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?