Archive for December, 2012

Don Henley Is An Asshole; Music Mania For The Instable Mind

Monday, December 31st, 2012


So. It’s New Year’s Eve and we’re back to home at La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. We left Austin early yesterday to try to beat the expected snow, and did—not because we, as a group of three, made a concerted and conjoined attempt at a timely arrival—manage to arrive ahead of the snow. The only reason we beat the snow and slick driving conditions is because the snow didn’t start until after midnight instead of before noon as predicted.

The several times I’ve made that drive alone, it’s taken right at twelve hours—half-a-day at the wheel including breaks to pee, eat and gas-up. With the two asshole dogs I call my Santa Fe family, yesterday’s trip took fourteen hours and a few extra minutes.

“I’m not squating in a patch of goat burrs and tumbleweeds, shithead,” the Squirt informed me when I let her out in Littlefield, Texas to do her business. “You sit and roll your pecker around first and I’ll piss after.”

I bitched at her a few minutes as she listened with a look of undistilled intemperance plastered on her quite cute little face. I wrapped it up with a, “You are sooooo finicky!”

“And you, Bwana Mooner, are an asshole. Remember that time when you sat in a prickly pear cactus?”

She had a point. I’ll not bore you with her point other than to say that she made it and to ask you to think “cucumber-shaped pin cushion”. You can buy my silly fucking book and get the extended version of that story. And a lot more silly shit as well. The book would have made a great stocking stuffer if you’d fucking bought it. Amazon had one listed for sale for ninety-eight-cents. As for condition, the listing said, “New, except for I read the first two pages, has vomit stains.”

“You’ve got a point,” little lady, I told my adorable puppy. “I don’t want to be picking needles from your little tooter.”

I drove from the gas station back into a small, Littlefield, Texas neighborhood to seek an appropriate yard in which to pee. “There!” Squirt shouted, “the one with the big Santa and all his elves.”

The yard we chose was covered with winter-browned Bermuda grass cut at the suggested three inches tall and littered with dozens of those shitty blow-up Christmas characters. Those plastic balloons seem to demonstrate what Christmas is to me—trashy, cheap and stupid—so Squirt’s first choice became mine. Ours.

Squirt chose to pee next to one of the eight tiny reindeer, and the goat dog hiked his leg on an inflated plastic present. Yoda lost his balance and fell into the balloon box and was bounced back onto his ass. That made me start laughing and caused my pee stream to travel from the cedar bush and onto the string of lights running all over the yard.

I was glad the lights were off.

As for Austin, I had a great and terrible time. I got to see the whole family and loved that, and I spent two full days in psycho therapy with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and hate the results. I saw the good doctor to work on my issues with my mother, as directed by God. Not that I’m blaming God for my problems, mind you, but it was Her and His instructions that I “Find a way to love your mother” or words to that effect.

Since I could find no reason to obey God’s instructions much less a way to perfect them, I knew that psycho therapy was my only hope of fulfilling that prophesy. To summarize twenty hours of therapy sessions, please allow me to simply quote the bitch I call my ex-wife number one.

“You must forgive your mother, Mooner. You can never accept her terrible actions and words until you do so. Mother can’t help herself, my dear ex-hubby, it’s just how she is. Forgive her.”

I could have saved myself nineteen hours and fifty-nine minutes of aggravation if I’d have simply replied, “OK, I’ll do that.” Instead, I said, “Fuck that, fuck her and fuck you too!”

Look, I hate that “forgiveness” bullshit. Do you have any fucking idea how much work that takes? How much personal sacrifice it requires to let go of a lifetime’s hurt and pain and tears?

And anger? Ugh.

My sessions were last Wednesday and Thursday, and my last words to my therapist as I left her were, “I still love you, Sammie, have a great New Year, and fuck you—I won’t forgive her.”

I felt sanctimonious and satisfied both. “No fucking way!” I said to myself as I drove home to the ranch. Might have said it fifty times on the way. I stopped over to the Sprouts store to say “Howdy” to the store manager and grab some avocados for dinner. We roasted a goat and half a pig for Xmas and were having leftovers packed in tortillas. When I got home, Gram asked me, “Where’s tha avie-caddies, Mooner?”

“Shit,” I responded. “Shit, shit and shit some more.”

I returned from a second trip to Sprouts just as dinner was set on the table. “Supper cain’t wait on yer lack a tension onna details, sonnyboy. You need ta git ya some therapy, an’ quick!”

OK, stop. I’ve neglected a small detail of this story. You guys know that Don Henley song Heart of the Matter? Fucking ex-Eagle pussy asshole.

When I got into the GTO when I left Dr. Sammie’s place, I put the tranny in Drive and left a scratch of rubber char on the pavement in her lot. “No fucking way!” I shouted, as I looked over my shoulder at her office door. I drove a few blocks and punched the On button of the radio. “And now from 1989, here’s Don Henley.” That fucking song started, and before I paid enough attention, it got to the chorus.

“Forgiveness… Forgiveness… Even if, even if you don’t love me anymore.”

I slammed my hand at the radio to turn it off, missed the Off button and instead turned it up. “There’s a yearning undefined and people full of rage. We all need a little tenderness, how can love survive in such a graceless age?”

I was livid. I pulled the GTO to the curb and made a huge event of turning the radio off. “Mother… Fuck-er!”

I was screaming at the radio. I then drove to Sprouts in a semi rage where I promptly forgot my avocados and purchased three cases of Carta Blanca beer instead. My buddy Henry the manager was off, and likely a good thing. When I drove home, that fucking song was stuck inside my head, like a broken record.

I washed and peeled the avocados and mashed them with garlic, onion and salt and pepper. Everyone was already seated so there was but one chair open for me to park my ass. Since I no longer fully-reside there, my seat at the head of the table is now filled with the ass of the weathered old goat bladder I call Gram.

“Ain’t yer chair no longer, shithead. You done abmolated it when ya moved yer ass over to Santa Fe. Now sit down next ta yer Mother an shut yer yapper.”

“It’s abdicated, Gram, and can’t we trade just seats for tonight?”

All I got was the evil eye in response, so I sat in the chair next to Mother, with Aunt Hilda on the other side. I set the big bowl of green goodness on the table and said, “Let’s eat.”

My mother took the spoon first and put a tiny dollop on her plate. She then took the fork and poked its tines into the dollop, an action that deposited four insy bits of green. She wiped the four drops onto her tongue, made a face and washed her mouth with iced tea.

“I can’t eat that. It tastes like grass paste. Did you ruin all the avocados, Mooner, or might there be a few for some proper guacamole?”

