Archive for February, 2014

Strike Three, Take Second Base- A Life Story In Four Parts

Sunday, February 23rd, 2014

 

So. It’s another glorious day here to Enchantedland and I’m headed to a funeral. A friend’s husband has died after a protracted illness, and the services are to be held at the big Baptist church over to Old Pecos Trail. I have sworn to stay out of churches save, and except, for funerals and weddings, so I will not be in violation of my promise to myself when I enter the doors of the church.

I have long known that the friend and her husband were quite large charismatic Christians—not Baptists by the way—and I have understood that their Christianity was the linchpin that held their lives together, and bytheway once more, why don’t we spell linchpin “lynchpin”? In spite of their beliefs, I like these two people. I’ve long understood their positions on abortion and gay rights and the rest of the bigoted modern Christian dogmas, but they don’t try to push their shit my way. They always have allowed me to have my beliefs without the confrontational judgments so many Born Agains practice.

Knowing the depth of their beliefs, I’m guessing that they pray for my heathen soul. Often.

Whatever happened to “Judge not lest ye be judged”? Why aren’t more Christians acting like this couple’s model? I think it’s because their religions have been hijacked by charlatans and politicians. And why do I seem surprised, a rhetorical question if ever was one.

Assholes throughout the continuum of human history have stolen the mantle of righteous causes and used the believers as cannon fodder for their societal invasions. Using Biblical drama, ever since Cain killed Abel—setting the precedent for assholes through the millennia—a never ending chain of power steals has marred the human conditions, and destroyed civilizations.

OK, stop. Maybe using Cain and Abel was a touch dramatic and not at all to my point. Maybe I’ll reuse Cain’s striking down of his bro when I write about the Stand Your Ground Laws.

Anyway, today it seems that the false religious assholes are stealing actual believers and turning them into zealots at a rate that rivals a vicious computer virus. Here in America, right-wing Christian zealots are stealing state governments and legislating away some human rights that I, at least I, thought to be stone pillars of our semi-democracy.

Which reminds me. I just had new, modern windows installed all around La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. The original windows installed over the seventy years it took to build this place into its current format, were, I’m told, purchased from the demolition deaths of other, older structures or, more than occasionally stolen from construction sites around the state. The net results of that materials acquisition plan was a drafty and daffy old stucco living space which, as one designer describes it, “This place is as schizophrenic as my grandmother.”

I was required to install new windows of size and heights to meet modern building code, and that has opened several rooms to additional light and views. As I sit writing you, my office view has expanded from a corner of the roof, a small section of the big Ponderosa pine tree, telephone pole, mountaintops and patch of sky, to all of that plus a panoramic vista of the tidy and interesting back yard. I can now swivel my chair to the right and gain purchase of the entirety of my veggie garden—I can now watch the dogs to insure they stay the fuck out.

And that reminds me of just how delicate life becomes as the light at the end of our tunnels grows broader, brighter. I’m at that age where my friends and acquaintances are dying at a remarkable rate. I’ve once again become my parents twenty years ago. This marks the third time I’ve encountered a twenty-years parental catch-up. The first was when I finally felt I was an adult and deserved to be treated as one. The second was when my kids were adults and I felt it was OK for you to call me “Sir”.

Each of those first two catchings-up were good things to me—events of human growth to be desired. I especially remember the pride, and joy, at realizing that I actually was the man my daddy wanted me to be. I likewise remember same when watching my own spawn demonstrating the maturities of their adultdom.

But this time it’s quite different. I don’t know why as this next-to-final catch-up is the most expected of all so far. As a child, it wasn’t thought by any adult that I was destined to ever reach adult maturities, in fact it was anticipated by many that I would not. It was thought that I would either never reach the age of maturity or that I would piss somebody off enough to put the end of days on me.

For reaching those milestones I was proud and joyous. And having my own children mature was likewise surprising to not a few.

“Mooner Johnson should not be allowed to father children. His species needs to end here.” So said was the edict of Mrs. Leticia Browningwell. That old battle ax was my teacher and Baptist preacher’s wife rolled into one gigantic pain in the ass. But I’ve fooled them all. I’ve managed to pass through the first three of life’s stages and I’m still nuts.

OK, let’s stop and regroup. I see life’s stages simply, like a baseball game wherein there are four bases to touch: first base is reached when attaining adult maturity; second base is seeing your own kids mature; third base is when people close to you are dying; and fourth base is when your own body has begun its final decay. If we’re lucky in life, four each, twenty-year base paths.

