you, dude.”

“I love you too, little lady.”

Next time somebody asks me why New Mexico is called the Land of Enchantment I’ll tell them this story.  If they can’t figure it out, I’ll encourage them to move to Texas.  Or Tennessee.

Manana, y’all.

 

 

 

Hello From Santa Fe, or, What’s Worse Than Setting Up House.

Saturday, August 11th, 2012

So.  Here we are in Santa Fe, our newly adopted half-home.  I’m here to set up utilities–the computer internet just now working a week after our arrival–and it and all else hasn’t gone according to my plans.

According to my plans.  Now there is one of those strings of words that is so totally fucking worthless that it should be banned by the grammar police.

Anyway, the dogs and I have been hard at work working and supervising the work of others in our attempts to get our new place livable.  We’ve been camping out inside and sometimes outside with the Squirt and Yoda sprawled beside me on the air mattress.  The fucking cat is something else in the altogether.  Honor has been perched high in the big Ponderosa pine in our backyard for the entire week we’ve been here.  I know she has come down for food and water because I’ve been refilling her bowls.  But save the times she growls at neighbors’ cats to let them know there’s a new kitty on Espinacitas Street, she’s kept to herself.

While temps have been unseasonably warm, the humidity is low and not problematic for me.  The guys helping me bitch about the heat and humidity and have no problem blaming Global Warming.  The one Apache helping with my plumbing blames, and here I’ll quote him by saying, he said to me, “You fucking white assholes done ruined the whole world.  Go back to Europe.”

I must say I think he’s right, but I already purchased property here and I’m a quite small part Native American.  The rest of you white right-wing conservative Christian assholes can follow his wishes.  Please.

Speaking of the aforementioned white assholes, I just heard that Herr Schmidt Rommel has named Representitive “Let’s Kill All Social Services” Ryan as his running mate.  Ryan proposes a Federal budget that would bankrupt half the states with its cuts to state support, and he’s Herr Schmidt’s choice.  Classic.

Then again it’s likely that the Tea Baggers forced the cheesehead down his throat with threats to fight Romney’s nomination in Tampa.  That’s my take anyway.

 

OK, I need to go get some rebar and wire and silt fabric so we can get started working.  I’ll try to get back to these pages soon.  Manana, y’all.

 

 

 

 

Last Day Until Santa Fe; Mooner Johnson- Poetry In Motion

Thursday, August 2nd, 2012

 

So. You might think that the recent Texas Republican US Senate primary results would have my rankles so mangled that it would be all I could speak to. Hell, you might even think that I would be so rankled that those politics would be all to which I would speak.

But alas and dangling prepositions be damned, the fact that Texas Repubbies chose a Sarah Palin endorsed Tea Party Chinese jobs-supporting lawyer hack over Governor Prick Perry’s endorsed Lt. Pretty Boy David Dewhurst has barely registered on my ADHD-addled mental gyroscope. Texas politics is getting even more radically right-wing stupid and it has barely registered on my radar.

You might also think that I’m so pissed that asshole Christians flocked to show their solidarity with Chik-Fucka-Buckets that I stopped by at the lunch hour yesterday and flashed my ass at them. OK, you’d be right on that one. And, “Yes, Virginia, those handsome and quite manly hairy butt cheeks were mine on display as you waited in the long line to order your hormonally-enhanced soggy fried sandwich.”

I didn’t even know that those assholes had a rally planed or I would have made a sign to accompany my ass flashing. One side would have said, “Fuck Chik-Fucka-Buckets,” and the reverse might have been, “Everyone in this line is a bigoted asshole!”

Not very creative but as I say, I didn’t give it any thought in the altogether at all.

Nope, I’m riding a high these days—the high of dry mountain air and Enchantment. I’m loading the car today and leaving early in the am for Santa Fe! Two weeks this time while I get the new casita ready for Johnson family occupancy. I’m taking the dogs and the fucking cat this trip and we’ll be camping out of sorts. I have an air mattress and some canvas chairs for furniture and enough kitchen stuff to make simple meals.

Squirt told me that Yoda has already asked if he’ll be able to, “Mark all of our territory,” in the two short weeks of this stay. We started marking the three thousand acres here to the ranch a couple months ago and still aren’t done.

“Don’t worry, little guy,” I told him. “You can cover the new place once a day if you wish.”

Tears welled in the small puppy’s eyes as he thought of a manageable territory. Dogs like to have limits and parameters in their behavior patterns, just like kids.

I’m finding that the closer I am to New Mexico the less I care about Texas and it’s slippery slide towards right-wing Hell. I’m even starting to like my buddy Squatlo’s idea about encircling the entire state with a fifty-foot razor wire fence and then just dumping all of our country’s “right thinkers” inside. Let them call it The United State of Bigotry for all my give-a-shit. Knowing that Theo is moving to Austin has helped cement the building blocks of this idea.

But again to quote my Gram, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Yer gonna be off over there to tha Land of Enhancements an’ I’mma be stuck here with yer fuckin’ mother. Now fetch me another beer an’ quit yer bitchy achin’”

That was last night as we sat on the flagstone patio watching smoke curl skyward from the BBQ pit. “It’s Land of Enchantment, Gram, and do you know how much I love you?”

My randy old grandmother cocked her head my way, smiled a wicked grin and replied, “Don’t you go getting’ all sedimental on me, boy. Now fetch me that beer an’ git them ribbies off’n tha fire. I’m hungry ’nuff ta eat a goat.”

I kissed the top of her head and she swatted me half-assedly. The ribbies were tasty and Mother was lucid during dinner and spreading the good cheer that Chick-Fucka-Buckets had record sales yesterday. Mother thinks that America has finally reached moral high ground.

My take is that America has achieved record levels of insanity and has reverted to its level of civilization found in the early 1800’s. At least in some states, like Texas.

But I frankly don’t give a flying fuck, my dear. I’m off to Santa Fe.

Manana, y’all. (Maybe)