Mother’s words bit into me like a swarm of piranha.

OK, stop. I, Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson, have a date. That’s right, and actual New Years Eve fucking date! And I’m already late to get ready, so let’s stop here at 1,437 words for now.

Happy New One, Fuck Walmart, and manana, y’all.

Mayans Send Mixed Messages; Mooner Untangles The Myths

Thursday, December 20th, 2012


So. It’s Thursday before Friday’s world-ending events possibly predicted by the Great Mayan Calendar. It seems that the entire earth is in for a major calamity should the doomsdayer’s interpretations of ancient stone tablets be correct. Stone tablets, which I might add, that no living human has any real idea how to interpret, other than to say that, rather than ending their calendars for reprinting each twelve modern months, the Mayans chose to scribe their date keepers for page turnings every few centuries.

It’s easy to see how the Mayan calendar ends when it does since the fucking Catholics slaughtered all the Mayans hundreds of years before they even needed to think about quarrying the stone for the next period’s dates.

Evil right-wing murdering Nazi Catholic goat fucking shitheads.

Me, I see this silliness in the same way I see how different shitheads interpret the books of the Bible. Every wing nut and evil-hearted conman has an interpretation of the Bible, and those interpretations range from “Love your fellow man” to “President Obama is the Devil”. The longer I live the less I believe any Biblical interpretations are worthy of serious discussion. The longer I live the more I’m convinced that the Bible has jumped the shark.

That’s right. You heard it here first—the Bible has jumped the fucking shark.

If my grandfather were still alive, he’d say, “The world has already ended, Mooner, so who really gives a shit the Mayan calendar?”

I remember the day that JFK was murdered when it was my grandfather who came to William B. Travis Junior High School to pick Streaker Jones and me up after they dismissed classes. All of us were stunned in some manner or another—students and teachers alike. Streaker Jones and I were in Mrs. Browningwell’s Spanish Class when the Principal announced both the assassination and school dismissal over the loud speaker.

The institutional beige loud speakers at Travis Junior High were Altec brand, and maybe 14-inchers, that hung in the top corners of each room. The speaker boxes were bolted to the walls and the bolts had a spot weld to keep them in place. Seems some enterprising young schoolboy had found an after-market for institutional beige Altec 14-inch loudspeakers.

I always thought it was Mike Martel. We caught him breaking into all sorts of shit and stealing anything from the Valomilk candy in the cafeteria to the Kotex from the Girls’ Rooms.

God I loved Valomilk candy. The snap of the crisp chocolate shell, the way the marshmallow cream oozed out onto your fingers… That one time when Candice what’s-her-name sucked my finger clean. What was her last name?

Several of the girls in class gasped and started crying when they heard the President had been killed. Me, I didn’t quite hear it accurately. I’m sure that my ADHD had my brain spinning with thoughts of Susie Ashburn’s budding breasts or some other thought more interesting than Mrs. Browningwell’s dull lessons on conjugating Spanish verbs.

“Mooner… Hey, Mooner, snap outta it. Sumbody shot the President. We need ta go home.” It was Streaker Jones and he was already standing at my side and tugging on my sleeve.

“Sit… Down, everyone!” Mrs. Browningwell barked. “The Principal said to evacuate civilly and in our assigned order. Assistant Principal Smithson will come to release our room. You are to sit and shut up until he gets here.”

We all waited, squirmed and cried. After a few minutes, Assistant Principal Smithson did indeed stop at our door. He motioned Bat Brains Browningwell to join him where they conferred in whispers. All I heard that was legible enough to understand was her whispering, “It was bound to happen.”

Mrs. Leticia Browningwell was twenty-one and just out of college and just married to then Assistant Pastor of Mother’s Baptist Church, The Reverend Dr. Browningwell. Bat Brains Browningwell was a constant character in my life from the start of that school year so long ago, until today. Her hubby is the self-same asshole who managed to convince my mother to be the mean spirited shitwad that she has become.

OK, look, Mother didn’t need to be convinced to be mean spirited—she fucking IS mean spirited. But the good preacher has provided the focus for Mother’s attacks, most recently gays, President Obama and Public School funding.

When Granddad picked us up from school that day he was in a solemn, quiet mood. Which for Granddad was remarkable. See, I caught the dreaded ADHD from Daddy who caught it from Granddad, who likely invented the fucking AD and HD. When he didn’t respond to my, “Hey, Granddad, how ya doing?” I knew something serious was going on.

“They shot our President, son. It’s the end of the world.”

We rode the rest of the trip in silence. See, my grandfather was a man who felt that civilized people would neither assassinate their own president nor would they even feel he deserved to be killed. Civilized people talked their differences and then voted their preferences.

Granddad would yell at the TV when some shithead said something he thought was stupid. “You ignorant John Bircher ass licking Nazi loving sonofabitching motherfucker,” was his favorite yelled phrase. I guess I didn’t fall far from that tree myownself. Substitute “goat fucker” for John Bircher and “shithead” for ass licker and you’ve got my TV rants.

Anyway, what I want to say is that I’ll be on the road with the Squirt, Yoda the goat dog and likely not the fucking cat. Honor seems to have disappeared again and left nothing but smatterings of mouse blood and fur in her wake. I’m hoping her long hair and hunting skills keep her moving while we’re gone.

Armstrong! It was Candice Armstrong who sucked the sticky marshmallow Vallomilk center off my index finger. I’ll never forget the embarrassment I had from the delayed-action woodie she invoked. Are woodies invoked by sexy women? Evoked, maybe?

Remember boy’s short-short basketball uniforms? Hard to hide a big old boner when you didn’t even realize one had arisen from inside those shorts. We were all standing around after basketball practice eating Valomilks when Candice and the other cheer leaders walked by from their practice.

“What’s on your fingers, Moooo-nerrrr?” Candice cooed.

Then, without any additional foreplay, she grasped my wrist in her velvety-smooth hand and stuck my index finger into her mouth. “Mmmmm, marsh-mmmellow cream. My favie.”

I remember, for some reason, that she said the word “favie”. I think that my thoughts about how she said “favie”, when combined with the tingle running through me for minutes after she stopped sucking on my finger are what invoked that woodie.

Have you ever been standing among a group of friends and strangers and had your rock hard pecker come peeking out from the hem of your shorts? That shit is embarrassing no matter how many times it happens.

Maybe I can look Candice up while I’m in Austin, and maybe Squattie or Beej will stay abreast of the Mayan shit and let me know if the world ends while we’re on the road tomorrow. I’d hate to miss the end of times.

