Archive for January, 2014

Cat News; A Ghost Story

Wednesday, January 22nd, 2014


So. I’m starting another day—the sixth such day in a row—wherein I’m free to make a twenty-four hour schedule without considerations for anything but the dogs and my veryownself. Honor has forced me into a required hiatus and I’ve had a belly full of the four walls here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. There’s only so many of New Mexico’s infamous dust bunnies one man can gather-up in wet paper towels. Which begs the question: Where, inthefuck, do all those dust bunnies come from?

Wait. I don’t mean Honor the Cat, I’m speaking to the other Honor, the personal integrity and single-most important trait I seek in other men. As for said and same fucking cat, Honor Johnson has been on hiatus from our company for several months. And you cat people don’t need to be getting all up in my ass about my lack of care and allowing, as so carefully said by one feline-obsessed reader when she said to me, she said, “You can’t let a cat run wild in Santa Fe, you inappropriate shit, the coyotes will get her.”

Honor Johnson—house cat to this brood of Texas transplants—has decided that the living is far better in the environs a block over and one down from the adorable stucco compound we call home. It seems that said cat finds life far better with a crazy woman and her dozen other cats than living here at Sane House with me and the dogs.

“Don’t be pissed, Mooner,” the Squirt told me when I ranted upon first learning that the fucking cat had changed addresses. “It’s what cats do. Besides, your ADHD is tough on cats’ nerves. She says she doesn’t need a hot tin roof when you’re around.”

“But I saved her from that last crazy cat lady who had her imprisoned with a hundred other fur ball pukers. She said she hated that stinking place.”

“She did, Bwana. But she was a prisoner with that woman in Austin and she says she’s a welcome guest at her new home. When I told her we wanted her to come back, she said she likes living with her own kind. Those are cats and cat people over on Third street, Mooner. Here at our place Yoda and I are dogs and you’re an asshole.”

The adorable brown puppy was right about living with the same kind as yourself. I’m guessing that a cat living with dogs and me would be akin to me living with right wing conservatives, like the Jimmy Swaggart family. Then, again, old Jimmy Swags did get him some poontang, a commodity I’m finding rare in the rarefied, thin mountain air of Northern New Mexico.

Which reminds me. I had this dream the other night—one of those enjoyable dealieos that leaves you awakened with joy—and in this particular dream my daddy was still dead, but alive. The dream setting was back to Austin and we were having this big “Welcome-back-from-the-dead” party for Daddy. The entire family was there—Gram, Mother, Aunt Hilda, Grampa (also, I guess back from the dead), Sister and her wife Anna the Amazon, Rush Limbaugh the Pig and the ostrich Rick Perry, Streaker Jones and Gnat.

I’d BBQed a whole hog, Rush Limbaugh’s favorite, and everyone else had prepared a favorite dish to go with the succulent pork. We all were enjoying the food and company and everyone was asking Daddy what it is like in the afterlife. Daddy wouldn’t answer any questions about his current residence, he’d only say, “Don’t worry, you’ll see soon enough.”

Ordinarily, I’d have found myself somewhat disturbed at having a dead person tell me that I’d be finding out what being dead was all about “soon enough”, but just seeing Daddy was plenty to chase all fear away.

We finished dinner and as the table was getting cleared, Daddy asked me to go outside with him for a chat. We took fresh Carta Blanca beers and a fat doobie and walked to the fishing dock that sits on a cove off Lake Travis. After sitting on the worn planked deck and taking several pulls of beer and doobie both, I was staring at the tiny ripples in the brown water—thinking how nice it was to sit with my father one more time—w hen Daddy asked me, he said, “How’s it hanging, son?”

“Hanging is a good word choice, Daddy. Seems I’m all up in the air over a particular situation.”

“Hmmmm,” my father hmmed me in a voice that was familiar yet not my father’s. “I just want you to know how proud everyone is that you held your honor. You’re a right strong shithead sometimes, son, but you’re good for your word. If all a man has is his word, he’s rich beyond gold. You’re golden, boy.”

