Archive for July, 2015

All Hail The Garden; Daddy And Them Pay A Visit

Tuesday, July 21st, 2015

So.  It’s been an interesting week here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.  My still delicate and tender veggie patch—this year containing mostly tomatoes, peppers and herbs—was, effectively, strip searched and deep cavity inspected by a hail storm that marched across town like Sherman stormed through Atlanta.

OK, except for the fire, raping and pillaging, I liken my damages by hail to Sherman’s March.  That would be the hail storm that Santa Fe, “Never has.”  Ask a Santa Fe native about the weather here and they’ll tell you, “It blah, blah, and blahs …but it never hails.  Heavy sleet, maybe, but never actual hail.”

Does too hail, did hail, and the fucking hail stripped my plants to their skin and beat them black-and-blue and broken in the process.

“Would you look at that!” the Squirt said to me as the three of us stood gazing through the rabbit fence surrounding my tomato patch.  “It looks like a scene from that prison movie we rented a couple weeks ago.”

With that, the adorable bundle of brown fur and unfettered wonderment chuckled.  “Take all your clothes off and bend over, fellas,” she chuckled some more.

“Bend over and spread them cheeks, girls,” I replied with a chuckle of my own. “Lets us see what sort a con-tri-band you’re a-tryin’ to smuggle in ta my jail.”

We surveyed the rest of the estate to find half our apples and pears either down for the count, or battered so badly they needed to be removed from their branches.  Everything except my little succulent garden was beat, and all to Hell.

“You replanting, boss man?  There’s no produce coming off this patch.”

I thought on the tiny dog’s question.  Thought some more.  “Maybe, but maybe not.  It’s already mid-July and I’m too busy to nurse young plants.  Besides, this climate change that isn’t real has screwed-up everything.  It’s liable to snow in September and kill the new tomatoes before they ripen.”

“But they say it never snows in September in Santa Fe,” she told me.

“Exactly,” the most precise response I had.

That’s when I noticed the goat dog over in the corner of the yard where the pear tree sits.  Yoda was gobbling the downed pears like he was in an eating contest.  Squirt said to me, she said, “Look at Joey Chestnut over there, Mooner.  Looks like we’ve got a new world record for pears eaten in the fifteen-pound weight class.  If he doesn’t puke those pears up before taking a shit, I’m catching a bus outta town, and you can clean up the mess.  Remember when he ate the five-pound bag of Cheetos?”

OK, before my ADD takes over this conversation and drives the Squirt’s bus into the ditch, I want to tell you something.  This is something about which I’ve long debated even mentioning, much less fully-disclosing, yet thinking of that issue reminds me to tell you that Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson is here with her sister and buddies for a short visit.  It isn’t that they wanted to visit me, but, and rather, this last weekend was our International Folk Art Festival time.  Same festival whereat last year I stumbled upon Ali McGraw and bumbled my way to fumble a chance for a date.

That International Festival.  “Hey, look ladies,” I asked Sammie and her court in an almost conspiratorial way. “Keep your eyes peeled for Ali McGraw.  If you see her, put in a good word for me and then call.  I can be there in twenty minutes.  I’m working on a new opening line and it’s ready for a debut.”

The four women gathered at my breakfast table, eating bacon, eggies and biscuits I prepared for them, and sipping mimosas mixed and poured by me, burst out laughing as if on cue at some fucking sit-com rehearsal.  One of them actually spit a mouthful of orange juice-thinned champagne in a spray.

Sammie’s sister choked back her guffaw enough to say to me, she said, “Really, Mooner.  Ali McGraw, Mooner,” yuk, yuk, yuk, wipe of tears from eyes, yuk and yuk some more.  “Sam told us you’d gotten more delusional since moving from Austin, but really.  Ali McGraw?”

I think I might actually be starting to enjoy my lack of close female companionship.  While the Squirt is female, and she does get all up in my ass for no real reason, the lack of sexual tensions keeps her bullshit at manageable levels.  Never need to worry about saying the wrong thing to my tiny puppy and having the backlash be me getting no poontang.

And that reminds me of something else.  How ‘bout that Pope Francois, huh?  How about that Popester?  Me, if I had dedicated my entire life to promoting two millennia’s worth of dogma created by generations of greedy, murderous bastards, and all justified by a story with so many holes that it makes Swiss cheese seem as dense as a gold brick, I don’t know if I’d be strong enough to be so concerned with the little people or even the environment as is La Pope’.  Me, I’d be pissed and want the rest of the entire fucking world to be just as miserable as I.