I’ll try to write you while in Austin, but no promises. Manana, (maybe) y’all.


More Gun Mania; Lessons From Crows And Ravens

Wednesday, December 19th, 2012


So. This morning I was sitting in the office here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe where my computer desk is situated to provide me the full view out the window. What I see on any day is first the sharp angle of the stucco corner of the master bedroom roof which is backdropped by the largest of our Ponderosa pine trees. Sharpen my eyes to mid distance and I can see the rooftops of homes and other buildings as the topography rises towards the mountains.

When I focus my sight to the distance, I have a clear view of the ski mountain—Santa Fe Ski Basin. On any day my view of the world as I write to you is nothing short of spectacular.

Today, however, my view was something beyond that. It was snowing again this morning, a light, fine crystalline ice crystal snow that was falling straight down in windless air. Since everything is already coated with the week’s fluffy snow, this looked like when I would shake off my shirt onto a white granite counter top that time I had a terrible case of dandruff—the tiny flakes just disappeared into the already-white landscape.

The neighborhood crows and ravens have decided to grace us today, likely because I set a big loaf of bread on the roof of the portal for them. For the life of me I can’t tell them apart—ravens and crows—but Google tells me that ravens are the larger of these two majestic birds. But whichever ones these are, I have fallen in love with them. At least I am in love with what they seem to be to me—calm, thoughtful, playful, smart, communal. They seem to take life as it comes without complaint while honoring each other’s existances.

While the starlings and sparrows and other birds squawk and twitter and fight over every scrap of food and territory, the bigger black birds share, and even seem to invite company. The first time I put bread out, a lone crow (raven?) flew in to look things over. He pecked at the bread’s hard crust, scrabbled it with his beak, then turned his head like birds do to peer a large orange eye at the bread. After maybe a half-minute of peering, he, “Caw-caw-cawed,” and stood there.

He just stood and turned his head in the circles that birds do, and he, “Caw-caw-cawed.”

Other crows and ravens began their fly ins and I soon had what I guess was a flock of them. Ten birds by my count, sharing the loaf of bread. It was a big loaf, a rustic Italian sour dough three-pounder that I had forgotten and allowed to go stale.

Any of the other birds that visit the yard would squabble and fight over every crumb, but these guys shared. There appeared to be some sort of pecking order but I had no sense of their priorities. Having watched them many times since, they seem to have a societal sharing structure based on need. Whichever bird’s needs are greater gets to peck first and most often. There is one bird—the largest and most weatherbeaten—who is usually the last to fly in for dinner. As soon as he lands and settles, the others make room for him to eat. I named him The Old Man.

They wait while The Old Man spears a first chunk and swallows, and let him get a second bite before they resume their dining. It happens that way every time. Every fucking time.

I say all of this to you because when I first sat down to write to you about my retained anger over last Friday’s massacre of school kids, I was looking out my office window at the aforementioned view, pissed at the world. I was staring over the sharp angle of the master bedroom wall, over the roof and into the snowy pine tree. There was motion from deep inside the pine’s snow-weighted mass, motion moving from the far side towards me.

I realized it was a big bird and I soon saw it was The Old Man. He was branch hopping from way up in the far side of the tree towards me. He flew out of sight for a minute and then returned to the same branch with a mouthful of bread. He perched for a moment on the largest branch closest to the house then flew the one wing flap distance to the master bedroom parapet—the tip of the angular wall now thrice-mentioned.

He gripped the stuccoed wall with huge clawed feet. I was surprised at the look of his claws and stared at them in what might have been awe. This angular wall is maybe ten feet from my window, and from that short distance the bird was a giant. I knew then that The Old Man is a raven.

He set the chunk of bread on the wall and “Cawed” at me. He looked straight at me from his wall perch, and “Cawed” at me again. My desk phone rang and its jangle broke the moment. The Old Man jumped to lift off in flight and I answered the phone.

It was Mother. “Hi, Mother, how are you?”

“I’m just sick to death over this gun control business, Mooner. Where are you?”

Here we go again. “I’m in Santa Fe, Mother, just like the last hundred-and-thirty-nine times we’ve spoken. You know, like the six times yesterday?”

A pause, and I hear her make a sharp intake of breath. “How many times must I warn you about Santa Fe, son? All of those homo-sex-u-als will ruin your life. They have their ways, Mooner, and you aren’t the sharpest knife in the drawer you know.”

“Oh for shitsakes, Mother, whatinthefuck do you want?” I asked, maybe my words carrying a touch more sting than I meant. Maybe.

“Don’t you curse at your mother, Butcher Einstein Johnson. I can still bend you over the kitchen table, you little brat. What am I going to do about this gun control mess? Where are you—I need you to come here right now and fix this gun mess for me.”

Ugh. Ugh-ugh-ugh-ugh!

“I’m still in Santa Fe. and what gun control mess are you talking about?” With Mother you’re not allowed to be quite certain of her references. She might be addressing Friday’s gun mess or maybe a time back in the Civil War, when Minnie balls weren’t the same well-aimed missiles as today’s precision killing machines. It pays to not assume.

“Pastor Browningwell told me that the President is going to take all our guns away and that we need to stand and fight. I need some bullets, Mooner, where are you?”

Huh? The old dingbat needs bullets?

“Why do you need bullets? Mother, you don’t have a gun, and as of a few seconds ago, I’m still in fucking Santa Fe.”

“I bought a gun yesterday to protect myself against the President and you need a gun too. You have just got to keep those homo-sex-u-als away, son. They can turn you in a minute.”

Sweet Jesus, if you ever had any power, will you please take me NOW!

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Mother? You don’t need a damned gun—you live in a secure building.”

Son… Of… A… Fucking… Bitch!!! My batty and demented mother bought a gun!

“Well, I don’t actually have the gun yet, they had sold out before I could get a reservation on the facility bus to take me over to the shop. But I want bullets for when my gun comes in and I WANT THEM RIGHT NOW!”

I thought she would bust a gut she was so mad. My first impulse was to test that idea and attempt to stir her up. Instead I said to her, I told her, “OK, settle down. I’ll be there Saturday morning and we’ll see about getting you some bullets. What kind of bullets do you need?” I asked.

I had to fucking ask.

“Oh, I don’t know, Mooner—seven-thousand-sixty-two?”

What? Did she mean 7.62?

“Do you mean seven-point-sixty-two? Moth-errrrr… Did you buy an assault rifle?”

