Archive for January, 2013

Cynthianne From Albuquerque Finally Puts Out; Is It Incest?

Wednesday, January 30th, 2013


So. Never let it be said that your shit doesn’t come around to kick you in your own butt. I asked Cynthianne to do a guest posting and she did. Here it is in its unaltered and uncensored states. OK, except that I changed the font size to 13 and double spacelated the entire dealio.

I will, however, precondition readers to several modifying facts: First, if I can’t drink Carta Blanca I don’t drink beer; Second, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson did attend the after and aforementioned meeting. As I’ve been in serious needs of sexing, I flew her in on the contexts of needing emergency therapies and mental adjustments. While those contexts are accurate in their essences, they were but smokescreens used, by me, in another feeble attempt (attempts) to bed my lovely ex-wife.

Anyway, and without further ado, I give you Cynthianne from Albuquerque:



Mooner Afflicted with More Unsuitable Relatives


Guest post from “Cousin” Cynthianne



The Roe v. Wade celebration at the capitol was fun, with birthday cake and speeches and signs and even an impromptu little parade down Old Santa Fe Trail. Sadly, Mooner didn’t make the rally, to his loss. It was probably the highest concentration of liberal cougars ever seen in Santa Fe, if not the whole state, and he missed them one and all. You snooze, you lose, Mooner.


We met, as Mooner stated, at a somewhat loud biker/cowboy bar in downtown Santa Fe. I brought Gloria as my bodyguard, and Mooner brought his psycho-therapist, who was convinced that the only hits on his blog were Ukrainian spammers, to check me out. A body can’t be too careful these days.


I was wondering at first if Mooner had sent a ringer; not only was this person drinking Margaritas instead of Carta Blanca, he was suspiciously coherent and articulate. I was feeling like the hookah-smoking caterpillar in Alice– “WHOOO are YOU?” But then he had a massive giggling fit at something his long-suffering therapist said, and nearly fell out of his seat. Yep, it was Mooner all right.


It was possibly at this point that Gloria decided she was oh so tired and we should leave.


Although Gloria might not agree, I thoroughly enjoyed the visit. I was also mildly intrigued by the superficial resemblance of our features, but laughed it off until I found out about Myrtle. OMG! Great Aunt Myrt who ran off to Texas with the itinerant peddler almost a century ago! Could it be?


After exhaustive investigations (“All signs point to yes,” sez the Magic 8-Ball), it appears that I may be a cousin from the long-lost Louisiana hillbilly branch of the Mooner clan. As if Mooner didn’t already have enough family problems.


Exciting no? Although for some reason, Mooner keeps muttering something about DNA testing…



OK, I lied about the “unaltered states” part as I added the word “finis” and also the quotation marks to delineate Cynthianne’s prose from that of my own. As for that whole “we might be family” dealio, I’m uncertain as to what I might say. So I’ll say nothing. Except to say that Cynthianne would be a quite welcome addition to the manic menagerie I call The Family Johnson. Why she might wish that inclusionary addition to her heritage is a mystery.

“Nuff said. Manana, y’all.


Cynthianne Visits Santa Fe; Modifications For A Mostly Modern Man

Monday, January 28th, 2013


So. After a swift yet satisfying visit with Cynthianne from Albuquerque Friday evening, I enjoyed a mostly satisfying weekend. C’Anne came to Santa Fe for a rally supporting the 40th Anniversary of Roe V. Wade and arrived at Del Charro with Gloria in tow. I would very much like to tell you more about Gloria, but I can’t. Not because I know nothing of Gloria—I do—and not because I’m censored in any fashion.

I’ll remain mute re: Gloria because I don’t quite know what to think. Del Charro is bustling and quite noisy Friday afternoons, Gloria doesn’t drink but she’s a smoker requiring frequent trips outdoors for fixes, and to be brutally honest—I, Mooner Johnson, have the ADHD.

Gloria might also be afflicted, but Cynthianne is not, no sir-ee, Cynthianne has the laser focus of a clear mind and peaked interest. She’s exactly who we all thought she would be and I’m better off that she’s inside my circled wagons. She has much to say and I’m trying to get her to say some of it here in a guest posting.

Gloria was too busy circling for me to get a firm grasp on her stuff. She always spoke quietly, almost conspiratorially, in the 90-decibel Del Charro air, and I missed most of her words. I did get that she has been involved with a group who persuaded the US Department of Justice to do an investigation into the Albuquerque Police Department. This much I got because Cynthianne told me when Gloria stepped out for a ciggie break.

Our visit was far too short as Gloria wanted to start the hour-long drive home before dark. I’ll let Cynthianne tell you more whenever she decides to say something.

Which brings up another subject… Sex. OK, stop. Sex, and God, which, of course, would be two subjects. OK, stop once more, as in my eyes this particular conversation regards the single-subject introspections of sex and God as conjoined twin subjects sharing all vital organs. Maybe it doesn’t matter how many subjects there are to you, but the distinction is quite important to me.

Which brings up another subject. In an effort to bring better prose to these pages, I have been reading this silly shit to the dogs before I hit the “Publish” button in my Word Press Admin section. I’m not looking for content editing from the Squirt and goat dog, but rather I’m seeking to find if this silly shit is somewhat understandable. I’m actually watching to see if their eyes glaze over as I read to them.

“What’s with all the modifiers, shithead?” Squirt asked me when I read them my last posting. “All the “quites” and “mostlys” and “particulars” are distracting,” she told me. “Why don’t you just say, ‘the sex was good’, and leave out the mostly part?”

I must admit that I needed to think on that for quite some time before I could accurately answer her. “Well, little darling, if I’m going to hold myself accountable to full disclosure in these pages, I’m required to make modifications wherein I see them as necessary statements, usually.”

“Huh?” the diminutive puppy said. She looked at Yoda to get some telepathic information from his small brain—a brain damaged with abuse at the puppy mill over to Okla-fucking-homa and further damaged from his diet of pine cones and the pretty crushed granite gravel Adrian and I spread over some of the yard here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.

“The goat dog thinks that you’re way too fucking wordy, Bwana, he says to tell you that less is more.”

I hate that “less-is-more” bullshit, don’t you guys? I mean I get that sometimes the less you say the better, but when you’re providing the written details of shit that happens you’re required to say what it is with however many words it takes to say it. Right?

“That’s bullshit, sweetie pie, we’re talking about explaining things—we’re not salesmen.”

Squirt looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “What, in the Hell, are you talking about we’re not salesmen?”

“Oh, you know, when a salesman asks for the order he’s supposed to shut the fuck up. The better sales guys will ask you to buy their silly shit and then not speak until you say something in response. That way they can learn what your objections might be so that they can work on you from better perspectives. Unless, of course, they get the order, in which case they take your money.”

I love the part of parenting where you teach your charges advanced insights and stuff. I’m always looking for the right opportunities to give the dogs information to work their ways through this quite crazy world of ours.

“Jesus, Mooner, you really are a nut bag and a confusing nut bag at that. And stop saying ‘of course’ so much. Makes my skin crawl when you say that.”

I know she’s quite right about that. Then again, we’re brought right back to where we started this discourse and that, of course, brings up the meaning of the word “discourse”, which is, “A serious piece of writing or speech.”