Me, I’d be like all those other Popes before our boy Frankie.  Me, I’d be a miserable old shithead spending as much time keeping my good Catholic masses chained to the cross and whipped by the ridiculous tenants used over the centuries to control their minds.  And their pocketbooks.

Going to make the Presidential politics quite interesting, this Pope is.  Of the announced candidates, O’Malley, Christie, little Jebbie Bushkins, Marco Ruby Slippers, and Ricky Sanitorium are all good Catholic boys.  Except for Bush, they were each born and reared Catholic, so they know they are responsible to follow the Pope’s teachings to the letter—that would be to the fucking letter, boys.  All of the Pope’s teachings, not just the ones you find to be politically expedient.  Bush converted so he could marry a good Catholic girl, so I’m giving him an excuse card to be an asshole and flip-flop on his Catholicism.  Any man out there knows, as my good buddy Squatlo likes to say, that, “Pussy makes you stupid!”  But not the rest of them—they need to be held to the letters of the Pope.

I can’t wait to see the flow charts showing who takes what stands both using their religion to take a position, and then defying that same religion to take another stand.  Two-faced, bigoted pig fuckers.  The rest of the religious-righties are just as squirrely with the words in their books of fables, but the Catholics are the only ones with a single leader with whom their God has installed a hotline of direct communication.

Then, and again, if that scenario is true and the Catholic God speaks directly to the Pope, then I have proof positive that there are at least two Gods—their Catholic fellow (Fellow, maybe) and my God.  Having said that, I’m reminded that my God paid me a visit over the weekend.  Not certain with any absoluteness which day as I spent the weekend partying with the girls, if you know what I mean, and assuming you know I mean no party sex included.

Must have been Saturday night because I don’t remember sitting outside late Sunday night in the rain.  I was sort of nodding off in the wicker rocking chair that sits on the portal and contemplating how I would introduce myself to Ali McGraw when my God arrived sitting at my feet in that silly cross-legged yoga pose.  God looked like Charlize Theron but spoke with Billy Bob Thornton’s voice—what I would have imagined to be a disconcerting combination, but I found it to be quite pleasant.

“Hey, God, how’s it hanging this fine summer eve?”

“Are you ever going to get a new pick-up line, dumass?” God asked me in BBT’s slow-cadenced drawl.  “And you need to forget about Ali McGraw and Sammie both.  Neither has the time or patience to deal with your issues.  I hear Bo Derrick is headed to town—maybe that could work out for you.”

“I’ve got a new pick-up line in a queue, Ma’am, and no thanks on the Ms. Ten offer, big Girl.  I heard her bitching as to how she hates her looks now that she’s “matured”.  I need a woman with both feet solidly planted on the ground and the guts to work her way through the early months with an ADHD-addled old fuckball.  Maybe you could help me land Laura Dern.  I think she’d be really interesting and her daddy is a handful, like me.  Hey, isn’t her mother Diane Ladd?  I’d date Diane Ladd, and hey—didn’t Billy Bob drop Laura Dern to marry Angelina?  That was a giant fucking mistake, if you ask me.  What do you think?”

God was gone.  Sometimes I wish my God were more like the Pope’s God—force a little action rather than simply counsel me.  I could use a little Divine intervention in my dating life.  Might could use a touch of reality as well.  But a man needs to have lofty goals, right?

So, fuck Walmart!

 

WSOP News; Pope Francis Bushwhacks Little Jebbie

Friday, July 3rd, 2015

So.  I’m back from a visit to the World Series of Poker (WSOP) out to Las Vegas.  I played in the Super Seniors event, my plan to achieve some sort of notoriety in the poker world.  I planned to be among the youngest in the tournament in an effort to have more stamina than most others, I planned to play my best, focused game, and I planned to make it to the money.  What I did not plan was to have Mr. Dan Harrington placed to my immediate right at the three-hour twelve-minute mark.

For those of you unfamiliar with Dan, he won the Main Event in 1995, won a World Poker Tour event, is in the Poker Hall of Fame, and has written seven of the best books on poker ever written.  In fact, in preparation for playing in the WSOP, I ordered his latest book on playing tournaments such as the one I played.  Due to a snafu in Amazon’s delivery systems, the book arrived only two days before I left for Vegas.

“I bought your latest book to study for this event,” I told Dan soon after he was seated, and I added, “it came late and I only finished something over half of it.”