She hung up on me. I tried calling her back but there was no answer. I then called American Express and canceled the transaction at On Target Gun Shop of San Antonio, hung up and called On Target where I gave what sounded like a pimply-faced teenager an earful of shit while telling him I’d canceled the payment. When I’d spent all my anger with the sales clerk, he did that exasperated sigh that teens do and said to me, he said, “No problemo, signorio, we got a waiting list.”

I slammed the phone down and redialed AMEX where I canceled Mother’s AMX card. Cancellations of Visa and her debit cards followed. I called Sister to tell her what was going on and asked her to go down to San Antonio and meet with the management of the facility where our mother now lives.

“Give them $500.00 in twenties, Sister, and instruct that Mother can have fifty bucks a day. We’ll discuss longterm arrangements when I get there.”

Then, it dawned on me that I had just canceled an AMEX charge for $1,986.52 that was payable to the On Target gun shop. I felt so angry I thought I’d bust a gut.

“Calm down, Bwana, cool your jets. You’re gonna bust a gut.” It was the Squirt who was dressed in the new sweater I got to wear under her parka. The diminutive brown puppy looked totally fucking adorable.

“They charged her almost two-thousand dollars for a five-hundred dollar gun, sweetie pie. My mother has lost her mind in more ways than one.”

“Ugh,” I added with a tired breath.

“Who gives a shit, Mooner, you got it fixed. Lets go to Trader Joe’s and get some cheap wine, a leg of lamb and those French caramels you like so much. You can get drunk and Yoda and I can fight over the lamb bone.”

Squirt nudged my leg with her cute little nose. “Come on shithead, you can fix the rest of this mess on Saturday.”

It’s now early evening and I’m two bottles of Trader Joe’s Coastal Merlot in the bag. The smell of roasting lamb has my mouth watering like the leaky water connection I just found in the wall behind the vanity in the hall bath. I love roasted lamb and I love my two dogs and I love living in Santa Fe.

And I want to love my mother. I truly do. But I’ve forgotten how or maybe I’ve forgotten what loving her feels like. It’s impossible to feel love for her now when feeling loved by her is a forgotten memory. Maybe I’ll get those feelings back when I visit her over the holidays.

Maybe not. And why am I starting to feel that crows and ravens have a more well adjusted society than we humans?

Manana, y’all.

Choosing Better Targets: Not A Short Story

Monday, December 17th, 2012


So. It’s Saturday night on a another snowy day in Paradise. I’ve spent a third week painting and just for the record, next time somebody tells you that the way to eliminate the soreness caused by doing something is to keep doing that something that made you sore—kick them in the nuts. Or twist their nipple.

I had been thinking it’s the dogs sleeping habits that are giving me the recent spate of interesting dreams that invoke visits from God, but now I think differently. I’ve about decided that it’s the aches and pains from painting that are generating the strangenesses visiting me almost nightly.

OK, stop. It’s likely the dogs and the painting pains combined with copious quantities of mind altering substances causing these dreams. It’s just that I almost always dream and remember them, but I rarely have whopper dreams like lately and have never dreamed those whoppers on consecutive nights. But I’ve had these dreams nightly almost since we started painting.

As for God’s visits, I think it’s the lunacies of human beings that bring God to my doorstep. Like, for example, my mother’s inherent meanness or the slaughter that occurred in Connecticut yesterday.

Which reminds me. My ADHD seems to have entered an unusual phase. It’s been spinning my brain with multiple thoughts as it always does, but I haven’t been fritzed for a week. Not that I haven’t fucked stuff up as is typical, it’s just that I haven’t been too bothered by any of it, and that isn’t what I was going to tell you about when I was reminded of something when I spoke of the dreams starting with my aches from painting.

Have you ever noticed the structure of the word painting? It fucking STARTS with pain!!!

What I intended to tell you when I was interrupted from telling you about my dreams was this: my entire life I have been a muted color sort of fellow. White or gray cars for me, blue jeans and khaki pants, soft plaid shirts and off-white walls dominate my color palate. One of my several wives once painted my dining room back to the ranch in Austin a “pale peach” color. I had gone to Costa Rica with Streaker Jones for a couple weeks and she had decided to redecorate some shit out of boredom. Boredom or maybe spite.

Pale peach walls, an orchid colored tablecloth and this giant silk flower arrangement containing every bright color from a Crayola 64 Jumbo Box festooned the small formal dining room of the ranch house in Austin. Except during this particular marriage, all of our family meals have been eaten at the big kitchen table. The kitchen is the center of Johnson family life. This wife, however, determined that each evening meal was a dinner, and dinners were served in the dining room.

I tried my best to live with the dining room colors, but the not-muted shades instigated my gag reflex whenever I tried to swallow any not-green vegetable. Potatoes, carrots, turnips and such could all turn my stomach at will.

That wife was Roshandra Washington-Johnson, my ex-wife number five. Roshandra is an Austin Police Sargent and keeper-of-the-gate for the City Council, and Robin Quivers’ double in a woman’s extra-large. Buy my stupid fucking book and you can learn way more about Roshandra.

“You puke on my new tablecloth there’ll be hell to pay, Mr. Johnson.”

Roshandra called me “Mr. Johnson” when she was pissed at me. If you’re ever been mated to a confident black woman, you know that I didn’t ever quite puke on her orchid tablecloth.

My point is that I have lived my entire life in lighter shades of pale. Until now. Until I moved to Santa Fe and started painting this house. With this house I’ve splattered five gallons of bright turquoise all over the portal and shed out back. The inside walls are Sherwin-Williams’ Melon, and Pale fucking Peach, and Golden Globe and Abalone Shell—a color that can only be described as just a shade darker than “lady parts pink.”

When the Squirt walked into the den yesterday afternoon after Adrian and I had finished painting the walls, the little hound said to me, she said, “Don’t let your mother see a picture of this room, shithead. She’ll be scheduling you for one of those Christian interventions to keep you from being a homo-sex-u-al.”

Mother always says it that way—“homo-sex-u-al.” Like it’s as dirty and disgusting a word as it is, again in Mother’s words, “A lifestyle choice.”

And that reminds me of last night’s dream. I had been tossing and turning for several hours in feeble attempts to find a position to lay for sleep that didn’t hurt some fucking body part. The goat dog would move each time I flipped or flopped and each time he settled back in the same spot when I stilled. Yoda would wait for me to quiet after moving, then he’d stick his cold nose in my ear and then slowly turn in a tight circle until he screwed himself into the crook of my neck and shoulder. He’d turn and turn—wedging himself tighter and tighter until he could get his hip pushed under my shoulder and one paw under my neck. His other front paw he would drape across my throat and he’d jam his snout against whatever side of my face was showed to his.