And that re-reminds me that first I discover that I’m the old man who stinky farts and now this. Next thing I’ll find my scrotum dragging against my knees and my pecker playing sleepy turtle.

Ugh, but I’m a maudlin sumbitch this morning. Fuck Walmart!

Phipp, Phapp, Phrrp- A Story Of Childhood Memories

Saturday, February 15th, 2014

 

So. Something has been happening to me over the last several months, and this particular something has had a quite unsettling effect on my countenances. The affected countenances run the gamut of a person’s varied composures and tolerances from one end to the other.

OK, stop. That first paragraph of this morning’s writings might be one of the most perfect strings of words I’ve ever produced. If I got it right from the grammatical perspectives, that is one amazing paragraph of human communication as related to the human condition. If I effected proper usages and affects—and you, as a reader, properly interpreted my meanings—then we, together, have had a mutual human enlightenment.

I’m finding mutual human enlightenments between people engaged in interpersonal relationships as difficult to encounter as actual apologies.

Take, for example, memories. I can remember with great clarity every aspect of certain childhood memories, yet can’t remember shit about six minutes ago. As, for example, Big George Martin, or “BGM” as everyone but his wife called him. BGM was my granddaddy’s best buddy from their youth, and a man of massive appetites. BGM lived his life to the fullest in every possible way—food, drink, information, adventure, friends and life in general were all consumed by him in gluttonous quantities.

BGM was that jolly old man we all knew as a child. I think everyone had a man or woman like BGM who populated our lives in youth. Always happy, unafraid of anything and happy for the encounters, and not a single bone of shyness. Old BGM could fart the gaseous swill that can only come from the residuals of a dozen-and-a-half of Mrs. Garcia’s sweet bean tamales—a fart that would empty a church full of cripples at an Ernest Angley Miracles Concert—a feat accomplished when The Right Reverend Angley visited Austin’s Capital City Church of God back to the early 1970’s.

And for those of you donning the uniform of the Appropriateness Nazis, back to the 1970’s we called handicapped persons cripples, and did so without bigotry or insensitivity.

The smell of those farts moved like the unhinging of the lid on a crate full of cockroaches and dropping them dead center of the second row on the cushioned seat at the old Church of God. The balled mass of ten-thousand crustaceanous rats would roil for a second and then scream off in every direction and crawling all over everyfuckingthing. Roaches in your clothes and hair and all up in your face. Then you’d walk a hundred feet from the drop site to shake all the roaches off, inspect yourself carefully to find no residuals, and walk out to the car only to have a half dozen jump from your hair and into the upholstery.

And before the dreaded AD-and-HD drag us so deep into the swampy waters of my thoughts, it was not Streaker Jones and me (myself?) who dropped the crate of cockroaches in the auditorium of William B. Travis Junior High School just after the second act of Mrs. Browningwell’s Ninth Grade Health Education play she entitled, “Good Christian Girls Don’t Do It!”

Maybe it was just the horrible memories of those nasty, gassy things, but I could sometimes smell the BGM fart odor hours, days later. Sometimes a dish would be cooking in the kitchen days later that would contain a whiff of some small essence of BGM’s fart, and I’d skip my dinner.

I don’t skip many dinners.

“Oh, my… heh-heh-heh,” old BGM would laugh after one of those farts. “Sorry, ladies, that ‘un just creeped out on me. Any a y’all need ya a tissue?”

Those creeper farts were incredible. I can still vividly remember the smell so strong you’d consider puking, the eye-stinging pungencies. My mother would swear she needed a shower after she was in the room when BGM farted.

Old BGM swore that those nasty-ass farts had a life of their own—that he never knew when they were going to debut or what they were going to smell like. “Ain’t ate nuttin but oatmeal an’ raisins all week, children. Mrs. Martin, she’s got old George onna diet.”

“Nuttin bout boiled oats inna smell a that rascal,” BGM once told us at a picnic. “Asides, them suckers jump right on out—give a a man not the warning once.”

As I’m running out of time and must head to work, let me summarize the intentions of this bloggie posting. The evolutions that are my personal aging processes have decided to include my morphing into “Old Stinky Fart Guy”. I’m becoming Big George Martin.

“Run, everybody,” has become the two-word combination most often shouted from my lips. And when I say, “Everybody,” I also mean me, myownself. My old geezer farts are so stinky even I can’t stand them. I used to have farts with olfactory complexities that would rival those of a fine wine. These fuckers cause temporary blindness.