How can that be, because dis means “…apart, asunder, away… or having a private negative force…”, and course, of course, means in this case “… a series of actions…”

And that, dear friends, brings me back to the main topic in mind when I started this. Sex and God. Why is sex and God so much on my mind? Because, by God, I need me some sex!!! My hands are so chaffed and rough from spending so much time lathered with Ivory soap that I didn’t need to buy sandpaper when I refinished a night stand this weekend.

I do need some psycho therapy though. OK, and help me with this one. How can you be a smoker without drinking? Only way I could ever stand my own fucking mouth after smoking cigarettes was to drink or commit oral sex.

Maybe I should stop for now and simply say, “Manana, y’all.”

Happy Anniversary, Roe V. Wade; God’s Logic Fails Conservative Christians

Friday, January 25th, 2013


So. What a typical day. The newspaper has stories about how the Holy Roman Catholic Church protected child rapist priests in Los Angeles, the NRA wants no changes in gun laws except to pass legislation requiring every American to own at least three assault rifles, the Republicans in the House of Misrepresentation say the Prezzie’s Inaugural message was a bunch of bunk, and the 15-year old boy here to New Mexico who slaughtered his own family had plans to head over to the fucking Walmart to shoot some more people. All that and my ADHD is operating at high speed.

Bo-ring. I’m ready for some new news. I long for the good old days—whateverthefuck the good old days are.

Which reminds me. Let’s do some talking about the attack on our CIA listening station’s support installation in Benghazi, Libya, and get on with things. If you’ve watched or read any of the coverage, you have noticed that whenever top figures of the Obama administration address the Republicans’ accusations of a cover up, they each, and every one, mention, “If you’ll review the Classified reports, Senator, you’ll better understand…”

OK, look, guys. The Benghazi outpost was not an Embassy, it was an outpost organized to support a CIA “listening station”. My research into just what a CIA listening station might be has lead me to the conclusion that it is just what its name implies—it’s a secret place wherein (whereat?) CIA operatives listen to what local folks have to say on the airwaves, on their bugged telephones and Internet services, and in person. Most, if not all, of these CIA gathered listening activities are Classified, Classified meaning here “not for your eyes, unless of course, you’re a US Senator on this committee, shithead”.

Sooooooo, when the Secretary of State says, “Well, if you’ve read the Classified documents you’d know…” then you, Mr. Fuckball US Republican Senator, would know just how stupid your assertion/question is. Or, Mr. Senator Johnson from Wisconsin, when our new SOS, John Kerry, says to you, he says, “Those of us who attended the briefing and viewed the tapes…” you would realize that you are not simply a fool but, rather, you are a foolish asshole caught in his own traps.

Me, I think these shitheads have known the truth from the start and have used the fact that the facts have been Classified to cover the stink of their shit. I think they are using the fact that administration officials cannot mention classified information to beat them over the head with what info is unclassified.

You don’t need to be a security expert to know that during the initial weeks after the attack, we didn’t want the bad guys to know what we knew. Why risk additional human assets who may be working undercover just to help John McCain seem relevant? Why provide public information that could give clues to an informant’s identity?

Which reminds me. Today is the 40th anniversary of Roe V. Wade. Hip-fucking-hooray for women!!! One of my favorite commenters—Cynthianne from Albuquerque, New Mexico—will be in town to march the State House here to Santa Fe in support of that monumental Supreme Court decision. I’m trying to free my schedule to stand with her and will in any case meet her and her marcher buddies for a drink after.

I salute the strong women nationwide who will be in the streets today to celebrate Roe V. Wade—I give you a hearty “Hoo-Yaaa!”

As for the women and men who will be out against womens’ freedoms today, I have a quite different salute:

“Fuck you, assholes, and your horses too!!!”

And that sentiment brings on another thought. How can you be AGAINST womens’ reproductive rights and be AGAINST gun control as well? I have heard every single argument in support of denying a woman her right to make decisions about her own body, and each argument can be applied to the stand FOR gun control.

Anyway, right-wing Christian arch conservatism has, finally, jumped the shark. My God predicted this in one of Her visits last year. OK, maybe God was a Him during that particular visit or maybe an It. I say God sometimes visits as an It, but can a multi-hued ball of colorful gas have gender? If so, then my God is always either a Her or a Him.

At one time, whenever I would mention God’s visits I would say, “He/She/It.” Stopped that practice when I was in a counseling session with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson this one time and she asked me to read a posting I’d written about one of God’s visits. I think it was the time when God visited me out to the fishing dock there to the Austin ranch. When I finished reading the passage, Sammie asked me, she asked, “What did He shit, Mooner? I didn’t hear anything about God defecating in your story.”

OK, stop. Further reflections lead me to think it was when God and I were discussing the Boy Scouts of America. Or was it one of the many visits to talk about Mother? Whatevertheshit, God is such a tricky subject. There are so many Gods and They’re so often misinterpreted—either by mistake or with purpose, both. Me, I really like mine. I can speak freely and ask questions and basically be myself with my God. All God asks in return is that I treat the rest of the Universe the way I wish the Universe to treat me.

Not such a bad deal, and that reminds me that I keep forgetting to ask God about Heaven. I wonder if I’ve earned my gate key yet? Hell, I wonder if my God even has a Heaven. And what about Hell? And why do black men have bigger peckers? And I really want to know is it chicken, or eggie? Oh, and what about that whole meaning of life scenario? Sounds like I’ve got some serious questions to ask my God.

Ugh. Maybe next visit.

Manana, y’all.



Contemplations On The Dark Side; Godsmack For Dummies

Monday, January 21st, 2013


So. As if there didn’t already exist enough evidence that we have too many of the wrong guns in America, a child of fifteen years murdered his entire family over the weekend in another gruesome assault rifle massacre. As this kid’s father was a dedicated Christian chaplain, my first thoughts upon hearing a few details were, “This is a child abuse scenario.”

Upon sleeping on it and with additional information, my thoughts this early am are that, “This is a child abuse scenario, and maybe this incident will help stimulate actions to better control gun violence in America.”

Then again, I can just hear the Fox fucking News commentators:

“Well, Bill, if only those little girls had had their own AK-47’s locked and loaded in their bedrooms, the dead headcount would have been reduced.”

Asswipe right-wing conservative gun-promoting goat fucking shitheads.

Which reminds me of the dream I had last night. The Squirt has had loose bowels since her visit to the vet Saturday morning. This visit was to check for a bladder infection and they gave her an enema to clear the obstructions for a clean pic of her innards, but her system didn’t take well to the glycerin they pumped up her ass. The little puppy’s constant need to go outside last night somehow disturbated my normal sleep patterns, causing me to have one of those in-and-out dreams—you know, the ones wherein you pick up where you left off each time you get back to sleep.

This dream was a real corker. It was a sex dream, nekid dream, and God dream all balled-up into one convoluted pot of peasant stew. In this dream, God showed Himself in several formats: As one of my former fathers-in-laws, an alligator, the hood ornament on a Mini Cooper, and at last as Allie McGraw.

OK, stop. Is it “fathers-in-laws” or “father-in-laws” or “fathers-in-laws” when you have ten of them? OK, and what if one of them is a retired cop and one an attorney? This particular father of an ex-wife was a fine man and the Chairman of the Austin Public School Board when I graduated High School. My diploma was signed by this quite good man. I might have learned something from him if I’d paid attention. Then again, paying attention is not one of my attributes.