The Squirt—as she always does in cold weather—camped in my crotch.

Remember those two-piece, covered cast iron pots with long wooden-tipped handles? The ones where you placed a burning ember in the pot and then used it to warm your bed back to the oldie times—those pots? Sleeping with these dogs is like having two of those pots in bed with you.

So. In this dream I was cooking griddle cakes for a big roomful of people and their pets. The room had a checker board floor of lime green and peacock blue 16-inch ceramic tiles, and the only clothing I wore was a bright purple paisley-print arm sling on my right arm and a matching headband. For some reason I thought I looked like Jimmy Hendrix.

My arm has been aching and cramping like crazy from the painting and some of the pets were exotics—a kangaroo, a herd of penguins, thirty-three hermit crabs that lived in soup cans for shells, and some other interesting shit. Each hermit crab had a Navajo name and their owner kept repeating their names and the kind of soup can they inhabited.

“Yawa’ba’, he lives in a Campbells Tomato can, and Ben Shelly—he won’t habitate anything but Progresso Lite Salt cans. Bina’ha’sdzu lives in a Kroger generic chicken broth can and Elizabeth Warren, she’s a Swanson Oyster Stew kind of girl. New England style and never Manhattan.” The speaker was an elderly man wearing a name tag that read “Bill”.

“Bill,” I asked the man, “would you please say that Binha’ name for me again? That’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.”

Bill spoke the name repeatedly, the soft rhythms rolling from his mouth in hushed impulses of breath, like lovers’ moans. I was, in the dream, reminded of a time last summer when I went to a late dinner at Long John Silvers down on Cerillos and sat next to a Navajo family. The grandmother was speaking to her granddaughter in her native tongue and I was mesmerized.

As I mentioned, I was dream cooking griddle cakes. Not pancakes or waffles or Johnny cakes, I tell you, I was cooking griddle cakes. Not that I have any fucking idea what a griddle cake is, but I was in a big auditorium filled with people and animals and standing at a huge, fiery hot grill, flipping griddle cakes with my left hand while I tried to keep my pecker off the hot steel cooking surface.

In this dream I had what I can only describe as a giant pecker adorned with a Salvador Dali mustache. It was about as big around as a liter plastic bottle and I never did get a gage on its length. It was wrapped around my waist and sitting atop my right arm in the sling so I knew it had some heft. Its mustachioed head lay on top of my upturned palm and peeked out at the crowd. My shoulder throbbed under the weight of arm and pecker in the sling.

A very attractive lady approached the griddle to order seconds. She was wearing tight jeans, a camel cashmere sweater, and her hair was in a long pony tail that was tied high near the top of her head. I’ve always found high-tied pony tails attractive, but the pit bull lashed to the lady’s wrist by a thick stainless steel chain was a turn off.

“May I please have another serving of your fabulous pancakes, Sir?” she requested. “And my doggie would love a bite of your bone.”

I was thinking of a proper dream retort to the woman’s requests when I was awakened by the Squirt. She was standing on my bare chest, looking down in my face and breathing heavily.

“Wake up, shithead, and go to the bathroom. Your having what might become a wet dream and we’re not ready for that.”

“They’re griddle cakes, ma’am, and I don’t like pit bulls… Oh, it’s you, Squirt.” I had to shake my head to get the woman’s pretty face off my mind.

I got up and peed and since I was up, went to the office to check emails. I looked out the office window into the chilly night. In the halo of the neighbor’s yard light I could see tiny, icy snow crystals falling, and the beautiful sight made me sad. Twenty-seven humans will never see another snowfall because America’s politicians are controlled by the NRA.

“Love the tittie pink walls in your office, Mooner. And things won’t change until these killers choose different targets.”

It was God, again, sitting at my computer and reading my thoughts. “Have you ever noticed that these shooters always seem to choose innocents or men of peace, son? JFK, RFK, MLK, Gabby G., school children and Christmas shoppers—those are the targets of assassins and gun nut crazies, not religious zealots or Republican Senators or big business tycoons.”

“Huh?” I was both startled by God’s presence and by the message of Her thoughts. “Uh, OK, Ma’am,” I stammered in surprise. “First question is why are you back again so soon? You were just here within the week and while I like you and all—please take no offense—but you’ve got bigger fish to fry than me. And my friends are starting to look into clinic vacancies for me.”

God looked like that woman from Pakistan, Benazir Bhutto, who was assassinated by their military to prevent the injection of sanity into Pakistan’s government. She wore what I believe to be a Sari of the same colors of Roshandra’s dining room centerpiece, and her stunningly beautiful face was without makeup. I wanted to kiss her.

“No touching, Mooner,” God informed me, obviously still reading my mind. “I know it’s been awhile since you’ve had any sex but you can’t touch me without invitation. You know that.”

“Right. Salt pillars and all of that shit,” I said. “It’s just that your lips look so soft and I…”

“Focus, son. What you need to know is that the gun issue in your country isn’t about the Second Amendment, it’s about greed and control. As long as the victims of this violence are innocents and peace loving, nothing is going to happen to change things.”

Huh? “You mean that until some shithead buys an assault rifle at Walmart and then shoots up a Walton family reunion or the set of The 700 Club, we’re going to go through these massacres?”

“That wasn’t exactly what I said, but you seemed to have boiled my words into an essence, son. Think of it another way. If Phil Knight was required to work in one of his shoe factories gluing the soles to the uppers on Michael Jordon sneakers, do you really think Nike shoes would be manufactured in Indonesian sweat shops? “

She had a point—God had a point. “So, if we make the Koch brothers drink water from wells in aquifers where they frack the shit out of things, they might stop fracking the shit out of stuff.”

Maybe that’s a way we can solve many of America’s problems. Put these retailers and product manufacturers to work in the factories that produce their products, force oil executives to live with the byproducts of their activities. Force Wall Street shitheads to live in cardboard boxes after they wreck a market.

Make our elected officials wait four years for medical procedures when they deny the funding for veterans’ medical and rehabilitation after sending them to fight needless wars.

“Now I get it,” I told God. “We should find ways to hold influential people accountable, right God?…. Ma’am…”

She was gone. God left me without confirming my notions. But I don’t think I need confirmation to feel on solid ground here. Ever since Ronald Reagan started deregulating America’s business enterprises, our businesses have gotten more and more out of control and our country has gotten more and more impersonal. Like children without parental controls, big business has run amok.