I felt tears in my eyes, the tears that only a father’s approval can put there. Those were the words I heard my father speak hundreds of times when I was a kid. I realized, in the dream, that it was my father who taught me honor. Daddy taught me how to be a man.

I turned my head from water’s gaze to look into my father’s face. The words, “I love you, Daddy,” were in my mouth, but stuck there when I found instead God, and this visit He looked the spitting image of my friend, BJ. As a devout agnostic, it has been difficult for me to accept that God pays me somewhat routine visits. But as a man who tries to give all precepts fair review, I’ve grown to think that this God is my God, my personal imaginings of who God should be.

Said another way, If I was God, this God is who I’d choose to be. OK, this God is Who I’d be. I’d get to be the subject of intense and silly capitalization rules as well as all-knowing and all-seeing.

Fuck. I’d be All-Knowing and All-Seeing.

“Are you taking good care of your mother?” BJ God asked me. “She’s in one of Life’s hard spots, son. You need to have patience with her.”

“I try, Pops, but it’s so fucking hard.”

“She’s got dementia, Mooner. Try harder, don’t be such an asshole,” and with that, God disappeared in a poof of sparkled dust.

I recounted this dream to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson in today’s telephonic psycho therapy session. She says to me, she said, “Oh, my God, you do have a conscience! I’m calling Psychology Today to report an actual miracle has occurred.”

“Bitch,” I told her. Why “bitch” was the best shot I could take makes me wonder at the state of my own mind, and trying to be a more caring son to my demented mother is my new goal. I’m guessing that my God thinks that putting in the time isn’t the same as caring.

Ugh. Ugh-ugh-fucking ugh!

But who really gives a shit about my travails. I’m going to call Mother and make nice-nice and then I’m cleaning the floors of dust bunnies. Again.

Fuck Walmat and all the other greedy fake capitalistic goat turds. Manana, y’all.

Integrity- A Devalued Currency

Monday, January 20th, 2014


So. I sit here on a glorious Sunday morning in Enchantedland, heavy of heart and soaring in spirit. I never in a million years would have thought that I would find myself enjoying a self-comparison between my veryownself and the Pope of all Catholics, but, and none the less, here I sit in precisely that seat. And having just evaluated all the selfnesses contained in those first two sentences, I find that my thoughts at this moment aren’t really all about me. OK, maybe my thoughts aren’t all about myself.

I’m growing to like this Pope Frankie. His recent firings of 400 abusive priests have pushed me over the line and into his court. My admiration for this humble man started when I heard that he sneaks out to tend the untended of Rome and grew greatly when he took a hard stand for the actual words of Jesus and against unbridled greed. I have a promise with myself that until the Holy Roman Catholic Church takes real steps to end its terrible culture of sexual abuse, I will use every opportunity to take cold, hard shots at it.

But for the first time in 2,000 years, a Pope seems Hell-bent to the leather to both preach the teachings of grace that his beloved Saviour left as the legacy for all Christians, and then follow through in his actions. The integrity that this Pope has so far exhibited is remarkable to me. That he continues to hold this sacred ground in the face of scathing opposition from every corner of the Earth is cause of my admiration.

To tell the world that you have values and represent that you will hold true to those values is easy. History is littered with the skeletons of powerful men and women who have promised personal integrity for advancement, and we live every day with the stench of the decay many of them left when their promises were broken. Unlike this Pope (to-date), most powerful people lose their integrity with the gain of that same power.

Integrity is a tough mantle to maintain. Like lies. How small must a lie be to not be a lie? I remember my college philosophy class back to what must have been 1968, when our professor opened an hour-long discussion on just that question.

“Is it possible to tell a lie without debiting your credibility?” she asked.

Me, having already taken Accounting 101, knew what the fuck she was asking, but most of the class was confused. “OK,” she continued to the questioning faces, “let me ask a different way. Is it possible to tell a lie that is not a lie?”