I’m a good watcher but I can’t pay attention for shit.

Anyway, this dream started with me as an employee of this giant company filled with coworkers from my actual life. My boss was God in the form of the ex-father-in-law, I was still married to first wife Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, and in my section of the interesting dream business office were numerous assholes I’ve known over the years, the most pivotal, dream wise, was Pastor, the Dishonorable Dr. Browningwell.

Dr. Shithead Browningwell is Mother’s Baptist preacher back to Austin, or at least he was her asswipe pastor before she enrolled and entered the retirement home there to San Antonio. I think Mother only watches him on TV and speaks to him on the phone these days, yet that limited contact seems to keep my mother’s venom sacks filled with angry poisons.

God Boss wanted me to move to Vicksburg, Mississippi, to work with a branch of the company that made movies and did event coordinating. “Look, Mooner,” God told me, “I need somebody I can trust to go over there and run things. The guy I have there now is a liar.”

“Look, God” I answered, “I love singing the Mississippi song and living there would provide me many opportunities to do just that, but I don’t know shit about movies or event planning, plus you know that I can’t follow instructions.”

God morphed into an alligator—one of those alligators from the old movie Fantasia. Man do I love that movie. There was this time way back in the early 1970’s when they showed Fantasia at the Alabama Theater in the Montrose section of Houston, Texas. It was their Saturday Night Matinée dealio and a bunch of us dropped some acid and went to watch it. Fucking alligators scared the shit out of Patrick and he almost peed his pants.

“Dumbass is way far better than liar as Branch Manager, Mooner. At least I can turn my back on you.”

God was right up in my face as He said this and His breath was something awful. “Your alligator breath smells like rotten potatoes and iguana shit, Sir. Can’t you back off just a touch?”

“No problemo, son, now get dressed and go pack your bags,” God said, and He disappeared.

OK, wait. I have forgotten to tell you the other times when the Squirt awakened me during this dream. The next time was just after I realized that I was dreaming life as an actual employee of a company. See, except for when I was a kid throwing papers or doing dishes over to the Wishbone Fried Chicken Restaurant, I’ve always been my own boss.

First time I fell in love with a black woman was when I washed dishes there to the Wishbone. I was twelve and working the 3:00-to-11:00 pm shift that summer, and the head cook was a woman named Ruby. Ruby was an onyx black woman who always wore a black-and-white checkered apron over her dress, and she tied the apron in back with a perfect bow. The apron’s bow ends always dangled over the curve of her round butt, and often one, or both, of the strings would nestle into the dress’ light crease at her butt crack.

As I was twelve and Ruby was a woman, and I’d never been up close and personal to a black woman’s quite tight and rounded ass—what with the neatly-tied apron strings marking targets for my eyes—Ruby’s ass was a major source of excitement for me. Before my second day of work, I rummaged through the cupboard at home to find our last bar of Ivory soap to take to work with me. Since I had already learned the dangers of unexpectedly stiff peckers this one time at school, I wanted to do what I could to work-off my teen angst while on breaks from the steamy dish machine and Ruby’s steaminess.

“What c’hall doin’ in there, Mooner boy? They’re runnin’ outta spoons in the dinin’ room,” Ruby said to me that day as she banged on the kitchen’s bathroom door .

I hurried my business with the Ivory soap, rinsed myself and went back to washing spoons. Ruby made the world’s best banana pudding and we were always running out of spoons. I guess my face was flushed and I likewise had some stiff pecker residue bulging the front of my shorts, and I also guess that Ruby both saw and analyzed the situation accurately.

“Well looka there, Mildred, looks like Mr. Mooner Johnson has got him a thing for the dark meat.” Mildred and Ruby looked at me askance and started laughing.

“Mmm-mm-mmm,” Mildred said. “I’ve never crossed the fence myself, but if that one wasn’t so skinny… We need ta get him filled-out—put some meat on his bones. Fix that boy a plate a chicken, Ruby.”

OK, wait just a second. This was early 1960’s Texas, where racism was still the prevalent weather, so these women’s words need to be read in that temperament. The fact that they would banter with a white boy was a sign that they were strong women and comfortable bantering with me. For my part, I thought they were making fun of my pecker size until I got home and told the story at dinner.

After listening to me recount the event, Gram said to me, she said, “Ah, Hells-bells, Mooner, they wasn’t talkin’ ’bout yer little pecker, son. They want ya to get some muscle on yer skinny ass. They don’t wanna hurt ya.”

Then the entire table laughed at humor I failed to see. It wasn’t until years later that I understood what Gram meant and, luckily, I’d filled-out.

So, I was getting dressed in my dream and wearing a clown outfit that was way too small for me. Dr. Sam was acting as my valet and trying to get the funny pants buttoned. She was pushing at my pecker through the flimsy clown material in attempts to move it away from the buttons. This is another time when the Squirt awoke me to go take a crapper. “Wake up, shithead, time to head out.”

After washing her adorable furry, brown backsides, I went fast asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. The dream started once more and I found myself standing at the rear of one of those 4-door Mini Cooper cars where Sammie was attempting to stow my giant clown suitcase. The case was brown leather with fat leather straps to hold its bulging sides shut, and the leather was blackened with hundreds of shuttings and stowings before.

There were tattered stickers and stamps from many ports of call plastered all over it, one of which stood out to me. I peered at it around the fat, bulbous and red clown nose glued to my face. “Catch-22 and then Catch Some More,” it read. It was written in Russian Cyrillic script, but I somehow knew its meanings.

“But looka here, Sammie,” I told my ex-wife and psycho therapist valet, “God knows that Slaughterhouse Five is my favorite movie. Catch-22 is several slots down the totem pole.”

“Not about your favorite movie, Mooner, it’s about my favorite movie.” It was God, again, and His voice was coming from the front of the car. I quickly realized He spoke from the hood of the little car in the form of a Jaguar hood ornament—a visage misplaced on the Mini.

“Jaguar’s the wrong image here, sir. You might try for something more fitting,” I said. “Oh, wait. Maybe I should have said you should look for something fitting more.”

I guess that even in my dreams I make marked attempts to be grammatically accurate.

“OK, big boy, how do you like this look instead?” And with that, God transformed into Allie McGraw draped upside down—feet on the roof, long legs draping the windscreen, and torso lying sideways on the hood. Allie-God’s head was resting on Her hand and Her nails were painted red talons at the end of slender fingers. She wore a filmy gauze gown that provided us a view of her spectacular stuff.

“Holy shit, God,” Dr, Sam I. Am-Johnson exclaimed in my dream. “I think I might be a dream lesbian.”

That remark would mark the moment I was reawakened by the lump of brown fur and loose bowels I call Squirt. She was on my chest and in my face, pressing her nose into mine. “Wake up asshole, I think I’m gonna explode!”

“And I might spend too much time in contemplation of sex and my pecker.”

As I took too long to get dressed and take her outside, the poor little puppy had to stop in the hallway to cut loose. “My fault, little lady, don’t worry,” I told her, “let me clean the carpet and then I’ll get to you.”

“Forget your silly rug, asshole. My bottom is on fire. Hose me off and do it now!”

I met some new people Saturday night and one of them asked me what it’s like to have the ADHD. Maybe this helps.

Manana, y’all.