OK, stop, Mooner. This is going nowhere. Almost every politician in America is fucking owned by special interests. Until Senator Bernie Sanders can be elected President, nothing will change.

I’m worn out with this shit. I’m sick to my stomach from reading about massacres in schools and I can’t do one thing about it except to say:

“Fuck the NRA, Fuck Walmart, Fuck the Koch brothers and Fuck our politicians who allow this shit to continue!”

Manana, y’all.

Mooner Johnson: Modern Day Prophet or Simply Pathetic?

Monday, December 10th, 2012


So. It’s snowing in Santa Fe. Finally, it’s snowing. It will be just a few inches of fluffy moisture but we are in need of it. We need it for agriculture and water supplies, and we need it in order to open the Northern New Mexico ski slopes.

The “not created by mans’ sillinesses” global warming trends have already altered the ski seasons in the Western US, and this year has been brutally dry. Here to Santa Fe, the hoped-for Thanksgiving opening of ski slopes is now a Christmas prayer.

Which reminds me. God paid me another visit last night and it was the strangest of all Their (God’s) appearances. The dogs and I were sleeping and I was having a quite weird dream. I was in my mid-twenties and working for an older gentleman selling orthopedic shoes in his store. I was dressed in an Armani pinstripe suit—medium gray with tiny, thin lighter gray stripes—and I wore a pair of highly-polished handmade oxblood Oxford dress shoes from England. The tops were sewn to the sides with thick, waxy threads, and the expensive shoes’ soles were comfortably cushioned for walking.

I could see my face in the reflection off the tops of my shoes as I hoofed my way from the retail store to home. The face that blinked up at me off the shoe tops as I looked at my walking feet was a not happy one. My eyes were narrowed and my mouth was screwed up into a tight knot.

It was the face I seem to always have these days when disconnecting the phone after talking to Mother.

Home was a dream house I’ve never owned and occupied by a dream wife I’ve never married. She was a stunning, nubile young woman wearing a silk muumuu swirling with colors, and her perfect breasts were outlined on her chest as she lounged atop a pile of plush velvet pillows. The sight reminded me of that one time when I saw this 100-carat opal that was nestled in a cushioned display case—beautiful, colorful. Cold.

“I know those breasts,” I said to myself as I approached the wife.

The wife stared lasers at me. “It leaked again, shithead,” she told me as I neared her, “you, Mooner Johnson, are a terrible husband.”

“You’ve got great titties, wife, but what a bitch you are,” my feeble response.

“I’m a bitch and you’re a complete failure; we’re the perfect couple,” she said with what seemed like glee. “Go look for yourself. It’s a mess.”

The wife shifted on her pillows and her lush hips rippled waves in the silk of the filmy dress. The sight of her gave me instant night wood but I passed her by. Somehow my desire for sex was overridden by good sense. Not my awake life Modus Operandi.

I walked to the master bedroom of the big house and found water on the floor. I remembered that I was supposed to be at work and called my boss at the shoe store. “I’ve got problems at home,” I told the older man, “this may take awhile.”

“Home IS your problem, Mooner. Fix your leaks and love your mother.”

“Huh?” I said aloud.

When I looked down at the floor, the water trailed back from where I had just come, and several men from the home builder’s office were standing in the bedroom with me. They wore uniforms with their names on the chest. One said “Larry” and the second read “Moe”. I looked at the third man’s name and it was in an Arabic script. I somehow knew him to be Curly.

I was on one side of a giant four poster bed across from the men, and there was a huge spider web hanging off the posters and rails between us. Sunlight glistened from the ropes of the spider’s ladders and drops of sticky moisture ran down the central spine towards the bottom.

“That’s from the scene in that James Bond movie where Sean Connery impersonates a Japanese man and the bad guy on the tiled roof kills the pretty, sleeping girl by accident when the poison drops slide down the silk line into her mouth by mistake,” I told the men. “I masturbated to the memory of that girl.”

The men were nonplussed.

It was a classic movie spiderweb and there was a fat rat spun into a cocoon of the spider’s twine. The rat hung like a miniature ham from a smokehouse rafter. I reached down and twirled the little cocoon like a top. I watched as it quickly wound its spider rope into a tight knot and then gazed while it unwound—up and down again, as heavy weights at the end of strings tend to do when twisted by some moron.

I left the room and walked back to the wife. “There’s a giant spider web with a dead rat cocoon hanging off our bed.”

She lifted a glass of Chateau Margaux wine and took an elegant sip. A drop of the wine hung on her bottom lip like a dollop of honey. She tipped the glass to me in a mock salute and said to me, she said, “And I’ve got a killer body and a bottom sheet covered with your stains.”

I awoke on my back with the Squirt’s nose jammed up my ass and the goat dog wrapped on my neck like a muffler. Yoda’s warm breath smelled like a landfill on a sunny afternoon. “Holy shit, you two, you’re making me dream some very weird stuff.”

That’s when I felt pressure at the foot of my bed and heard a deep, hearty laugh. I wedged myself up to my elbows to see the wife from my dream sitting Indian-style at my feet. She held two glasses of wine and a magnum of the Margaux from the dream. “Here,” She said with a proffered glass. “I took the liberty of opening this.”

It was God, wearing the dream wife’s bright muumuu. Her breasts were clamped tight to the front and I could envision the curves of Her hips. I took the offered glass, sipped from it, and said “Nice tits, Ma’am. I think I’ve seen them before.”

God took a swallow from Her glass and replied, “Thanks. Jane Fonda—Barbarella. I remembered how much you liked Ms. Fonda in that movie so I dredged her up for this visit.”

I appraised God with a more critical eye. “You’re square on with the body, God, but that’s not Jane Fonda’s face. Whose face is it?”

“Why, I’m Betty Jo Bialonsky.”

Fire Sign Theater humor, my favorite. I think the world would be a far greater place if everyones’ Gods quoted Fire Sign Theater. Hard to start a war when your God is telling you, “I think we’re all Bozos on this bus.” Or, how do you hate other people when your God says, “Don’t crush that dwarf—pass me the pliers.”

God shape-shifted into an unrecognizable form I can best describe as a ball of metallic colored gas reminiscent of the aforementioned opal. The gaseous ball made me nauseous to look at Him. Her? It, maybe.

“You’re making me sick to my stomach, Sir. Can you do another trick?”

“No, son, I’m getting you ready for Christmas. It won’t be a pleasant trip back to Texas.”

“Whatthefuck does that mean, Sir?” I demanded.

“Not saying. You need to live it in real time, kiddo.”