Dan, he and I were on a first name basis by then, said to me, he said with a grin, “Missing that last half is going to be a problem for you.”

I went card dead about then, and Dan Harrington demonstrated the power of his written words for the next six-and-a-half hours as he brutalized my dwindling stack of chips.  In a final move of desperation, with a quite small remaining stack of chips, I moved all-in with a suited King-Ten, just behind Dan’s minimum raise.  They were suited Spades, and possibly the suit influenced my move.

“Bad timing, Mooner,” he said somewhat sadly, and he flipped over the two red Aces.

That’s the best of my poker stories as I was knocked out by Dan Harrington at about number 390 of the original 1,533 entrants.  I played pretty well and only made one known mistake over ten hours of play.  And I made my final stand against a world class player, and very classy man.

Oh, and the other interesting thing that happened was at a cash game there to the Rio Casino where the WSOP is played.  I’m sitting in the five seat—that’s immediately facing the dealer across the table in a nine-handed cash game—and a new dealer sat down.  Tables are ten-handed for tournaments yet nine players sit to play cash.  They change dealers every thirty minutes as a rule, and this new dealer was a trim woman of Asian heritage.  After a couple of hands, she began pitching cards at me as if she were attempting to cut carrots—like those card tricksters do.  All the while this woman has the look of a feral dog in her eyes, piercing looks focused on me that made everyone at the table uncomfortable.

My cards are bouncing off my chips, the side of the table, and she would fire them at my hands, mostly at my left hand—the one with the fly tattoo.  As I had said nothing and not entered any pots since she sat down, I was perplexed.  I usually can quickly determine why a woman is pissed at me, but not this time.

“Have I said or done anything to upset you?” I inquired.

Getting no answer except the continued stare and card tossings, I said, I said, “Either tell me what I did and maybe I’ll apologize and you’ll quit being a bitch to me, or call the Floor Manager and we’ll let him arbitrate our issue.”

She dealt another hand, and when she threw the sharp-edged cards at my chest she said, “You Devil!”

“You Devil!” as the first hit my belly, and “You Devil!” when the second hit my shirt pocket and bounced back onto the table face up.  It was the King of Spades, the self and same card that helped end my tournament run.

“Must be that silly tattoo on your hand, sir,” one of the other players said.

“Some Asian cultures have quirky superstitions,” from another.

Me, I simply folded the hand and grabbed my chips and moved on—actions by me which I think might show some modicum of personal growth.  Historically, that would have been a time whereat I’d likely ended tasered and jailed, or at least banned from the casino.  I don’t cotton to rudeness or bigotry either one, and I’m quick to take a stand.

Maybe it was the calming karma of the Spanish Bottle Fly tattoo that helped me find the capacity to walk away rather than involve myself in an exercise to insure that rude behavior be punished.  I felt good about walking away for maybe a half-hour, and then I got pissed at myself.  I got to thinking that the woman’s superstition was religious-based and if I’m to stand against religious prejudice as a matter of principle, then Consistency must be my middle name.

Then again, maybe it was the simple fact that the King of Spades landed face up and that was an affecting aspect effecting my actions, and that reminds me. My Gram left Santa Fe with her young college boy early the day before I headed to Vegas.  We shipped her wrecked Italian sports car to Austin on a flatbed truck, and I dropped off the sex partners at the airport.

“I luv ya, ya little shitbird,” Gram told me with a sloppy kiss and a bony hug.  “An’ go see yer crazy fuckin’ mother, Mooner.  She ain’t well.”

Mother isn’t well.  She fell several times and then caught pneumonia while I was gone.  I’m planning a trip to San Antonio to be with Mother while Sister and Anna the Amazon take a little time off from Mother’s care.  It’ll be the first time I see her since the wedding, and the first time Sister and her wife will be a legitimate married couple wherever they choose to vacation.

And that reminds me of something else.  Jeb Bush responded to the Pope’s positions on the environment and income inequality by saying this:  “…I don’t go to mass for economic information or political policy…”

Oh, really?  You don’t go to mass for political policies?  What about taking a religious stand on abortion because your precious Popie says so?  Same-sex marriage?  Birth control?  Why do you segregate the Pope’s positions on economics and pollution from those he takes on birth control and personal sex partnering?

The Religious Right might have finally been boxed into the corner they have been painting for centuries.  Might Pope Francis be the one to shine Devine light, and a final gallon of bright pink paint, on their hypocrisies?

Fuck Walmart!