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.
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: