So. It’s been two weeks since I last had the freedom to write and post to the pages herein, and even with all the elapsed time since, I find myself verbally tapped-out. It isn’t that I have nothing to say, as my brain is brimming with shit to say—the Boston bombings, the gun control issue, the Boy Scouts of America, the George W. Bushkin Liebary, the new Popester—it is, rather, that I have an overriding issue that plays trump card to even the Ace of Spades.
With me having been so busy—too fucking busy to write—you’d have thought that I’d be spilling and spewing with my usual alacrities and verbosities once I had a waking moment of freedom. But, alas, you’d have been wrong in those thinkings.
The busyness of me started when I accepted a position with a buddy’s business. Having always had my own business since I was a kid, and having always been the guy with both the financial responsibility when things go badly and losses are suffered, as well as the guy who profits from my businesses’ profitability, I assumed, falsely, that I would not feel any pressure from the Big Picture responsibilities of the business attached to my new job. I assumed that I could do my job and only concern myself with the doing of that job to my best and let the rest of the marbles gather as they may.
What I didn’t assume is the simple fact that I find myself more concerned about my buddy’s financials than I ever was for my own. I worry that any imperfect decision made by me will cost another man a buck. And more important than anything else that is involved with this string of misguided thoughts, I’m finding myself worrying about another man’s business more that I ever worried over my own, and I love it—am almost consumed by it.
OK, stop the train before my ADHD drives said train up the ass of the crowd gathered at the station. The aforementioned Trump Card has, actually, nothing to do with my new job, and everything to do with scheduling. See, it’s Spring in Enchantedland, and everyfuckingbody I know wants to pay a visit here to Santa Fe. Normally this isn’t an issue, as I love my friends and the seeing of them, and I love to cook and entertain. But with the job, my many visitors have had to mostly entertain themselves and I have eaten out more times in the last sixty days than in the previous sixty years.
OK, maybe that was a slight exaggeration, yet the slights given by me to my guests have taken a toll on me. I find myself apologizing for not entertaining people who have had a ball entertaining themselves, and then feeling badly for myself for not having balled with them.
Well wasn’t that an awkward sentence construction? I didn’t mean to say that I feel bad because I didn’t sex it up with all of my friends, but, rather, that I didn’t get to have fun with them, and that all said not withstanding the simple fact that it’s been so long since I’ve had any sexing that I’ve forgotten what I’m missing.
And that, dear friends, is sad.
Anyway, I sat down to write last night after driving this last week’s guests to the airport. I had full intentions to tell you about something that occurred to me as I was watching the continuing coverage of the Boston bombings. It dawned on me that this 24-hour coverage is a recreation of the frenzied media circus that surrounds despicable acts by humans on humans, and that this sort of dealio started when OJ Simpson brutally slaughtered his wife and the waiter and then acted like a shitty-diapered baby as he was chauffeured around LA in that fucking Ford Bronco.
I remember that everyone sat and stared at the TV pictures of the Juice’s car as it wound through the streets just as all of America was staring at the Boston coverage. I remember what my Gram was saying to OJ, through the TV, in the repeated staccato of a Mockingbird.
“Shoot yersef and git this shit over with, ya big woman killin’ shitball. Pull tha fuckin’ trigger already. I’mma missing tha Goldie Girlies an’ yer pissin’ in yer panties like a baby. Pull tha fuckin’ trigger!!!” Gram said over and over again.
Which reminds me. Isn’t it ironic that the surviving Muslim extremist Boston bomber is getting his medical care at Beth Israel Hospital?
When I sat computer-side contemplating the entire OJ Simpson connection, the dogs were both attempting to sit in my lap. The Squirt has always been a daddy’s girl, but the goat dog came to me with the standoffishness that can only be beaten into the soul by the brutish brutality of an abuser. But it seems that Yoda has finally begun to truly trust me, and I also sense a little actual love.
“Jesus Christ, Mooner, will you make him get down?” the Squirt implored me. “He’s got his smelly ass jammed against the side of my head and I’m starting to get the gag reflex.”
And that’s when the phone rang. I answered.
Me: “Hey, Gram, how’s it hanging, baby?”
Gram: “Don’t ya go a talkin’ bout my titties, Mooner, they’s startin’ ta look like roadkill. Now tell me what yer doin’ inna middle a June.”
Me: “Well, except for work, I had plans to explore some more mountain ranges. Did I ever tell you that New Mexico has more than seventy different specifically-named mountain ranges? I plan to visit each before the end of the year, and I’ve been to a dozen so far.”
Fram: “Oh, who gives a shit ’bout yer fuckin’ Canadian cookstovies, we’re a plannin’ ta come up yer way tha middle a June.”
Me: “Canadian cookstovies? Gram, what in the hell are you talking abou… Oh, mountain ranges goes to Mountie ranges goes to Canadian cookstoves.”
Gram: “Don’t backtalk me, shithead, er else I’ll come down there an’ kick yer ass. Now make plans. Me an’ Hilda and tha P-Cubed an’ yer sister an’ Annie are a comin’ down ta’ see ya, an’ we ‘spect ta be havin’ a mighty good time.”
Me: “That’s great, Gram, it’ll be great to see you guys. We can go hiking and camping and looking for wild mushrooms and all sorts of shit.
Gram: “An’ line-up some poontanger fer tha P-cubed an’ me. Somthin’ with a little stayin’ power this time.”
Me: “OK,” I said to dead phone air.
“Hey, Squirtie Girl, we’re getting a family visit in six weeks. We need to do some planning.”
The adorable bundle of brown fur rustled in my lap, pushed Yoda to the floor and said to me, she said, “Maybe we can arrange for them to go to a funeral. I met a man who knows a man who can end my miseries with that bug-eyed asshole.”
I picked Yoda off the floor and held him up for a squeeze. “You’d miss him if he was…”
The phone rang again. “Hey, Gram,” I answered.
“Fergot ta tell ya that yer mother’s a comin’ with,” and the phone clicked in my ear again, this time sounding like a shot.
“Huh?” I said to the dead phone in my hand. “Mother is coming to visit? I talk to her every fucking day and she’s said nothing about it to me?”
I didn’t sleep all night and now I’m sitting at my computer at 4:30 am trying to sort my feelings of dread from those of hope. I dread the visit and I hope I survive it. I dread Mother’s words and hope she doesn’t spoil everyones’ time here.
Ugh. Fucking ugh.
In the real-time of this writing, the full moon has just now made its appearance through the thick boughs of the big Ponderosa pine that frames my view of the mountains. It glows with the light of Hope and Calm, and seems to drench me with the same Peace I felt with my first dunking in the smelly, tepid waters in the fiberglass baptismal pool of my family’s Southern Baptist church. I was nine years old and had already been convinced that I was a worthless sinner, and the promised Salvation of a near drowning salved my tattered, wicked soul. For about a month.
And in this instant, the sense that the visit from my mother will be OK—that calm and peace gained from bathing in this moonlight—is already turning into dread. Just as the promised salvation of Preacher Browningwell’s words turned into the realization that my family’s chosen religion was a pile of bullshit, the same instincts in my preteen brain tell me that the Moon’s calming light brings a false calm. The happiness I feel to see my family is trumped by the overwhelming dread that Mother’s inclusion adds.
But like Gram always say when she says to me, “Who really gives a shit, Mooner. Lot kin happen in six weeks.”
It’s daylight now and time to feed the dogs. So I’ll say manana, y’all. OK, maybe I should say, “Semana, y’all.” OK, maybe that should be a couple of semanas, y’all.