Howdy, Neighbor; Mitt Romney Is A Dumbass

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.


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2 Responses to “Howdy, Neighbor; Mitt Romney Is A Dumbass”

  1. Anne says:

    Yeah. Fuck Mitt Romney.

    It’s all about the money. Like the rest of his ilk, he doesn’t care one bit for the environment or for the vast majority of the humans who have to live in it. He can afford all the clean water and dirty energy he wants, and so can the “friends” he hangs out with. Mitt and his buddies are concerned with with nothing beyond the bottom line.

    Some citizens think Mitt said, “Corporations are people, my friends.” They didn’t listen well. They mistakenly assumed he was being folksy by addressing the crowd as “my friends.” Wrong. The quote was incorrectly punctuated by the reporting media.

    What he said was, “Corporations are people: my friends.”

  2. admin says:

    Anne. Your grammatical inflections are spot on. Me, I see these guys all sitting on the veranda at Koch’s Palm Beach estate–a crystal snifter of 300-year old cognac in one hand and a smoldering illegal Cuban Cohiba in the other–laughing. Laughing at the rest of us and just how stupid we are.

    They also laugh at the Mittster’s blind ambition to become the first Mormon president. What better puppet?

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