Dinner At Art’s; Lessons In Parenting

Saturday, January 19th, 2013


So. Another day in paradise has begun with 27-degrees of clean mountain air and warm puppy fur. I had dinner last night with some new friends over to their house whereat the wine and food and conversation were stellar. When I got home after, the house was stuffy with dry heat and the dogs were pissed at me.

“You’re an asshole, Mooner,” the Squirt told me as I unlocked the door. “Open some windows and fill our water bowl before you end up with twenty pounds of hairy dog meat jerky.”

“Oh, Jeez, I’m sorry, kid,” I answered as I rushed to get fresh water. “My feet were cold before I left and I forgot to turn the thermostat down.”

I placed the red water bowl on its pad and Squirt lapped like crazy. “Where’s the goat dog, sweetie?”

“Go to your bathroom and see for yourself,” Squirt mumbled between slurps. “You are such a pinche asshole.”

When I went to the bathroom I found Yoda laying on his back with his tongue hanging out. He scrabbled to his feet when I turned on the light, and then tried to gain purchase on the sides of the tub to get out. He looked like he was on ice.

“He’s been stuck in there for three fucking hours, shithead—scampering to get out. He jumped in to lick the last drops of shower water and couldn’t get a grip.”

The Squirt started prodding my leg with her nose in a bullying way. “I’m turning you in to Child Protective Services, Mooner. You have got to make our welfare a higher priority.”

The adorable bundle of brown fur and right thinking poked me once more for emphasis, and said to me, looking straight at me she said, “Come on Yoda, let’s go shed some hair on his clean clothes.”

That reminded me that I was folding the clothes from three dryer loads of laundry I had done just before I left for dinner, and left them on the dining room table. Good thing I’ve grown a taste for dog hair, a thought that brings up another thought.

How much dog hair must I ingest before I start spitting up fur balls? How many pounds of white and brown and tan shed coats does it take to trigger my gack reflex? Does the pet’s coat length make any difference—would long-haired cat fur trigger faster than that of my short-haired puppies?

And what about curly Poodle hair? I don’t think I could choke enough of that shit down to form a decent sized fur ball. Will my fur balls be calcified like a cat’s? Would there be any value in them? Maybe I could carve them into arty objects and sell them at one of the fine art galleries here to town. I would, of course, first need to learn how to carve and that reminds me of an interesting conversation we had last night.

My host is a photographer, like Squattie, and seems to specialize in nature pics. Really good nature pics. He’s also quite bright, a voracious reader of dense philosophy and science, and he remembers every word he reads that might be important.

You remember when you were in school and you would use a yellow highlighter to mark all the shit you wanted to remember for the test? That’s my new friend’s brain. He can quote authors from books he might have read decades ago. Me, I’m so fucking crazy with the ADHD that I have trouble remembering what I can still remember when I can remember it.

Like I can remember, “Ask not what you can do for your your country…,” you know, the same shit that some mostly brain dead asshole like Rick “the Prick” Perry can recall. Then again, I could remember three things if I practiced in preparation for a fucking presidential debate.


Anyway, we somehow got into a discussion about art and what art is. OK, maybe that should be “what is art?” or maybe the question should be, “When does creativity transform personal expression and become Art?”

He and I got into a broad discussion on the question and his wife—my hostess and a likewise quite intelligent and engaging woman—served as moderator. She’s in the art business herself and with very experienced and cultured values re: the subject at hand, and was a terrific facilitator. She reminded me of that guy who had the first popular TV talk show, the guy who is married to the daughter of the old singer who supported the children’s hospital over to some town in Tennessee. Except that she’s much prettier and somewhat more likely to call your bullshit “bullshit” and likewise a poker player. We had quite lengthy discussions on poker.

So, my host—artist that he is—has specific views on the definition of Art and, likewise, as a quite smart man, is able to say many smart things in support of a position that he never quite takes. Instead, he allowed me to pontificate like an asshole on a subject I have no fucking knowledge or understanding about. OK, wait. I pontificated on a subject about which I lack any knowledge or understanding.

Since not knowing anything about a subject never seems to factor into my arguments, I listened to his thoughts and kept pondering and speaking my ideas. Maybe it was the wine, but my thoughts were swirling inside my skull for a half-hour—a confusing swill of gibberish. Then suddenly, the answer came to me.

“It becomes Art, big-A Art, the instant you decide to show another person. Before that, it’s simply your personal shit.”

Am I a smart fucker, or what?” was my thought last night. This morning, I’m more thinking, “I need to learn to listen more, talk less.”

Phil Donahue—that TV host is Margo Thomas’ hubbie and Danny Thomas’ son in law. Remember how he would enthusiastically move between groups with differing ideas and find ways to show support for their divergencies, regardless of their voracities? That was our hostess last night.

My Gram would say, if you asked her, she’d say, “Oh, who really gives a shit, Mooner. Art is Art an’ that shitty picture ya brung home this mornin’ ain’t no fuckin’ Art. Now pass me that plate a pork an’ leave me ta be.”

I don’t know what the rest of you think, but I’m thinking I might have a thread upon which to tug and unravel this “what is Art?” question. Anyway, today will be fifty degrees and the dogs are ready for a long walk. Maybe we’ll run into Allie McGraw again. I’ve been practicing a few lines to use on her to get a date.

Manana, y’all.

Am I Blue?; Childish Behaviors And Other Avoidances

Wednesday, January 16th, 2013


So. It’s a beautiful, frigid morning here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe and I’ve promised myself I won’t let political issues ruin my mental states today. In order to protect said states of mentalness from the aforementioned political issues, I must not write about them herein to start my publicly-interfaced day. I can’t keep my private brain from mulling current events into a pot of swill—what with the ADHD and all—but I can refuse to comment on current events publicly and focus, rather, on issues not of interest to anyone.

Take, for a perfect example, my early morning before I sat to write to you. I was dead asleep, a sleep resultant from too many Carta Blanca beers and too much sauer kraut on my bratwurst sausages at dinnertime. Me, I love me some kraut dogs with icy-cold Carta Blancas, and for some reason I sleep extremely well with a belly-full. OK, I sleep extremely well for about four-and-a-half hours, the approximate time it takes for pork sausages and yeasty beer and sauer kraut to transform from solids into gas.

Blue gas. Squirt calls my kraut dog and Carta Blanca farts “the blue gas”. Actually, she calls it, and here I’ll quote the adorable bundle of brown fur and bad breath from approximately 2:36 am, “You’re farting the blue gas, asshole. I’m fixing to puke on your chest.”

The small puppy’s words were muffled as they mixed with the terrible cloud of noxious air that oozed through the goose down comforter. I was afraid to lift the covers from around my neck. I like to sleep nekid in a very cool bedroom and cocoon myself with covers from the neck down. The thick comforter was billowed like a balloon.

“Open up, shithead, or I’m puking for sure. And get the emergency medical kit—the goat dog has stopped breathing.”

When I opened a slit from around my neck, there was a “shoosh” sound and an odor that made me see stars. The Squirt jumped up and off the bed in one motion and I whipped the three layers of warm fabrics to the side. Yoda was on his side at my feet with his eyes open and tongue hanging out. When I looked closely, I saw his little chest was moving with slow breaths.

“He’s not dead, sweetie pie, he looks stoned.”

She jumped back on the bed and inspected the goat dog. Squirt prodded his belly with her nose and Yoda rolled onto his back and giggled, which made her giggle and me, in turn.