Now me, and once again I’m speaking only for myself, I saw the logic trap just set by the pretty professor. I forget her name, but she was one of those liberated Sixties college women with a fertile mind who reveled in her work. She covered her unfettered breasts with the billowing, flowery peasant dresses of the Hippies times, and I spent countless hours in my attempts to imagine with accuracies the definitions of the fertile female body beneath the loose fabrics.

Having already spent an inordinate amount of time in heavy discussions on the “chicken/egg” and “tree falling” philosophical questions that occurred while under the influence of any variety of mood-altering substances, I knew that I needed to be careful before entering this particular scholarly fray. Net result of the discussion was this: A lie is always a lie regardless if it is good intentioned or if it results in a positive outcome. And my conclusion is “egg”, and “yes”.

Have I ever told you that I have the dreaded ADHD?

For a public person or celebrity or business person in a position of authority to have and maintain personal integrity is an absolute bitch to do. Many times integrity must be compromised to get into those lofty positions, a conundrum all into itself. How can you maintain integrity that has no history, no foundation? Integrity has become a devalued currency because so many stake their claims without mining the ore.

I’m not a public person, not a powerful person nor do I enjoy celebrity. I now lead a rather simple life, choosing to only interact routinely with people I like and trust. With age, I’ve grown to understand that I should surround myself with people I trust and allow the others to go fuck themselves. I’ve grown to know that people you trust are far less likely to hurt you in unkind ways. And I’ve also grown to learn that I might not be as good a judge of those trustworthy traits as previously believed.

Which reminds me. One of the things I most liked about the Sixties was how we “Hippies” used to make up new words and phrases and how we added new layers of meaning to the existing. Like when I used “heavy” up there when discussing the chicken/eggie discussions. Groovy, doobie, spliff, don’t Bogart that joint, sock it to me, far out, wow!, ‘ere, gay pride, heavy.

God, I love those words. With a heart made heavy by the pain that can only be caused by someone you trust, I have the sense of self pride that can only come from holding firm to your values in the face of personal harm or loss. I find myself feeling a kindred spirit with the Pope.

Holy shit! Who would have thought I would ever say that?

Fuck Walmart, the Koch brothers, and fuck those first 400 priest rapists! Manana, y’all, and I mean it.

Chris Christy- The Face Of The Republican Party

Monday, January 13th, 2014


So. Thought I’d drop you a quick line, see what happens. Gram called me yesterday afternoon and the call went like this:

Me: “Hey, baby, who’s banging whom?

Gram: “I’mma be a bangin’ yer hard head iffn ya don’t call yer crazy ol’ mother.”

Me: “I already spoke to her twice today, Gram. What’s her bitch now?”

Gram: “Said she had ate a salad at lunch with Eddie’s mammy an’ got tha gassers so bad she shit herse’f. You call ‘er up an’ make it right.”

“Eddie’s mammy?” I asked the dial tone buzzing in my ear. “Eddie’s mammy?” I re-asked, this time to the Squirt.

The little brown dog looked at me like I’d lost my mind and said to me, she said, “Your mother’s memory is going fast, shithead. Try to be more respectful, if you even can.

“OK, you’re right, of course. But Eddie’s mammy? Who, inthefuck, could Eddie’s mother be? Hells-bells, Squirtie girl, I don’t even know an Eddie in Mother’s life.”

Which reminds me. I heard Rangy Rance Preibublican, head of all Republicans, on the TV Sunday am, and he was saying how Governor Christy having closed a major Interstate bridge in political retribution, causing serious human suffering, and then throwing his own staff under the bus and lying about it all, does not disqualify the obese former prosecutor from a Presidential slot on the next Republican ticket.

I agree. Chris Christy is the face of the Republican Party—a fat white bigot willing to cheat and lie and take social support from the needy, all the while clutching his rosary and living his life for Christ’s honor. “Chris Christy is the face of the Republican Party” should be their new motto.

