Archive for March, 2014

The Clarity Of Thoughts From An Impure Mind; Is That A Run-On Sentence Or Are You Just Glad To See Me?

Sunday, March 23rd, 2014


So. Having been missing from the pages herein for several more days than it took to fill the month on the calendar since the last time I wrote silly shit for printing and posting here to my bloggie, I find myself in a quite unique and unenviable position, as a writer, whereat I have so very many things to say—and so little clarity of vision as it relates to said things—that I’ve sat in quandary for the last three fucking hours and, and alas, said nothing.

Likewise, after reading that last sentence in a check for clarity of thought and vision, and crystal clear communication of thought, I find myself in the untenable position of wanting—yea, needing, yearning—to explain myself for having written an almost perfect first declaratory statement in what might be a pivotal tome in the histories of writings here to my place.

A bit of that history. I, for my part, having never allowed not having anything to say stand in the way of blabbering on for thousands of words, sit with the counterintuitive perplexities of a writer, and an author as well—having written the book of some 400-plus pages here-to-rights available for purchase by performing the simple act of clicking a few times over there ===}}} to the bloggie roller—of having everything to say and not the word first to say it.

OK, let’s stop right here for an ADD and ADHD gut check. I have a coworker and now friend I’ll call Stan, with whom I’ve been required to spend quantitatively extended periods of time. Smart, focused, thoughtful, kind and humorous would be ways to describe Stan should you give a shit to know. My time spent driving between my adopted hometown of Santa Fe and the big city of the ABQ with Stan at the wheel of the tiny hybrid import used by us for such travels, made several times weekly, reminds me of a story from my book, Full Rising Mooner, heretofore mentioned.

See, Stan is several inches taller than am I, and the tiny shoe box-with-wheels driven to transport us anytime we travel without the need of a ladder requires the both of us to collapse ourselves in much the same way as one would a sixty-four optioned Swiss Army knife with all sixty-four options opened for use. As Stan is decades younger than I, he simply makes the folding actions required to slip into the driver’s seat quietly, without remark. Me, the twisting and folding maneuvers I must endure to park my fat ass in the gray-colored, funky fabric-covered front seat are accompanied by grunts and curses.

And, as it turns out, I have a specific grunt sound that I seem to make with other, not always similar acts of effort. Like lifting. Or bending. Or twisting and sometimes hard thinking.

Turns out that I’ve developed a coping skill with getting older that involves emoting a sound somewhat akin to the quiet voice of a baby seal. I go to get out of a low-slung chair, I grab the arms and start to rise and, “Ooort, oort, oort.”

OK, maybe it isn’t always a quiet “oort”, but I “oort”, none the less, with nearly every exertion of physical effort, and why do I have so much difficulty with placing commas around the various usages of quotation marks? Proper comma placements often look awkward and wrong, and saying that brings up another pointed question.

Who, inthefuck, decides who gets to make the final decisions re: grammatical placements? Who are these people? From where does their power come, and what are their names. I want their fucking names!

OK, that was several questions, and saying that reminds me of my mother’s current conditions. Mother is getting sweeter, almost by-the-day. A recent conversation was actually without bitter reminder of what a lousy son I am. My friend BJ, from over to middle Tennessee, harps at me to be a better son. I’ve listened to his sage advice, and Mother has seemed to respond in like-kind. In fact, it appears that news of my kindnesses has spread.

I was sitting—lounging actually—in the den watching Wichita State playing in the NCAA tourney. As one of the Koch brothers sponsors the Wichita State Wheat Shockers, I put the considerable power of my personal protest efforts on display in a push-back effort. As usual, since Koch State was trouncing its foe, the power of billions-of-dollars plays much louder than the voiced protestations of a seal-man.

Fucking Koch brothers.

“Why is it allowed for wealthy assholes to buy college sports teams?” the Squirt asked me.

The tiny brown bundle of dog fur and wonderments was laying (lying) with her head on my chest as I watched and bitched about the Kochs. “Well, little lady,” I started to respond when the phone rang.

“Hey, Gram. How’s it hanging, baby?”