“I still feel bloated so let’s light some kraut farts!” I laughed at the two dogs, a late night comment that reminds me to tell you something.

Do not light sauer kraut farts through your underwear. OK, and do not feed sauer kraut to dogs you allow to sleep with you.

Anyway, I got a call from Gram yesterday to status me on things there to Austin, Texas. Seems that Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry have settled into a happy married life together. “Yer fuckin’ bird looks like Lucy Balls an’ that pig a yers is always a smilin’. It’s like tha fuckin’ witness protection around here.”

Huh? Witness protection?

Oh, I got it. “You mean Rick Perry the ostrich and Rush Limbaugh are like the I Love Lucy sit com? You mean situation comedy, not witness protection, don’t you Gram? Like Rush comes into the room and says, ‘Luuu-chee, I’m hoo-ome!’”

The phone went silent for a bit. “You talkin’ back ta me, Mooner?”

“No ma’am, not even a little bit. I was just trying to understand.”

“Well who really gives a shit, anyhoos?” Gram added. “It’s like a TV show here—ya know, that one with Rickety Ricaboo and ol’ what’s-her-the-fuck. You know, Mooner, tha redhead.”

“Lucille Ball, Gram, you had it right,” I told her.

“An’ do me a favor will ya? Call yer mother an’ tell her where ya live.”

Great. I did. Here’s the first few minutes of that script:

Mother: “Hello, who is this?”

Me: “It’s me, Mother. How are you?”

Mother: “I’m fine. Where are you?”

Me: “Still in Santa Fe, Mother. I’m in Santa Fe, still. Did you go to the doctor?”

Mother: “Why are you in Santa Fe with all of those homo-sex-u-als, son? You know they have secret ways to turn you into their kind.”

Me: “I moved to Santa Fe last summer, Mother, we’ve discussed this a hundred times.”

Mother: “Well, don’t use public restrooms, Mooner. There’s Evil to be found in public bathrooms. Now tell me where you are.”

Seems I’ve reached the third phase of forgiveness with my mother—the “don’t give a shit” phase. It’s been a week since she has said or done anything to raise my blood pressure. Me, I see that as progress. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson feels differently. “Denial, Mooner, you’re in denial and still not addressing your issues with your mother. Maybe I should double my psychotherapy fees so you’ll take things seriously.”

I think it’s like my Gram always says. I feel better, so who really gives a shit?

Manana, y’all.



One More Time; Mel Gibson Re-Jumps The Shark

Monday, January 14th, 2013


So. For starters, I’d like to say that it seems that America’s Congressional politicians are finally going to enact smart gun laws after the recent murders in an elementary school. That’s what I’d like to say. Instead, I’ll say that one more time it appears that the mass slaying of innocents has brought nothing more than communal grief, the requisite chatter about “is this finally the tipping point”, and a gigantic spike in sales of the very same guns used in those killings.

One more time guns are used to kill, and one more time public outrage demands intelligent changes, and one more time nothing will happen except for the fact that more guns are sold. One more time big business’ monetary influences and extremists overruns civility and humanity in America.

One more time our law enforcement professionals and educators and parents publicly plea for restrictions to make our schools and movie houses and shopping centers and restaurants and churches and business offices safer, and one more time we’ll get nothing but talk—and more guns sales.

One more time Walmart made a contrived sympathetic gesture and stop gun sales for a few days, and one more time Walmart will see record gun sales in the weeks after. One more time the NRA will blame all but the guns for the violence, and one more time America will bury and forget dozens of wasted lives.

One more time we’ll honor murdered children and teachers and other innocent bystanders to the politics of the business of guns, and one more time—as a country—we will write-off those lost lives as the cost of doing gun business in America. One more time dead children will become the cannon fodder used by gun pushers to sell more fucking guns.

One more time sanity will be ignored in the name of extreme misinterpretations of The Second Amendment, and one more time we will fail to provide policies or funds for the mental health needs of our population.

One more time.

What would it take to get smart gun laws? If the151killed in mass murders in one year of 2012 aren’t enough, then how many mass murders will it take? The average high school in our country has about 1,100 students. If an entire school population were murdered in a mass shooting, would that be enough? No?

OK, what about that technical school over to Brooklyn, New York, where they have over 8,000 students. If some assholes were to shoot up 8,000 kids, would that be enough? Is there any number of murders that would tip the scales from acceptable to un-fucking-acceptable?

Senator McCain—you got a number, sir?

Ugh. This shit makes me tired and angry, and tired of being angry.

On a better note, I caught some of the Golden Globes last night. I want to say that I admire Jody Foster. I also want to say that Mel Gibson looked like he’d been ingesting my Gram’s magic mushroom juices without a license and on an empty stomach. I also want to say to Oprah and Lance Armstrong, “Fuck both of you. Lance, you’re too little and too late, Mr. One-Nut Wonderman, and, Oprah… Please stop giving these celebrity fuckballs the forum when they are only using you to change public opinion. You, my good woman, don’t need the publicity.”

Anyway, I’m headed to the Sandia Casino to play a little poker. Manana, y’all.


More Lessons In Parenting; Mooner Almost Sees Nekid Hilary

Friday, January 11th, 2013


So. Today is one of those days when I have both doubted my own sanity and discovered ways to reinforce that thinking. For those of you who might think that use of the word “both” in that prior sentence was a redundancy, as Redundancy is my middle name I think no additional explanations are required—unless, of course, you have no fucking idea of what it is I have just said.

Other than to say that most folks—those among us NOT suffering from the dreaded ADHD—don’t need more than one instance of insanity to question their grasp of realities, while we ADHD’ers often require multiple instances of lunacy to provoke our questioning.

As crazy as those first two paragraphs might seem, careful examinations should produce lucidity.

For starters, I awoke early this morning from another excitement filled dream with a head full of spinning thoughts, and ten pounds-worth of pointy puppy feet jabbing into my overfilled bladder. In the dream I was undressing Hilary Clinton while Chelsea was poking me with a stick to make me stop. The poking dream hurt.

“Wake up, shithead, and take us out,” I heard in awake an voice. “The goat dog has already pissed in one of your new boots and I’m ready to shit the bed.”

It was the Squirt, and she was intentionally leveraging her weight back-and-forth between my swollen bladder and my nut sack. The new boots are the ones I bought for my planned Santa Fe protestings. My old hiking boots have worn tread not worthy of my new native city’s often-slick winter concrete.

“Stop trying to cause internal bleeding, shitbird, I’m getting up,” I grogged at her. “I never should have given you that biology lesson.”

A few weeks ago I gave the dogs lessons in the differences in anatomies in dogs and humans. Squirt wanted to gain a keen understanding because, as she said, “I’m just curious as to why we shit more than you. We eat only twice daily and you always seem to be stuffing something into your mouth.” I now know that she was researching ways to manipulate me.

“If you jab my bladder again, I’ll sell your short-bowel digestive system to the Malaysians for Satay. Now get off me and let’s go outside.”

Squirt stared at me with big brown eyes and poked my liver with her back foot and jumped off onto the floor. “Now!” she shouted, “Let’s get with it.”

When the three of us got to the back door, we found that Santa Fe had received another dusting of snow. We walked outside, where Yoda and I went to the base of the big Ponderosa pine tree to pee. I looked over my shoulder to make sure Squirt was doing her business on the little patch of grass planted as her bathroom but she wasn’t there. I looked over my other shoulder to see her taking a giant crap on the welcome mat just outside the door.

