Archive for June, 2015

Gassing Up For Summer; A Johnson Family History Lesson

Wednesday, June 17th, 2015

So.  It’s been four days since Gram showed up to my door unannounced, driven in a tow truck that also special delivered her crumpled-up red sports car, and with said crusty old bird towing a young college student by his pecker.  It’s been four days of fun times spent with the mangy dog that is my grandmother, and not so fun times of cleaning up after her.  As my grandmother’s presence often sets fire to my ADHD, I’ll make every effort to provide concise elucidations on the subjects addressed.

We fixed a BBQ together Sunday afternoon whereat the dogs and I were responsible for the meat and corn-on-the-cob, and Gram took charge of the potato salad and pinto beans.  Since Gram is, as she calls herself, “Tha best pinter beanies cookerator in all a Travis County and abouts,” she’s the chief bean chef whenever beans are on the menu.  Unless it’s green beans or soy beans.

“I ain’t fixin’ no eat ur mammy beaners, Mooner, ain’t eatin’ um neithers.  Fuckin’ Russian fart pellets iff’n ya ask me.  Doc Ashburn flinches ever time he sees me anymore,” she told me when I asked her to cook beans for the BBQ.

“If you’d chew your food better, Gram, you’d have much less gas, factual information the entire family wants you to know.”

While Gram did have that incident when she almost put out old Doc Ashburn’s eye during a rectal exam the one time after we ate at a sushi place, I’ve fed her edamame several times since without any gassy complaints.

Our boy Tommy was assigned to, “You be a watchin’ Mooner out there to tha grill, Mr. T, and you learn a thing er six.  Mooner mad cooks piggy meat.  Goat an’ chicken too.”

Tommy stayed with me long enough to drink half a beer and for me to get the grill hot before he headed back inside.  “Need a beer coozie, Mr. Johnson, be right back.”

The Squirt giggled as she watched Tommy’s back disappear through the back door.  “He must have been a virgin when Gram snared him, bwana Mooner.  He’s got nothing else on his mind.”

“Yes ma’am, little lady.  Boy better start pacing himself or Gram’s gonna kill him.  Which reminds me.  Do you know where the bottle of Nu Skin is?  I haven’t seen it since I was changing the light bulb in the dining room and cut that chunk of flesh off my arm.  Fucking curio cabinet.  Tommy’s liable to need some flesh repairs, if you know what I mean.  Rub a cucumber against a leather saddle long enough, cucumber’s likely to lose considerable skin.”

We both laughed, and headed inside to prepare the vegetables for dinner.

OK, having written this much of today’s nonsense, I’m struck by the sense that I have located yet another reason I make up words.  I now realize that, in addition to the many reasons I have enumerated before, I’m long trained by my grandmother to use literary license when congregating my verbages.  Conjugating adverbs as well.  Take, for example, her word “cookerator”.  Please carefully evaluate that word in the context provided by me, herein and above, and tell me she didn’t nail it.  Or as she might be prone to say, “I nailerated it, shithead.”

Did I ever tell you about the time Gram, Mother and I visited Mother’s family back to Virginia right after Daddy died?  My father died but a couple years after his own and a year before Mother’s mother was murdered. It was a few tough losses for us and we took Mother back East to see what family she had left not named Johnson.  It was while on that trip that Gram had her coming-out moment.  Mother was visiting an old buddy and left Gram and I to fend for ourselves.  We were discussing what to do when my Gram opened my eyes to her state of mind.

“I been a right good wife ta yer granddaddy, Mooner—never did have any poontanger with another man.  Married at almost fourteen, we was, an’ I never did even looksee at another man,” giggle, slap of hands to thighs, more giggling,”’ceptin’ fer tha one time when Willie danced with me over to tha Broken Spoke back to ’72,” giggle, pause, angelic smile.  “I’d a put Willie right on down to tha floor an’ made yer granddaddy watch, Mooner.  Willie Nelson is one sexy cowboy!”

Gram then told me that she had fifty years to make up, and I needed to get her laid.  As Maryland blue crabs from the Chesapeake Bay are one of my food weaknesses, I took her to this crab place on the bay near the Virginia/Maryland border.  “Henry’s” was its name and they served steamed crabs with bay seasoning, cold beer and fresh corn, and they had a country hoe down every Saturday night.

And why, inthefuck, is a country dance called a hoe down.  My best thoughts would be that the working folk put down their hoes to have a good time, but really?

Big place, Henry’s, and filled to the rafters with diners and dancers.  We ate a dozen crabs and many ears of corn and swilled beers for an hour or so.  The beers, Old Dominion of brand and icy cold served, filled our hands—me watching for a suitable lady, and my Gram looking at each man like she was searching for lice in my hair back to elementary school.

“What’s wrong, Gram?” I asked her.  “There’s fifty men hanging out with no dates.  One of them has got to fit your scheme of things.”

“Too fuckin’ old, sonny boy.  Got fifty year’s a sextin’ all stored up.  I don’t wanna kill my first un, now do I?”

She finally settled on a young man of maybe nineteen who was there with his parents and a pretty girl I assumed was his date.  That was the last actual fistfight I was in, except for that one time at the lesbian meeting for Sister and Anna the Amazon, and the only time served by me in a Virginia jail.  Nice people, Virginia cops.

Gram failed to land the young Virginia lover boy that night, but she did learn a valuable lesson.  “Need ta git me a man hookie, Mooner.  Sumthin’ ta cerebriate mysef from them young girls.”

After cogitating how to cerebrally differentiate herself in a young man’s mind, she settled on a bright red Ferrari, and Gram has hooked young boys with that car better than stink bait snags catfish on a treble hook.  Evidence young Tom, still a fixture in the spare bedroom here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.