God can be a real asshole sometimes. “How about I puke last night’s chicken soup, caramel candies and Carta Blanca beer all over your pretty gas ball?”

I heard a loud “Crack!” and suddenly found myself sitting in the back yard with the dogs curled in my lap. I was on the rock wall that we built this summer, wrapped in a quilt and covered with snow. A branch of the big Ponderosa pine tree had snapped off, I guess from the weight of heavy snow.

God—now looking like Sophia Loren—sat next to us. She reached for my hand and placed my palm to her soft cheek. My hand was icy cold and God’s warmth spread from Her face through my arm all the way to my heart. In thickly accented English, God said to me, “Hold your water, Mooner. Your Mother needs you.”

God set my hand into my own lap and started rising into the snowy air. As She rose She changed form into Michaelangelo’s classic God visage. I looked up to follow God’s ascent and yelled to Him, “Hey, asshole, is that all you’ve got? You punished me like this to tell me to be patient with my crazy mother?”

God laughed his deepest belly-buster laugh. “OK, Mooner. One more thing just for you,” and He belly-laughed again.


The bellowed God sound reverberated from the walls in the backyard, knocking snow off the tree onto the dogs’ and my head. When God was almost out of sight, He whispered down at me, “Merry Christmas, shithead. Be a good son and surprise me.”

God’s laughter trailed off into the sky—drifting into nothing in the fat snowflakes.

The Squirt, her face dusted with white powder, looked up into my eyes. “Sounds like good advice to me, Bwana. Mother’s been a pip lately, but she’s still your mother.”

“I think I might be a prophet, Squirtie girl. From what I remember from Vacation Bible School, one Godly visit is a vision. Multiple visits make prophecy.”

The diminutive brown puppy stifled a giggle. “And telling folks that God visits you makes for crazy talk, shithead. Think Pat Robertson.”

She was right. Maybe I should keep this to myself and gird my loins for Christmas. My mother has been especially nasty lately and I’ve been thinking about not visiting her in San Antonio when I go back to Texas for a week. I’ve had that whole “Love/Hate” dealio swirling in my skull for days now, so I guess God came by to give me some guidance.

Ugh. It can be hard to be a good son.

Manana, y’all.

Boy Scouts Re-Screw The Pooch; Here Kitty-Kitty

Monday, December 3rd, 2012


So. I have long been a man who prides myself on my abilities to cope with what Life serves me. I bitch and whine and complain about whatever shit it is—maybe rant a bit and break a few things—and then I accept whatever it is, and move on. I imagine that if the people close to me were to describe my one good character trait it would be that, “Mooner can handle his shit.”

While I’m highly emotional and deeply involved with Life, I don’t allow myself to be controlled by Life’s misfortunes. In my entire life, I’ve only been out of control twice. The first was when I was thirteen and had been raped by my Boy Scout Leader. That incident controlled my mind and body for several years. I didn’t know I had ADHD back then, I only knew that I was “a disruptive little shit”, and I went through what I now know was a total mental blockage of the terrible events. I was a miserable human being before I found ways to deal with it, and move on.

The second time was of a far shorter duration back to college, when Streaker Jones imported his first Sweat Toad breeding pairs. Never one to research things too deeply, I gave each of the six toadies a big slurp. Yeppers, I licked each one like a Dream Sickle—bottom-to-top, front and back sides both.

Those amphibians are ugly fucking things that taste like a donkey’s ass. And one big sloppy slurp from a sexually active toad’s skin is an overdose, as a typical dose of toad sweat is a small flake of their dried ooze. I was a sick sumbitch for a week and hallucinated enough for a lifetime. Mind altering drugs are my life, but that week I was totally out of control.

Each of those two occurrences were more than forty years ago. In all of this time I have always been as in control as I can be. Until Saturday night. I was watching Kansas State dismantle my Texas Longhorns football team—and with twenty-something seconds left in the game—I lost it.

My ADHD has been in overdrive for a few days because I can’t sleep well. My shoulders and knees and elbows and back ache so much from house painting that I can’t get comfortable in any position. While the ADD part of my malady is always active, it’s when I’m physically inactive that it begins running through its gears to eventually reach warp speed.

Naturally-occurring chemical compounds are my best methods for controlling my spinning thoughts. My Gram’s magic mushroom potions work best. But I ran out and the new shipment didn’t arrive on Friday because I didn’t hear the UPS guy at the front door. We were painting in the back of the house so I didn’t hear the doorbell.

Anyway, my ADHD had my head spinning and my football team looked worse than Tennessee. I was watching the stupid game, as I languished on the sofa in an attempt to be comfortable while watching my football team blow another contest, when I heard my computer’s Email pinger announce that I had a new Email. Disgusted with the Longhorns, I got up and staggered to the office to find that Google News Finder, or whateverthefuck they call that informational search and announcement dealie, had a news article for me.

I clicked onto the link to discover that new evidence was released showing the Boy Scouts of America had intentionally not screened for sexual predators in the face of public and private pressures to do so, and that their cover up of the problems continued for decades. As I read the story, the room closed in on me concussively—like I was in a pressure chamber to shrink my head. My thoughts swirled for an instant and then fully focused on the Boy Scouts.

“Mother fucker,” I whispered at reading the last words.

“Mother fucker!” louder the second time, the anger starting to re expand my skull.

MOTHER FUCKER!!!” I screamed, and I lifted my computer desk and slammed it against the wall.

I was screaming “Motherfucker!” and slamming around the office like a madman. No, that’s not right. I was throwing a temper tantrum like a petulant child—ripping and breaking the office—and I was crying.

The Squirt came running into the room—eyes giant with her fright. “?Que pasa, Bwana Mooner? Es tu OK, big guy?”

The adorable brown puppy slinked to my side and faced my fury head-on. “Bad news, boss man?” she asked.

I ripped the handful of papers gripped in my fists and just dropped them, my anger spent. I plopped onto the floor to cry. I cried.

When I awoke in the middle of the night, I was lying on the hardwood floor with the Squirt sitting next to me and Yoda the goat dog had somehow managed to slip inside the hem of my XXX-sized UT Longhorn sweatshirt. It was Yoda’s dog breath venting through the sweat shirt’s collar that woke me up.

“You OK?” Squirt asked—her brown eyes full of love and concern.

I focused my eyes and surveyed the small patch of office floor in my limited sight line. “Looks like I was pretty pissed, huh?”

“Never seen you like that,” the diminutive miniature dog told me. “Never want to see it again.”