And that just spurred the mental acuity required to solve Gram’s puzzle. Edamame. Eddie’s mammy is soy beans. My mother is allergic to raw soy beans, had some in a salad and got the squirts. Having figured out the quiz, I beg the question, “How’s that my problem?”

Anyway, gotta go for now. Manana, or so, y’all.

Cardinal Sins And Other Misdemeanors; Blessing Da Pope

Tuesday, January 7th, 2014


So. Its 3:43 am and I’m sitting, awake. With the first infestations of Mountain Jumpier Pollen- Version 2014.1, my entire body is itching from a spot that lies one-sixteenth-of-an-inch under my skin—a calamity wherein the more you scratch the more you itch—I’ve snotted up an entire box of recycled facial tissues since eight last night, and I’ve managed to obsess over almost every aspect of my life. I’ve finally managed to obsess my shit enough together on the professional front to make plans to play poker today, but, and alas, I feel like hammered cat fur balls, I’ve dried snot making my face look like Tony Montana’s in the last scene of Scarface, and I can actually feel the swollen blood vessels in my eyes when I blink.

I’m a fucking mess.

Then, again, a certain unsettling countenance can prove beneficial when playing poker for actual cash. Which reminds me. I was sitting in front of the TV in an attempt to watch Ohio State play Clemson in a bowl game. The dogs were both planted on me as I lounged in the soft den sofa and the score was 14-to-7. Don’t know which had what points and I didn’t really giveashit when the phone rang. I’d forgotten to bring a phone close to the sofa, so I was required to disturb the dogs to answer.

“You’re a total asshole,” the Squirt told me when I untangled her from her nest between my legs. The diminutive brown puppy likes to wedge herself between my legs and then have me wrap her with blankets. She then twists-and-turns until cocoonelated like a silkworm in its final life stage, sighs a “Harrumph”, kicks with her back feet to tighten said and aforementioned cocoon, and sleeps like a baby.

“I keep telling you to put a phone close. I was dreaming and almost caught the bunny rabbit when you roused me,” Squirt groused.

I didn’t bother a response because to respond would have caused me to miss my Gram’s call, and catch an additional load of crap.

“Happy New Year, you sexy old gas bag. How’s it hanging, Gram?” I love my grandmother in inexplicable ways.

“Don’t you be all sweetie pie talkin’ ta me, Mooner. Call yer fuckin’ mother an’ do it right pronto. She say’s ya ain’t call’t ‘er since Halloweenie an’ there’s a terrible cry shits ya need ta handle. Now you git,” and I was left with dial tone.

“Love you too,” I spoke to the dial tone, “and whatinthefuck is a ‘terrible cry shits’?”

I looked at the dogs and asked again. “Terrible cry shits?” The fractured English that spews from Gram’s maw can be unsettling, but does, however, provide the mental gymnastics that lubricates my brain. I’m told that keeping mentally fit stays off the terrible effects of dementia, a malady that has already struck my bloodlines.

“Oooooooh. Crisis. Mother has a terrible crisis,” I said with not a small amount of pride.

My mother is a batty old broad now living in an advanced living facility who suffers from advancing Alzheimer-linked dementia. I call her at least daily and she sometimes forgets but mostly pretends that I, as she would say it, “Never calls me. Mooner never calls.”

I hit auto-dial to ring Mother’s apartment. She must have had her hand on the phone because the first ring didn’t complete its tone before I heard a clipped, “What took you so long?”


Me: “What’s up, Mother. Gram tells me that there is something terribly wrong.”

Mother: “I wouldn’t need your grandmother as an intermediary if you would simply call me every month, or so.”

Me: “I called you what is now, maybe, seven hours ago, Mother. Don’t you remember that you told me that Mr. Rosenthal kissed you and tried to get you to hold his pecker for him when he pees?”

Seems poor old Mr. Rosenthal has the shakes so bad that he waters the entire bathroom when peeing. Me, I’m thinking of using Mr. Rosenthal’s pick-up line. “Pardon me, young lady, would you mind helping me a moment?” My personal solution for missing the commode and also as a water conservation program, is to pee in the sink.

