So. It’s a cut crystal sky awakening in the view from my office window, and the dogs are back asleep in the bed. I’m sitting here with soggy eyes and nose from the juniper pollen still filling the enchanted air of my new homeland, and I just realized that God paid me another visit last night.
“Why, Mooner,” you might ask, “does sitting at your desk with three pounds of crusty snot plastered on your face remind you that God made a house call to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe?”
“Because, dear reader, I’m an ADHD-riddled fuckball who has absolutely zero controls on his thoughts.”
OK, stop. Do I lack controls ON my thoughts, or, rather, would it be more grammatically correct to lack controls OF my thoughts? I do know that I would ponder ON my thoughts should I be in a pondering mood—which I am—yet, and alas, I now realize that the aforementioned ADHD has taken control of the steering wheels of my brain and has every intention of driving us into a ditch.
To emphasize this notion, I got a call from Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson Thursday afternoon for a scheduled psycho therapy session. While the original intent of that particular session was to, and here I’ll quote Sammy with some precision when she said to me, she said, “I’ve been meaning to speak with you about your blog posts, Mooner. I think it’s good for your audience that you are not posting so many of your whatever it is that you post on your blog. While it might be good for you to write your loony thoughts often, I think you should consider the fact that your kind of crazy might be contagious.”
Huh? Did my lovely first ex-wife, babies’ momma and psycho therapist just tell me that I’m making other folks nutso? “Are you saying that my writings make other people crazy? Really?”
“OK, maybe I didn’t say that just right when I said that your sort of lunacy MIGHT be contagious.”
I blew my snotty nose and wiped the hardened pellets of tears from my eyes while I thought of an appropriate response. After thirty seconds of careful debate I responded into the phone. “Fuck you.”
The good doctor did that “Tsk-tsk” noise that has always pissed me off. I added, “You sound just like Laticia Browningwell—the other bitch to ruin my life in a significant way.”
Mrs. Browningwell is the wife of my family’s Baptist preacher and was my school teacher in three different grades. And that thought re-reminds me that God stopped by for a chat last night.
I was maybe a little drunk and was certainly under the influence of my grandmother’s mushroom tincture, and the three of us were sitting out to the portal admiring the sliver of dusty light made by the moon as it dripped its way through the darked sky. The Squirt was in my lap almost purring as I scratched her back just above her tail, and the goat dog was in the far corner of the yard eating his fill of the newly-hatched weedy fodder Spring-sprung from the dusty soil.
“Yoda’s gonna be puking all night long, Squirty girl. I bet he’s eaten five pounds of green weeds,” I mostly mumbled as I scratched the little dog’s back.
“He can’t help it, Mooner, he still has fears of going to bed without any supper,” Squirt informed me. “I guess when you consider that he was caged and beaten and sent to bed hungry as a routine…”
She was referring to the fact that the little white dog spent the first years of his life incarcerated in a puppy mill over to Oklahoma, where they beat and otherwise abused him. Rotten pig fuckers even cut most of his vocal chords to quiet his plaintive pleas. To hear him bark is to want to slit the throats of animal abusers.
OK, maybe slitting their throats is a tad bit harsh. Perhaps a better thought would be to crush their nuts with a ball peen hammer.
Anyway, I had dinner Friday night with two new friends I met through my Realtor. Georgia and Mary Michelle are a lovely pair of ladies who have been in a committed relationship for decades. They are smart and funny and thoughtful people for whom I hold much admiration. To me, any same-sex couple who has stayed together for the last few decades are admirable in so many ways.
As we sat on the portal last night watching the moonlight move through the big Ponderosa pine tree, I heard the rustling and scraping sound of a metal chair moving on flagstone. “Ah, now this is what life is all about.”
I knew the voice. It was Jeffery Holder’s rich basso-profundo from one of those Seven-Up commercials back in the day. I didn’t bother to look His way when God spoke to me, and in response I said to Him, I said, “Hey, Big Guy, how’s it hanging, Sir? Are you in the form of a tall black man or did you come as Ali McGraw again?”
“Too many questions, Mooner my man. And just so you know, Ali McGraw is out of your league.”
I turned to give God a piece of my mind only to discover that He had appeared in the visage of Montana Wildhack from Slaughterhouse Five—my favorite movie of all time. I was somewhat stunned and mildly aroused. “Holy shit, Sir. Are you telling me that I’m in Valerie Perrine’s league?”
God laughed—a huge and hearty sound that vibrated dead needles from the big pine tree. Needles floated like heavy feathers and covered the four of us. “Your little white dog will be OK, son, I’ll see to it. So stop worrying about him. And you need to also leave Yoda’s puppy mill torturers to me as well,” and God laughed again.
“Alright,” I answered. “Is that why you’re here tonight?”
“Nope, I’m here to give you some advice. Ask yourself a question, OK? Ask yourself why it is that whenever you first meet homosexuals you feel obligated to demonstrate your support by telling them every single fucking incident in your entire life where you were supportive of a gay person?”
“Huh?” I responded, “I don’t do that… Do I?”
“Yeppers, you certainly do.” Now God both looked and sounded like my good buddy Lloyd. Lloyd and his husband are two of my most-admired human beings. “Look, Mooner, gay people realize that you understand their plight and support their causes by intuition. But you act silly and try to impress-just like you used to act around black people. Remember?”
Oh, yea, I remembered. Anytime I was in the company of a black person I would conjure up every instance of my support and interaction with black people for my entire life. I even married two black women, but not just because they were black. I married them because I had sex with them and until recently, that would have been my modus operandi. Until recently, I had had sex with ten women and, therefore and to wit, I have ten ex-wives.
“I think you might have something here, Sir. But could you cover your breasts so I can concentrate?”
Valerie Perrine had the most adorable breasts I had ever seen, and many was the night they filled my passions. OK, many the night, morning and afternoon did my Ivory soap and me visit memories of Montana Wildhack in the scene wherein she first lands in Billy Pilgrim’s domed world.
“You think I should call Georgia and Mary Michelle to apologize? I really like them and don’t want to have driven them off.”
“No, shithead, that would make matters worse. Just treat them like any other friends you have and let sexual orientations be their topic of conversation.”
And with that, God gave me a chaste kiss with Valerie Perrine’s lips (or were they Lloyd’s?) and disappeared in a puff of smoke, leaving me to ponder why it is that I’m such an dumbass sometimes. Why is it that I sometimes feel that I have to demonstrate that I’m not an asshole to people who have been oppressed and abused by Society’s assholes?
Is it guilt? Do I feel responsible for all the ignorant and prejudicial old white men of the world just because I’m an old white man?
Is it a desire in me to be accepted? Do I admire people who have stayed stable and true to themselves in the face of extreme prejudice, and feel a need to be accepted by them? Do I want them to like me? Am I an insecure shitbrain? Am I the only one?
Ugh. Is it too early for a Carta Blanca beer? Manana, y’all.