“Not a pretty sight, I guess. I think I need some psycho therapy.”

The dogs and I spent most of yesterday cleaning the office and looking for the fucking cat. Honor has been AWOL for almost a week this time, and post tantrum I was feeling morose about her absence.

“Fuck it, guys, I’ll spring for a whole salmon for dinner and we’ll set the carcass out back. That’ll bring her home if anything will.”

We went grocery shopping—me newly hobbled by an aching hip courtesy of a night spent sleeping on a hardwood floor—came home and filleted the five-pound fish we got. We took the complete head and salmon skeleton to the back yard where we ceremoniously laid it on Honor’s food rock. The fucking cat likes us to serve her dinners atop this big, flat river rock.

“Here, kitty-kitty, it’s your favorite salmon din-nie!” I called.

“Here, Kitty…” was all I got out when we heard a, “Meow!!!” from the little shed at the back of the property.

“Whatthefuck?” Squirt said, “is she locked in the shed?”

“Uh, ah… Oops.”

That was me. I had been out to the shed last Saturday to get some old papers and that fucking cat was bugging me for a fish. She was mewling and mawing and rubbing herself against my bare legs. The weather has been great and I was wearing shorts in the crisp, dry 60-degree air. Her hair was rubbing off and sticking to my legs with the static electricity. That pissed me off and I shooed her off as I twisted myself to get inside the file cabinet way to the back of the shed.

“I, uh, well, ah, I must have locked her into the shed,” I admitted.

Cat’s out, cat shit filled with mouse fur and bones cleaned up from the shed, and last I saw her Honor was hissing and spitting at a neighbor’s cat over her salmon bones.

“Interesting weekend, shithead,” the Squirt told me as we sat to watch Dexter last night.

“Yes it was, sweetie pie. Interesting, indeed.”

Manana, y’all.

ADHD Don’t Effect Me-fect-me-fect-me; A Tale Of American Prejudice

Saturday, December 1st, 2012


So. It’s Friday morning and Adrian and I have spent the week painting. I hate painting and that’s why I haven’t been writing here to Bloggyland. I’m the official cutter-in guy—which means that I use the small brush to paint around woodwork and windows and shower tile and shit—and my entire body aches like that one time when I wanted to date Juanita Montoya back to high school. Juanita’s four older brothers thought that was a bad idea.

OK, I wanted to sex it up with Juanita and her large, brown bosom and her brothers discouraged me by punching me in the arms and legs. Hard. They punched me and as they did, they explained to me in fractured Englese that, “Oweer seester weel be a Seester, you pinche asshole. Stay de fuck away!”

At first I thought that Juanita’s brothers were Catholic racists and that they wanted their sister saved for a Mexican boy. Back to the 1960’s, families of every race and nationality dissuaded young boys of other races and nationalities from dating their daughters. Back to the 1960’s, a mixed-race couple was an oddity—an oddity that was stared at.

Stared at and worse.

When I asked Grandpa about the incident he said to me, he said, “Look, Mooner. Just because you don’t care where a person came from don’t mean they don’t care. White folks like us have been putting down folks like the Montoyas for years. And just so you know, Hector and Margarite Montoya have plans to put Juanita into the nunnery when she graduates high school. Stay away from Juanita Montoya, son. You’re lucky they didn’t disappear you.”

I had wondered about that “our sister will be a Sister” part of my beating, and maybe my grandfather’s advice explained why none of us had seen Jimmy Simpson since he walked Wilma Washington down to the Walgreens for a lime phosphate.

And this all reminds me of the silly shit John McCain is pulling about UN Ambassador Rice. I’m starting to think that Johnny Boy’s racist instincts are overcoming his public persona. Me, if I’d been tortured and beaten and held captive in a bamboo cage for more than a half-dozen years, I’d likely hold a hard place in my heart for persons of the Southeast Asiatic persuasion. If a group of physically identifiable people—people whose facial features all had commonalities—I think that maybe I’d harbor some animosities towards folks that looked like my torturers.

However. The more thought I give to the facts of this McCain/Rice business, the more I think that there can be but two simple motivations for Senator McCain’s actions. The first is that he is stupid enough to carry out an extended, unsubstantiated high-profile attack on a public servant in spite of the facts being 100% against his arguments. Maybe John McCain is stupid.

The second possible motivation is that John McCain is the same racist as Senator Ma-ma-ma-Mitch McCornpone.

OK, let’s stop before you think I’m off the reservation and falsely accusing elected officials of prejudice. Each of us will agree that many of the right-wing religious Americans are racist fuckwads, right? Are there any among us who think that racism has no home in our nation’s politics?

Then why would anyone think that there are no racist politicians elected to high places?

For a long time I have thought that the anger directed by Republicans at President Obama was just sour grapes and big money. Not anymore. When I see John McCain’s angry face—blood vessels ready to burst from his neck and face—I see a man who has lost control of his emotions. The situational facts surrounding this Susan Rice crap are not emotional. They’re strictly political.

If McCain-and-Able isn’t racist, then why is he so fucking angry? Me, I’m thinking that unless the President made a late night call to little Johnny to say, “Hey, shithead, I’mma stick this Susan Rice thingie right up yo ass, muthafuckah!” then there is no explanation for the Senator’s unbridled anger. Not that I wouldn’t love it if that phone call has been made.

Which reminds me. Maybe McCain has contracted dementia. I’m starting to think that any aberrant behavior in an older person can be explained away to dementia. Mother called me early this morning and please allow me to preface her comments by saying that first, I bought this home in Santa Fe, New Mexico, in late June after a year of conversation and moved here in early September.

Let me second say that I have had this same conversation with my non-Alzheimer demented mother each, and every-fucking time we have spoken since early June.

Me: “Hello.”

Mother: “Where are you, Mooner?”

Me: “Still in Santa Fe, Mother. Just like the last eighty-three times we’ve spoken.”

Me: “Oh, sorry, each of the last eighty-four times. We talked twice yesterday.”

Mother: “Well, don’t let the homo-sex-u-als get you, son. They have ways to turn weak minds to their evil ways.”

Me: “No problem, Mother. If I was going to be gay I’d already be gay. Can’t stand the thoughts of sticking another man’s dick in my mouth.”

Mother: “Well, you need to watch your backsides, Mooner. Where are you?”

And so on. That whole homosexual thingie is overblown if you ask me. What’s the big fucking deal, anyway? How can it possibly matter to you if I want to sex things up with another man? How can my sister being married to another woman possibly effect your silly fucking life?

Ugh. And before I forget to say it:


Manana, y’all.