Anyway, I went inside to replenish my cooler with beer while the dogs and I did the only cooking getting done, and Gram’s pinto beans were boiling over on the stove.  Hell’ova mess, let me tell you, and an absolute bitch to clean.  Fire-baked-on bean juice is like brown enamel on a stove top.  Took so long to clean it up, I worried that Gram and Tommy were dead in the guest room, and I burned the pig meat outside.

“Looks like we’re headed to Dr. Field Goods,” Squirt said with excited tail waggings.  “Remember that the goat dog likes the spicy Italian sausage, and I want a simple Margarita, pizza” she informed me.  “Oh, oh, oh, and get me some chicken liver pate, if you please, sir.”

The pizzas were great and the pate good enough to eat off of Michelle Bachmann’s Lilly white epidermis while listening to her make a stump speech.

Fuck Walmart!

Walk A Mile In My Shoes; Grandmother Sex For Dummies

Friday, June 5th, 2015

So.  I’m sitting at my dining room table with the dogs early yesterday morning.  We were drinking our daily Cup a Joe—a scenario whereat I have a full cup of strong coffee, then share licky-slurps from the drained cup with my furry charges.  Squirt always gets first licks as she is of shorter snout and tongue, and the Gene Simmons’ tongued Yoda laps what’s left in the overly-deep coffee mug I bought just because of this disparity of lingual lengths.

I drink my coffee while reading the flimsy local paper, had finished that before the coffee was gone, and was watching Sports Center on the TV.  Seems that all the greedy FIFA officials will finally pay their penances, and all is now well in the sports world.

OK, except for the rest of the greed, player violence on others, and Olympics corruption, arresting FIFA fuckwads pretty much clears up the worst sports offenders of our day.

My day was clear as well, and as the dogs and I were starting to converse about plans, I heard the screaming sounds of an Italian sports car winding high and tight in a low gear.  Santa Fe has many wealthy individuals who own, and sort of drive, expensive autos.  I’ve bore witness to old geezers over-revving and missing gears on our streets and thought nothing of it.  It seemed that these current sounds were from a mile off and headed away—towards town—then disappeared from earshot.

We three decided to go walking up to the Canyon Road art district to scope out any attractive, cultured patrons in need of the warmth and comfort of a local bon vivant, and I was putting on my sneakers when the high-pitched whine of what could only be a Ferrari hit my ears like the buzz of a giant horse fly.  The sound grew closer as the big 12-cylinder engine wound to its maximum tightness, grew closer still, then the air filled with the grind of a collision that sounded like a shot.

“That asshole drives worse than Gram,” the Squirt said.  “Old farts shouldn’t drive Ferraris, Mooner.  Ferraris are expensive to repair.”

She giggled and said, she told me with a giant smile, “That sounds so much like your grandmother’s driving, wouldn’t it be funny if it is her?”

I didn’t laugh.  I still keep a garage on retainer back to Austin to make repairs on Gram’s bright red machine, and the sounds of shredded metal brought me unhappy memories.  “Sometimes I think it would be cheaper to just buy her a new car every few months.  Or maybe I should learn to do body work.”

The Squirt laughed aloud.  “You,” and here she laughed some more, “can’t change a lightbulb without doing damage to yourself or breaking something.”

“That’s mean, little lady.  I’m a good home repair artist,” I answered, a tad bit hurt at her comment.  “I’ve not needed any stitches this year and haven’t started a single electrical fire.”

She and I debated my skills around the house and were designing a challenge.  I was to change the filter on the HVAC system, remove the hair from all the sinks and the two bath tub drains, and put new plastic string line on the weed eater before noon.  Should I accomplish those tasks before 12 O’clock, without personal injury or additional damages, Squirt promised to make the goat dog stop peeing inside the house for an entire week.  Should I fail, I have to take them for long walks at sites of their choosing for the next seven days.

It was as I wrote out the contest agreement for our signatures that I heard the sound of a big truck’s air brakes in the street in front of our house.  After the shoosh and pop and screech of pressurized air release, then a pause, we were treated to the sounds of a hydraulic lift gate lowering to the pavement.

“Wha tha fuck?” I muttered, jumping from the table and heading out the front door to the porch.  I tippy-toed to look over the wall and was treated to the sight of a bright red Ferrari—front-end smashed and crumpled—lowering out of sight.  I raced to the gate in my bare feet, bruising my soles on the gravel with each step.  As I swung the gate open, I was met with the cheery countenance of my grandmother, hand-in-hand with a young man wearing a University of Texas tee shirt, a pair of cut-off shorts, and an expression of sheer terror mixed with the afterglow of sex.

“Hi ya, Mooner.  Put on sum fuckin’ pants an’ meet Jimmy here.”

Did I mention that I like to read the paper in my undies?  This was when the wrecker driver approached and handed me a bill.  He said, “Mrs. Johnson, here, gave the other driver a check for his damages, so all you owe me is $150.00 for the tow.”

“A hundred fifty?  I play poker with Tommy and I know he’d charge me half that.”  I was pissed.  “Didn’t I give you Jimmy’s card last time you were here?” I scolded at Gram.

I told the driver to bill me and walked out to look at the car.  It was a total mess. When I walked back inside to properly welcome and appropriately scold my Gram, she, and Tommy, were not waiting on me.

“There’re in the guest room, Bwana.  Asked if you’d bring their bag from the car and put it outside the door.  Gram said they haven’t had no sexing since Clovis and that she is all backed up.”  Squirt giggled like a little girl tickled on her feet.  “Maybe we should take a walk, give them a little privacy.”

Been doing a lot of walking.  Now I’m headed to play poker and I’m realizing that my randy old grandmother has been in this house only one day, and she’s had twenty times more sex here than have I.

And did I tell you that Santa Fe doesn’t have a Ferrari mechanic?

Fuck Walmart.