“High an’ tight, Mooner, high, an’ tight. Reminds me a tha time when yer granddaddy bought me them cock-a-doodle-doolie dealios and his pecker swoled all up. Guess I pulled tha lockie a tad too much an’ then when I stuck tha spurs to him…” she stopped. Thank God she stopped.

“What chu done to yer crazy fuckin’ mother. She ain’t bitched ’bout chu fer a month. You druggin’ yer mother, peckerhead?”

Huh? Cock-a-doodle-doolie dealios? Am I drugging my own mother from seven-hundred miles distance? I’ve thought about it, but not acted. “Impulse control” is my middle name, and I got it- cock rings, my grandparents played with cock rings?

“Don’t be silly, Gram. Much as I’ve thought about it, I’ve decided to listen to the Beej and attempt to be extra nice to Mother.” Then I thought to add, “OK, stop the presses. Is Mother telling you I’m not nice to her?” It would be just like her to stick a stake in my side for sport.

“No, an’ that’s what’s buggerating tha shit right on out’a me. Mother ain’t bitched tha time first ’bout chu. An’ you stop yer fuckin’ pressin’ on me. I’ll kick yer skinny ass over there to Allyergordies.”

Huh? My grandmother is going to kick my ass to Allyergordies? “What in the world are you talking about, Gram? I’ve been extra nice to Mother and she’s not bitching because she’s got nothing to bitch at me about. Wait. There’s nothing about which to bitch.”

“Don’t chu pull that granmar school marmie shit on me, Mooner Einstein Johnson. Einstein my rosy red ass. You be nice ta yer Mother. An’ find me one a them charmin’ Navaholie men ta date. Big, strappin’ one,” the old gasbag requested. “Do them two things an’ I’ll come ta visit.”

The phone clicked off in my ear and I asked the Squirt. “What did she mean by ‘Allyergordies’? I got the “charmin’” part, that’s a shaman, but “Allyergordies’…?”

Squirt eyed me for a second, then said, “Alamogordo, silly.”

That reminds me how much I dislike Walmart. Walmart and the Koch brothers. Fuckum both!

So like I was saying, I make seal noises and Stan makes fun of me for so doing. Stan also fucks with me and my ADD for sport. I’ll be in the middle of saying something of somewhat important nature and Stan starts asking questions, the subjects of which have absolutely nothing to do with whateverthefuck it is about which I’m speaking.

Gets me all discombobulated.

And that reminds me of a recent time Stan and another guy from the office and I were in the cramped quarters of the tiny tin can hybrid car driving down one of our city’s narrow, downtown streets. We were minding our own business when a high-end sports car backed from a “special customer” parking space at one of the high-end retail establishment on the other side of the street. The car backed partly into our lane to head towards us and had to stop that action when it became apparent to the two women inside that our boy, Stan, would pay no heed to neither their expensive ride nor the simple fact that Ali McGraw was driving it.

In slow motion, I saw the small angry face she made at the notice that Stan would not slow for her, and then a flicker of recognition as she saw my face pressed to the windshield as I “Oh my God, it’s Ali McGraw’ed” her.

“Oh my God, it’s Ali McGraw! You just almost ran over Ali McGraw, you asshole,” I barked. “Jesus fucking Christ, Stan, I’ll never get a date with Ali McGraw if you kill her!”

“Who is Ali McCraw?” asked the voice from the backseat—the voice of a thirty-year-old man.

“It’s Mc GRAW, not Craw, shithead. Graw, Graw with a ‘G’ McGraw, and she’s the woman of my dreams ever since Goodbye Columbus.” I was steamed. “You don’t know Ali McGraw? Let me tell you who Ali McGraw is. Enough protein was wasted with impure thoughts of Ali McGraw in the 1970’s to sink a battleship.”

I wonder if Ali remembered me from that day up to Museum Hill. Maybe she likes awkward men. Large and ruggedly handsome men with the ADHD and smooth, awkward moves.

Anyway, I’ve dogs to walk and clothes to buy and hay to make. So, fuck Walmart!