My sinks, your sinks and their sinks.

Mother: “Listen to me, Butcher Einstein Johnson, and listen good. There’s a diabolical plot hatched by that African Muslim president of yours to sabotage the Catholic Church. We’ve got to stop him!”

Me: Huh? What in the world is she talking about? “Mother, for starters President Obama is not a Muslim or an African, and for finishers, what in God’s name are you talking about?”

Mother: “You know, Mooner. You’re one of the conspirators. Mr. Beck told us all about how you people have tricked those poor Cardinals into electing a communist as Pope.”

Me: “Oh, for shitsake, Mother.” I started laughing.

Mother: “Don’t mock me, boy!”

Me, feeling full of piss and vinegar: “I heard a joke the other night. God and Saint Peter are sitting up to Heaven, bored out of their gourds. ‘It’s been centuries since we had any fun,’ Peter said, ‘let’s go to Venus and hit a few bars.’

‘Too hot on Venus,’ God tells him, ‘I don’t much care for all that heat.

‘OK, then, let’s go to Mars instead.’

‘No,’ God says, ‘too cold there. Makes my bones ache.’

‘What about Earth?’ Peter suggests.’Earth has the perfect climate.’

‘Very bad idea, Peter. I went to earth a couple thousand years ago—dated this nice Jewish girl for a short time—and people just won’t stop talking about it.’”

After a long pause, Mother: “You’ll burn in Hell, Mooner. I’ll see to it!”

Me: “OK. I’ll change my will to have some marshmallows placed in my casket.”

Mother: “You’ll pay for your heresy,” and she slammed her phone in my ear.

Me, I was feeling pretty satisfied with myself, but I might have been the only one. “You can be such an asshole, “ Squirt told me. “Why do you always feel the need to stir your mother’s pot?”

In retrospect, why indeed? I’m plenty assertive with Mother, so there is no need to be passively aggressive with her. I’ll never get her to see the world any way other than from the right-wing, conservative Christian view, and I’ll never be one of those assholes. I picked up the phone and hit the redial:

My telephone: “Ring…ring…ring…ring…ring…ring…”

Mother’s phone: “Beeeeeep. (pause) Mrs. Johnson is away from her phone. Fine Christian callers may leave a courteous message after the tone. Mooner Johnson can go straight to Hell. Beeeep.”

Me, to the machine: “That is stunningly brilliant, Mother. I’m booking my passage to Hell. See you there.”

I remain flummoxed at the Christian right faction of the American fabric. There exists enough dichotomies contained in their logic to make a schizophrenic feel organized and also to make my head swim. Imagine what a devout Catholic must be going through right now.

Warms my heart. Fuck Walmart, y’all.

Resolve To Fuck Walmart; Recycling Sentiment For Change

Wednesday, January 1st, 2014


So. Happy fucking New Year! Having said that in the most accurate and sincere way as I possibly can, I wish all a happy year of fucking in 2014.

OK, stop. Maybe I should backtrack for just a moment and fill in a couple blanks. As I now fire blanks, I likewise feel responsible to inform you that the blanks I speak of, or, rather, the blanks of which I speak, are not the sperm-less ejaculate of a sterilized old geezer but, instead, the empty spaces wedged between knowledge. Blanks as in the space between Rick Perry’s ears as opposed to the starter’s gun at a footrace.

Which reminds me. While I hate New Year’s resolutions, I made one for this new year of 2014. The dogs and I were lounging on the sofa in the den, lapping at glasses of champagne and nibbling from the quite varied assortments of holiday goodies given by Xmas-spirited persons to fatten us up so as to help us whittle our choices for New Year’s resolutions.

OK, again, and let’s stop this word slaughter for a moment. I just read what I wrote and find myself wondering if it is even possible for me to have been more obtuse. I’ve written 210 words and even I haven’t a clue what I’ve said. And having read those last two sentences, the writing contains five “I’s”, no “we’s”, and less clarity than a half-hour Sarah Palin speech. Maybe I should have resolved to make life less about me.