I farted inside my truck yesterday afternoon at just before 3:30 pm—an effort aimed to leave the offensive gas behind and not unleash it on the crowd standing to get food from the food pantry next to my office. I farted and then jumped from the truck and slammed the door, and flapped the tail of my shirt on my way to my office. Safely inside, there was but a trace of odor left on my hand that waved the shirttails.

At 4:45, my coworker and I called it a day and were discussing a project we were contemplating. I unlocked the truck, opened the door and sat backwards into the truck seat still facing the other man. “OK,” I said, “we’ll discuss… Arrrrrrg!!!”

I jumped from the truck and ran his way. “Holy fucking shit!” I cried. “I’ve become Old Stinky Fart Guy!”

I’m hoping to develop an immunity to my new self quickly. I’m thinking that these farts might be a particularly effective weapon at the poker table. If I can learn to sit through the pungent fog, I’ll have the best bluff move in the game.

“I’m all-in… Frrrrrrrrrrt!”

Ugh. It’s a bitch growing old. And fuck Walmart!

An Actual Apology; Hens’ Teeth And Other Rarities

Sunday, February 2nd, 2014

 

So. One of Nature’s miracles has happened here to Enchantedland. One of those freakish events that set your mouth agape, and in this case, warms your heart. OK, and also gives you hope that spending your adult life practicing your personal morals is worthwhile.

You know how some practicings of personal integrities often go as many good deeds sometimes go, right? As with many of the small niceties you spread among the general population as an honest and caring person that end up with a smack to the face. Just like that time I informed the nice lady that the back rope to her Matador Red thong had slipped its groove and was riding wide right, and had gathered the flimsy fabric of her short skirt to the point that I could read the artfully-applied “I (tattooed heart) Homeboy” ink splatter displayed on the cheek of her adorable bottom at just above the crease where cheek meets thigh.

That last sentence might require several readings to gain the imparted knowledge, therein, but reread with the understanding that it says, with a high degree of precision, precisely what I meant to say. And also know that my ADHD seems to be in check this beautiful morning.

We were in the big mall down to the ABQ, and I had gathered the moral strength to speak to her. Having prior experience in these matters, I knew a certain light hand was required. “Ah, Miss,” I carefully interrupted her conversation with a second woman I assumed was her Homegirl, “I just want you to know that…” and I told her of the wardrobe malfunction in a carefully detailed recounting. We were in the “Young Misses” section of Macy’s, and I finished with, “When I first noticed, you were in the shoe store, I saw that you were in trouble when you tried on that pretty pink leather jacket there to the Petite Casuals store. I didn’t want to bother you until I was certain you were in jeopardy here.”

Cute Latino lady gave me a smile followed by a quite quizzed look, and then one of the hardest slaps I’ve ever had. “Usted inappropriano madre fucker,” and, “Whap!!!”

As a man having been slapped often, I can tell you that it would be the slight woman that will slap stars on your face. Husky women seem to have a heavier punch, but the slight ladies will slap the Milky Way all up in your head.

Anyway, as you know, I’ve recently taken the highest possible moral ground a man can take—the ground that lay prey to personal punishment and retributions for having homesteaded said high ground. I was at first punished and had my integrity impugned for having done the right thing. Human events being what they are occasionally, I was shown to be not a liar but a man with at least a modicum of integrity and things were made right.

In fact, things were made as right as they could get as the other human being involved in the matter made one of the most heart felt and sincere apologies I have ever heard. And made it twice.

I must admit that having stood my ground during this event gave me a giant sense of well being as a man. Knowing that you can do the right thing when rubber meets road is a truly good feeling about yourownself. And this apology did the same thing for my opinion of people in general. Knowing that there are men and women who can admit wrong and make amends in a meaningful way seems to be a lost art.

We see it every day as athletes and celebrities and politicians make their meager apologies on the TV—apologies not designed to actually make amends, apologies instead orchestrated to limit damage and restore brand. I see these apologies and lose even more respect for the apologizer than already lost.

OK, except for when I had no respect in the first place. Like with the tyrant, Cesar Chris Christy. Anybody think that egomaniacal bastard has it in him to actually apologize?

Fuck me running. Word Check just informed me that egomaniacal isn’t an actual word. It also approved Homeboy but not Homegirl.

“Eat shit and die, Word Check.”

And Fuck Walmart as well! Mas tarde, y’all.