“What the hell are you doing, Squirt? Stop right now and do your business on the grass.”

The adorable little bucket of piss and vinegar didn’t even bother to look at me when she said, “Up yours, asshole. Until you sweep the snow off my grass, I’m doing business right here.”

We then had an extended debate about her potty habits that ended with the Squirt saying to me, she said, “As soon as you drop your drawers and take a shit in knee-deep snow, I’m crapping on this rug.”

There’s now a soup bowl-sized hole in a snowdrift over to the corner of the back yard containing my most recent bowel movement, and I still can’t feel my ass cheeks. The longer I’m a parent, the more I realize just how difficult proper parenting can be. I have always believed that a good father leads by example—a parenting tenet that I need to learn how to properly use.

It’s like that old saying “Sauce for goose = sauce for gander”? Not always true.

Which reminds me. Walmart internal Emails have been uncovered that prove Walmart executives knew that company officials were using bribes to gain favor in foreign countries. Then they lied about it to Federal investigators.

Surprise, surprise!

Seems that some of the bribes involved payments that allowed Walmart to build one of their stores on ancient Mayan ruins down to Mexico. Maybe that’s the end of the world that Mayan Calendar predicted.

With the uncovering of these Emails, turns out that maybe Walmart has been bribing officials all over the world. Again, what a surprise. Walmart might be one of the Top Ten Evil Businesses in the World. They are top three in America and we, as Americans, need to take a stand and bring a stop to Walmart’s unbridled greed.

You don’t save money shopping at Walmart, folks, those “low Walmart prices” are a trick. They take advantage of their employees and suppliers and governments to reduce their costs and increase profits. We, as their customers, pay extra taxes and suffer lost income in various ways to support Walmart’s egregious business practices. They break our laws and profit from the suffering of underpaid sweatshop workers toiling in unsafe conditions worldwide.

The Walton family already own more of our country’s private wealth than 100,000,000 other Americans combined—an estimated 20% of all our wealth! They have enough already, so let’s stop Walmart’s greed.


If I can get my shit together I’m going to start marching on the local Walmart store. Maybe you’ll join me. Manana, y’all.

Lessons In Civility; Fuck Walmart

Monday, January 7th, 2013


So. What a day it has already been. The dogs got me up earlier than usual because, as Squirt told me, “We’re starving!”

The adorable bundle of short, soft brown fur was standing on my chest and was nose-to-nose with me. “That’s total bullshit, little lady,” I replied to the huger brown eyes and morning dog breath smack in my face. “You’re just excited to have a fresh bag of lamb and whole grains food. Now get out of my face and go back to sleep.”

Rather than shush, she nudggied my left eye socket with her wet snout. “Get up, asshole, and fix our breakfast… And do it now. Do you really think you’ll be getting any more sleep if you don’t feed us?”

Dog had a point. “Alright, shitbird, but you have to promise to leave me alone when I work on my taxes.”

Since I’m not getting any sex these days, I figured I’d complete the torture by starting work on my taxes. Doing taxes is tough for me—a mixed bag of emotions and moral decisions. With the addition of my ADHD to the mix, tax work can be dangerous without the constant interruptions of the dogs.

I believe in taxes. Have believed ever since my grandfather explained to me the role of governments in the lives of civilized people. Granddad’s lesson came when he and I went to the new clothing store that opened near us to buy a year’s worth of overalls for he and Daddy. They were having a big Grand Opening Sale. Both my fraternal bloodlines had the ADHD, so tangled, mangled and shredded clothing was a part of everyday ranch life. Buy my stupid fucking book and you can get the low down on that dealio.

When we got to the counter to pay for the double armful of blue denim and brass zippers and snaps, the owner of the store told Granddad that, “I want to thank you gentlemen for shopping with us.” Then with a conspiratorial whisper he added, “You can save the sales tax if you pay in cash.”

Granddad said, “No thanks, buddy, we don’t shop with crooks,” and we left that store and drove to Callahans, our usual overall supplier. The overalls would cost more in price and the sales tax was added on top. Money was tight for us and I had questions.

When I asked him why we left without a purchase—especially when we could save so much money—my grandfather told me about why we want to pay taxes. I can’t remember the entire conversation since two ADHD-addled brains in the cab of one old pickup truck can create confusion. But I do remember the gist.

“Look, son, the mainstay of any civilization is its ability to protect and serve its citizens—to provide police and fire and schools and roads and such—so that the quality of life for every citizen is an improvement over less civilized masses of folks. It’s the governments, like the state of Texas and the mighty U.S. of A., that provide that protection and services. Taxes are the way governments raise the cash to pay for all that.”

Granddad always called America the U.S. of A., and proudly each time. I often wonder what he would think about the decreasing civility of today’s America.

“OK,” I told him. “But we could have saved $2.47 in sales tax if we’d bought from that crook. I could get a lot of candy with that $2.47.”

Granddad pulled the truck over to the side of the road. “Get out and walk home, Mooner. And stay off the roads that were paid for by tax money. And you wade Waller Creek, boy. Taxes paid for that bridge.”

When I finally got home, my jeans were still wet from the knees down, and the family was already seated for dinner. Daddy couldn’t stifle the case of giggles he was having. “Sit an’ eat, Mooner,” Gram told me. “Least he didn’t drop ya all tha ways up ta Georgetown like he did yer daddy. Would sumbody pass me tha fuckin’ peas afore Mooner gits his hands on ’em?”

I love fresh green peas and would often eat straight from the communal bowl after everyone else had taken a first serving, and it seems my father had received the same lesson as me only on the way back from Waco to buy a bull. Georgetown is between Austin and Waco and about thirty miles from the ranch.

Dinner conversation was about taxes and their roles in our lives. How America had used taxes to raise the funds to pay for and win the two big wars, how FDR had helped bring us back to our feet from the Great Depression while creating massive new infrastructure nationwide. As I’ve stumbled through life I have gathered increased appreciations for the benefits of taxes.

Take, for example, jails. As a regular inhabitant of jails around the world, it has been the ones in more civilized countries that have had the best accommodations. Countries of lesser-taxed people sport incarceration centers lacking in many basic pleasantries while guards find sport in tormenting their charges.

Like Mexican jails. I fucking hate Mexican jails.

Or roads or schools or police or utilities, like say… Drinking water. In some under-civilized places, rich folks drink mechanically cleaned water while commoners drink the same fetid swill as their animals.

Bottom line, I like the services and comforts afforded by my governments and do not mind paying for them. And therein, Virginia, lies the rub.

I’m a painfully honest taxpayer. I want to be sure that I report each and every source of income. But I likewise want to take every reasonable deduction—the root cause of which I approve.

OK, that was awkward. What I meant to say is that if I approve of the fairness of a deduction I will take it. If not, nope. And while I’m at it, shouldn’t I have said “…double armfuls of denim…” a few paragraphs ago?

Example: I always took Dependant deductions for my kids but I’ll never take long term capital gains. Each and every family or single parent raising kids deserves a break to hep with child rearing costs.

But Long Term Capital Gains—I find LTCG’s to be counterintuitive to a civilized populace. You have to have massive amounts of disposable income to afford investments that qualify for them, and only the wealthy can get the huge discounts on income taxes. Said another way, rich folks get tax breaks for being rich.