Then, again, and again for the who-knows-how-manyth-time, how can I possible write about what anyone else actually thinks when I have so much fucking trouble with the swill swirling inside my own skull, and “Yes, Virginia,” manyth is an actual word and because I say so.

Which brings me back to my point. Sitting on the woven reed footstool that serves as coffee table in the den were:

  1. Chocolate chip cookies with M&M’s serving chip duty.
  2. A 55-gallon barrel of popcorn—regular, cheddar cheese and caramel, all three segregated by cardboard dividers.
  3. A Mason Jar filled with holiday-colored foil-wrapped Hershey Kisses.
  4. A box of hand-thrown chocolates from this nifty Seattle chocolatier.
  5. Three personalized, pork-based doggie bones handmade by my Gram, one for each of us.
  6. Chocolate covered cherries.
  7. A container of Noosa lemon yogurt.

“Why?” you might ask, “are there so few items on the woven reed table, and why Noosa lemon yogurt?”

“Because,” I’ll respond, “we already ate the rest of the Xmas treats and I love me some Noosa yogurt.”

The Squirt was sitting in my lap, lounging between my legs with her head draped so she barely had to move to poke her tongue daintily into her champagne glass. The glass, one of three remaining from my fifth wedding—the one wherein Roshanda and I wed—is Squirt’s favorite, and Roshandra remains one of my favorite exes. Yoda sat on the old carpet that was the bedding in the crate I used to pick him up from the rescue lady who saved him from the puppy mill over to Oklahoma. The little white puppy swayed as he looked the table over between selections.

“Goat dog’s drunk, Mooner, you need to cut his beverage service.” Squirt’s words were not a touch slurred herownself.

“Yea,” I agreed, “and he always seems to puke in my slippers when he over-drinks. Hell, maybe we’ve all had enough to drink for one night.”

I ate a bite of my dog biscuit—a somewhat bone-shaped affair with my name spelled using liver treats—and drained my glass of its contents. “Gram’s treats are a bit dry this year. Maybe just one more glass.”

I poured us each some fresh bubbly, spilled some on the woven reed table, and cursed. “Goddammit-to-all-hell-and-back!” I might have yelled, but then again, I was pretty mellow.

“Maybe your resolution should be to curse less, shithead,” Squirt told me. “Expand your vocabulary and gain some small measure of that precision of communication you brag about so often.”

We watched the Abraham Lincoln movie on Showtime the other night and the Squirt has proven fond of Lincoln’s words. The other day I told her that she and the goat dog needed to start shitting on the little patch of grass I planted for that purpose rather than in the gravel that covers most of the back yard.

“Towering genius disdains the beaten path, Mooner. It seeks regions hitherto unknown.” I think she’d have held her lapels when pronouncing it to me, assuming she had lapels to tug.

“And, plainly, the central idea of secession is the essence of anarchy,” I replied in my best Presidential voice. “Please try to shit in the grass. It’s almost impossible to remove dog turds from gravel.”

Anyway, my resolution for this year is to better control my ADHD and produce writings with a smoother ebb and flow, just as I’ve done here in my first missive of the new year. And saying that has reminded me that my New Year’s wish for the entire fucking world is that we all have more, and better, sex. I was recently told that some Europeans try to have sex several times each day in an effort to be happier and healthier, and I know that laughter is the best medicine. In preparation for my 2014 full of sex, I’ve cut and dyed my pubbies into a lifelike rendition of the National Mall and I placed a hemp tattoo of Lincoln sitting in his chair at his monument on my pecker. I tried to organize the tattoo to look like old Abe was getting up from his chair when aroused, but, and alas, I lack sufficient skin to portray a diorama.

Yet another reason to end the cruel rite of circumcision. Fuck Walmart and all things Walton! And those idiot Koch brothers, about whom I loudly cheered when watching the 60-Minutes dealio on how the one brother was swindled of $25 million on fake wine. Rich little crybaby whined like a school girl.

Small victories for the little guy.