How fucking dumb is that? Our tax code rewards rich people for being rich? Really?

And don’t start with all that job creator and investment capital bullshit with me. I own businesses—small businesses—and I’ve never NOT created a job when consumer demand for my products required it regardless of my tax rates. Nor have I not invested one dollar to make ten just because I had to pay thirty-nine cents more in taxes on that nine bucks profit than I did on the previous nine bucks profits.

Profits are profits folks, and an extra 3.9% on each buck a person makes over his first $400,000 isn’t stopping anyfuckingbody from working hard on his next nine dollar profit. When I hear these billionaires whining about the new tax deal I just want to piss on their shiny shoes.

Asshole greedy infrastructure-stealing bastards.

Anyway, I’m starting work on my personal tax shit and thinking about food and beer. And of protesting over to the Walmart. I met a nice lady and her also nice husband at lunch and they offered to march with me. I just need help with my signs. I know what goes on the front of the signs—FUCK WALMART!!!—but I’m lost for words on the reverse. I’m having trouble with what message to put on the other side.

What do you guys think I should put on the back side of my FUCK WALMART signs? Tell me your ideas, and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

Transitory Thinking For Transitional Times; Fuck Walmart Too

Friday, January 4th, 2013


So. I started my day after coffee and the newspaper by rearranging the front room here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.

“Look, shithead,” the Squirt said to me at dinner last night, “move this big rug from under the dining table and switch it with the smaller one over in the living room side. This monster is in the way over here and will make our living room cozier by the fireplace.”

“Huh?” I replied. “I thought I threw all of those Martha Stewart magazines away. Who’s been filling your cute little head with decorating ideas?”

“Don’t be an asshole. It’s common sense. Besides, you won’t keep tripping over the thick hem of this big carpet if it’s over there out of your path.”

The dog had a point. I have almost busted my ass a dozen times tripping over the carpet in the dark. We finished moving shit just before noon and I must admit that it has changed the front of our home for the better.

“Now get your rangy ass to the store and get us some dog food. The goat dog says he’s going to eat some of your new undies if you forget and he has to wait on his supper tonight.” Squirt though about it for a minute, then added, “And get us the one with lamb—not chicken. I’m tired of chicken.”

“You’ll eat what I buy you, shitbird. You’re lucky I didn’t take you to the pound after what it cost to fix your fucking teeth. Why didn’t you tell me you broke your molars? If I hadn’t been so concerned about your stinky breath your entire mouth could have rotted out.”

She tried to bite her new vet when he touched her sore gums. “And if you bare your spiky little fangs at the doc again I’m giving you back to your previous owner.”

“How about I latch on to your nut sack and shake my head like a break dancer?”

I love that adorable little bundle of piss and vinegar. Starting to be major league attached to the goat dog as well. As for the fucking cat, Honor came home long enough to puke bird feathers and rat bones on the island in the kitchen and shed maybe three pounds of hair and pine needles onto the aforementioned large rug.

The rug is one that Gram picked up from when she, Mother and Daddy visited Iran back to when the Shaw was running things. I was a much younger man and Sister yet the age of consent. When I asked Gram what she had to pay for the beautiful Persian carpet, Mother hurriedly clamped her palms over Sister’s ears and sternly told Gram, “Don’t you dare whisper a word of your debauchery.”

Rug was worth a couple grand, and I’m guessing that Iranian men had never met an old broad quite like my grandmother. Likely some poor fellow gave Gram the rug to get her out of his bed.

Which reminds me. My neighborhood is a transitory migration area for Santa Fe pedestrians. There’s a group home, a shelter and soup kitchen a couple miles away to the west and State of New Mexico Services buildings and the Interstate highway is on my east. So we get quite a bit of foot traffic. I like this aspect of my neighborhood and will as long as I remember to take everything out of the cars before coming inside.

I like to know that my new hometown is taking care of its needy and the stream of pedestrians provides that confirmation. Of course, as Santa Fe has terrific public transportation, many of our walkers are going to and from the train and bus stops and aren’t passers-through.

When I got back from the store with dog food and a reload of Carta Blanca beer, I fixed lunch and turned on the TV to watch Andrea Mitchell’s show on MSNBC. She is, in my eyes, one of the best of her kind and I try to watch her anytime I can. From my chair at the table I can see both the TV and out of the big window that displays a clear shot of my street to the corner, and three houses either way on the cross street.

I took a first, big bite of my egg salad sammy just as Andrea cut to commercial. It was that Trace Atkins ad for his Wounded Warriors Foundation. In the first ten seconds I was blinking tears and by the time it ended I needed to blow my nose. I got up to get something for my snotty snout and looked out my window at motion that caught my eye from the street corner.

A neighborhood dog was harassing a man on crutches. The man wore old Army clothes and seemed barely able to navigate the icy street, much less deal with my neighbor’s asshole dog. OK, I should have said “my asshole neighbor’s shitty and mean dog.”

Without wiping eyes or nose either, and in my house slippers and no jacket, I raced outside to help the man. I ran his way and when I got near enough I yelled, “Hold on brother, I’ll get rid of the dog.”

I got a dozen yards out and Dickhead the dog looked up at me. “I’ll bring Yoda and Squirt out to kick your ass, Dickhead,” I said. “Get back home now!”

The dog was named Dickhead by the Squirt and he fears Yoda. I think his owner is the actual dickhead and the dog simply badly parented. He took off for home and I got to the man.

“You OK?” I asked. “You need some help?”

“Naw, I’m not hurt. But I can’t get into the VA Hospital until summer to get fitted with a leg, and these crutches are a bitch on ice.”

The man looked me over and shook his head. He reached into a backpack I hadn’t noticed before and removed a paper towel. “Here, take this and blow your nose before you get icicles in your beard.”

“Huh?” I replied.

“Why don’t you walk with me over to the shelter and we’ll get you some shoes and warm clothing. Really, you’re gonna freeze your nuts right on off.”

Then I got it. He was worried about me.

“Naw, you come with me. That’s my house,” I pointed. “Come have an egg salad sandwich and a beer with me, then I’ll drive you to wherever you’re headed.”

His name’s Teddy and he lost a leg from below the knee and one ear’s worth of hearing in Afghanistan. Lost his leg and hearing and wife with two kids, his home and car and life. Teddy lost almost everything while serving our country, but he didn’t lose his dignity.

We ate and had two beers each, and I drove him over to the Human Services offices for whatever business it is he wanted to do. I asked Teddy why it’s taking him a year-and-half to get an appointment for a new leg, and do you know what he said to me? He said, “Hey, Mooner. I’m one of the lucky ones. It takes most folks three-and-a-half to four years to get fixed up. Between the lack of funds and red tape, some guys kill themselves to avoid the wait.”

I just checked and it’s true. Most wait years and many wounded veterans have to wait as long as four years to get treatment for wounds suffered while serving, and military suicides are through the roof. Four fucking years!

Hey Congress, Mister President. Whatinthefuck is wrong with you? You ship our service folks off to your stupid wars and then treat them like unwanted damaged goods upon their return?

From reading my buddy Reckmonster’s accounts, a veteran getting treatment isn’t any big treat when he does manage to get to the head of the line. Lack of funding doesn’t allow the VA to provide the best of service. Michelle works in the mental health section of a major VA hospital and she sees some shit.

But this has got to stop. Congress must act to fix this. How about this idea—we have the Congressional health insurance be identical to what wounded soldiers get. Those assholes must get in line with our wounded warriors for their treatments. We’d have this issue be a non issue before February.


This is America, for shit sakes. What is wrong with us? I mean other than big business runs Washington DC and big business doesn’t give a shit about veterans. It seems that a soldier is only valuable to the Military Industrial Complex as long as he’s consuming ordinance and Halliburton’s services.

Anyhow, I’m headed over to Dickhead’s house with the dogs to see what we can do to enforce Santa Fe’s leash laws. Manana, y’all.

And BTW. Think about making a donation to the Wounded Warriors Foundation. Good organization doing good work.


Forgiveness Update And Poontang Status; Mooner Still A Fucking Mess

Thursday, January 3rd, 2013


So. Much adieu about nothing and so little time. Maybe that should be “much a’do”, and then, again, maybe adieu is most appropriate. Maybe I’m filled with conflictions this new year and maybe I’m simply crazy.

Smart money bets crazy at 1-to-5.

Let me start by saying that my NY Eve date was semi-successful. I wasn’t arrested—I was “detained”. I didn’t assault the asshole sitting on the bar stool next to me—I simply flicked his nose for squeezing his wife’s wrist hard enough to make my fingers go numb. And I got no first-date-everyone-gets-laid-on-New-Years-Eve poontang.

Enough said.

Having said that, let me add that my ADHD is in a unique phase that started when I arrived back to Santa Fe from Austin. I have been ruminating over how much to say about Mother, and my thoughts/feelings thereto. You guys have been incredibly supportive in your attempts to push me into rehabilitations, for which I am mostly appreciative.

However, since none of you took my side and tried to help me find ways to hang on to my anger at Mother without doing damage to myself, please allow me to provide you with further information. Let me make a further attempt to illuminate this runway.

OK. To me, you forgive someone for things they did—stuff they already finished doing. I used to think that you forgive people only when they ask for it—an opinion I have long been of changed mind.

“Forgiveness is for the forgiver, Mooner,” Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson has told me on something akin to a thousand times.

“Fuck forgiveness” has slipped from my lips maybe twice that often.

Which reminds me. It’s been really cold since we got back and everything but the front porch, steps and sidewalk are covered with snow. And my ADHD has been in a weird stage wherein I am strongly focused on only one of the many thoughts in my silly head.

Problem with that is my focus isn’t on the physical actions of my body, but, rather, what I’m doing is done as an afterthought to whatever else it is upon which I’m focused. Think on that and you’ll understand.

As an example, I was taking the recycling out to the green plastic bins in the driveway but my mind was on my recent date. Half an hour later, I was up to the Ace Hardware and standing in the plumbing isle looking at the plungers while holding two paper bags—one filled with squished plastic and metal containers and the second half-filled with paper. I had the newspaper stopped while we were gone, so half a bag there. The plastic stuff is from the trip back.

I didn’t buy the plunger but I did buy this nifty grinder that was on sale. The two bags of recycling are, I think, still on the floorboard in the back seat of the GTO, and I’m looking for something to grind besides my teeth.

When I told this story to Dr. Sam during my phoned-in psycho therapy session, she said to me, she said, “Look, Mooner, I think that you’re seeking plungers is a metaphor for your sex life. Aren’t you getting any?”

“Bitch,” I told her. “Are you paying any attention to what I’ve been saying for the last three months?”

I guess I am a bit backed-up. Like I said, it’s been quite cold and the puppies hate to get their feet cold or wet. “Get your asses out there into the snow and shit there,” I barked at them the first time I let them out after we got back to Santa Fe. “If you shit on the porch again I’m not taking you skiing with me.”

“Fuck you,” the adorable bundle of brown fur told me. “You pick me up and poke my ass in the snow without proper protective clothing one more time and I’ll shit in your beard while you sleep.”

I’ve grown a beard for a few weeks so the Squirt’s threat had teeth.

“And I’ll tell Yoda to start pissing in your boots again. Now stop looking at me. I’m going to crap on the welcome mat and I don’t like you watching me.”

At least their shit is easy to pick up when it’s frozen like Popsicles.

But here’s what I want to tell you. My Mother has a sister, a woman I’ve never before mentioned in these pages. “On” these pages? Her name is Aunt Mary and she is a family black sheep. I won’t go into all of it other than to say that she has been distanced from our family for decades—a distancing insisted upon by my mother.

Without my knowledge, Mother bought Aunt Mary tickets to fly in and visit at her place in San Antonio after Thanksgiving. When Mother told Sister about her actions, Sister thought that Mother was going to make peace with her sister. While that last sentence was full of sisters, my mother’s actions ended up as not sisterly in any way whatsoever.

After numerous phone calls with Mother to solidify arrangements, my sister, Sister, drove to San Antonio and picked Aunt Mary up at the airport, drove her to Mother’s place and took Aunt Mary and her bags upstairs to Mother’s as previously arranged. No answer, and the door was locked. Worried that Mother had fallen or worse, Sister panicked. She got management to let her in but found no parent when she searched the two-bedroom apartment.

The management person said, “Have you looked in the dining room? Your mother eats an early dinner and plays canasta with friends this time of day.”

Sure enough, Mother was at a table with three other old bags, eating and playing cards. When Sister asked her, “Whatthefuck?” Mother answered, “I’m not giving up my card game for (Envision Mother pointing a finger at Aunt Mary) her. Tell her she’s in the front bedroom. Now go away.”

And to make this a short story of a very long four days for Aunt Mary, my mother’s kindest remarks were at that initial meeting. Mother wouldn’t be in the same room with Aunt Mary, wouldn’t speak directly to her and otherwise treated her like shit. I likely wouldn’t have known about this because, one- Sister didn’t want me to write about it and, two- Aunt Mary has no way to contact me.

I only found out because Gram accidentally spilled the beans. If you want a secret spread, tell my Gram.

In boiling the bullshit out of this, my mother paid for tickets to fly her sister from France—did I forget to say that Aunt Mary lives in France and has Rheumatoid arthritis and that the return trip was scheduled for two weeks after arrival? Did I forget to tell you that Mother made arrangements for her sister to have three layovers of more than four hours each? Me, I’ve got some bad knees and a hip that throw fits on long layovers in airports. I can’t imagine the discomfort a sufferer of RA would endure.

Did I forget to tell you that Aunt Mary is a lesbian and that Mother berated her own sister for, “Your heretical choice,” and that, “God hates you just as she does my daughter. You two can burn in Hell holding homo-sex-u-al hands.”

Sister took Aunt Mary to Austin with her for the remainder of the two weeks and rescheduled the flights with but one two-hour layover.

I’m supposed to forgive my mother so that I can have better mental health. But it is a quite difficult task when she does things like this. When she keeps doing these things. In order for this to work for me, I will need to forgive everything Mother has already done and then forgive her for the things she will do. That’s difficult for me when I feel that what she did to Aunt Mary was unforgivable.

Fucking ugh!

Anyway, that’s my forgiveness update and poontang status for January 3, 2013. Now it’s time to pick up the turdsicles from out to the front porch. I don’t want to slip on a pile and and bust my ass.

Manana, y’all.