Archive for July, 2016

The Party Of Lincoln; Critical Thought For Dummies

Friday, July 29th, 2016

So. Today is a new day in my life. Today shall, and will, be a full day filled with personal reflections, familial considerations and in the end- decisions. The fulfilling of the filled fulls of this day are the culmination of a years-long mental pilgrimage from full enjoyment of the isolation afforded by refuge here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe—the walled compound within which the dogs and I can enjoy that special sort of nekid peace and reflective solitudes–and ending the journey feeling isolated by those same separations, having allowed said full enjoyments to be cycled, and recycled, through the fevered mind of an ADD-addled fuckbrain.
And, while these writings, so far, seem reflective of Old Abe’s Gettysburg addressings, it only seems seven and scores of years in reflection. Reflections. It would be plural and I’m guessing Old Abe popped into my head because we were over to the hardware store the other day and this nice lady was attempting to assist us with a paint purchase. “Does the color sky blue ice or blueberry shake better match?” I asked her.
I held a swatch of leftover fabric from the spare bedroom curtains to the color charts. The dogs spend much of their quiet time when I’m out of residence nesting on the bed and staring out the bedroom’s window. Because of their connection to the room, I try to defer to their wishes when decorating.
“Squirt here, she likes blueberry shake—says it picks up the color from the feathers in this guy’s tail,” I told the nice lady while pointing at a Blue Jay’s fat ass on the swatch. “Me, I’m thinking we should go with the Oriole blue rather than the Blue Jay, don’t you? I think the Oriole is one of the prettiest of all birds, don’t you? And Blue Jays are a menace, don’t you think?”
I took this sales training course years ago and was taught that it is smart to end questions or declaratory statements with what they called a “tie down”. Tie downs would be words that obtain tacit agreement from even an unwilling prospect, like “don’t you”, or “wouldn’t you agree”. Or “You’ll go to jail if you don’t”. Those sorts of dealios.
“Look, sir, we’ve been through this before, or don’t you remember?” The attractive woman advised, “Trust your dog’s judgement. Her taste seems far better than yours. Honest Abe.”
I was struck with both a flashback and likewise with wonderment if “don’t you remember” and “Honest Abe” were tie downs used therein.
“Honest Abe? Really, Honest Abe?” I said to her. “I haven’t heard that phrase since junior high school when Gloria Ledbetter used it on me when I had trouble taking “No” for an answer. Me, I thought we’d make a great pairing for the Spring Prom. Gloria- not so much.”
“No, no, no,” Gloria had told me, and I now told the paint lady.
“Honest, Gloria? You’re tall for a girl and I’m thinking you’re ready for some slow dancing.”
“Look, Mooner. I asked my mom and she told me you’re a bucket of trouble. Remember when you set the girl’s locker room on fire?”
“I did,” I reminisced to the impatient hardware store lady, “and I told Gloria it was an unfortunate accident. Wrong-place, wrong-time to be playing with cherry bombs. Was it my fault the trashcan spontaneously combusted?”
Gloria told me, “My mother said she’d put me in a nunnery before she’ll let me date Mooner Johnson. Honest Abe, that’s what she said.”
“But you’re Baptist, Gloria, we Baptists don’t have nunneries. And wasn’t Lincoln the guy who freed the slaves and saved our Union so that you and I can slow dance?”
The nice, attractive, foot tapping paint helper lady called for, “Assistance in Paint Department,” then asked me, she said, “Look, sir. We don’t want to ban you from the store, so why don’t you go now and come back for your paint at Noon.”
The three of us moved here not to get to, but, instead, to escape from. While New Mexico is The Land of Enchantments, for the dogs and this knuckleheaded loony, our adopted state offered us refuge from the harsh politics of Ted Cruz, Texas Governors Perry and Abbott and their ilk. Said another way, we didn’t move here because Santa Fe is so great, instead we came here to feel less oppressed by the political climate in Texas. Not that we don’t like it because we do.
OK, and I really needed to put a little space between mother and son.
In the four years since the move, we have realized that we are no different from the millions of refugees who have been either forced from their homes at gunpoint—like Palestinians from the West Bank—or those fleeing from violent, oppressive forces such as the refugees in flight from Syria. While the circumstances of our exodus are far less oppressive than of those unwilling travelers, the pulling desire to return to our homeland is, I’m thinking, just as strong.
Which reminds me. What is it about giving something up that makes it all the more attractive, inviting, desirable? Never has a woman been more enticing to me than when she divorces my ass. Just the knowing I’ll not know her mysteries again pegs my pecker meter to full stop.
And that reminds me that I have one thing to say to anyone who claims that our Presidential election is a choice of lesser evils—Clinton or Trump, the lesser of two evils. You folks remind me of Paulie Kraspar, a kid whose father was KKK and jailed for raping a black girl back to when we were in junior high.
We were studying WWII and Hitler’s atrocities when Paulie stood tall and told us with some rancor, “Well, FDR, that asshole, he was just as bad as Hitler. They were both evil.”
When quizzed by our quite confounded teacher as to the logic of his comparison, young Mr. Kraspar responded, and here I’ll attempt to put the words back in his mouth when I quote him, he said, “My daddy says FD-fuckin’-R was a womanizin’ drunk who put innocent Germans and Japs in prison just ta keep ‘em from talkin’.”
For some reason our Media have decided to pit twenty-four years of unproven allegations against Hilary against the known, proven lies and bankruptcies and failed ventures, racism, bigotry and treasonous behavior of Trump. False equivalences at their worst.
So, to you “lesser evil” dumbasses, please allow me to say, and with considerable gusto, “Either pull your heads out your asses, or: Fuck you and Walmart too!”

Can You Tabu? The Scent Of Early Risings

Friday, July 15th, 2016

So. I’m up at 3:15 am, again, and it seems to be a new habitual. Before today, this time of awakening was for me, as said in Spanish, “Tiempo de perros.”  Most times when I’m up too early it is dog related. And for those of you wondering why I speak so often of my hounds I say, “You, sir, need to pay attention.”

This morning, however, it wasn’t the dogs who awakened me, it was my own fevered brain. True enough, the Squirt was doing her adorable snurffle-snuffle snore dealio, a complex cacophony of puppy sleeping noises that puts a smile on my face and a lump of love in my heart. But it wasn’t that or Yoda’s constantly severe halitosis that awakened me today. It was my own spinning brain waves that kept me wide awake.

My issue, according to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, is that I have a guilty conscience about something, with said whateverthefuck something remaining a mystery to me. The often insightful psycho therapist and former Mrs. Mooner Johnson seems to believe that my early risings are all connected to something about which I feel either embarrassment, or guilt. Because I feel guilty, ipso facto, I can’t sleep.

“It is proven medical science, Mr. Loony Bird. Most insomnia is either anxiety or guilt driven, and in your case, my money lays nine-to-two it’s guilt. You need to spend some time in self-reflection, Mooner. There has to be something you’ve done that’s laying heavily on your crazy mind—you obviously feel embarrassment or guilt over something. Lord knows you’re always doing something that embarrasses me.”

When my psycho therapist say shit like this I start to wonder which of us is the nutty one. “Have you lost your mind, Sammy? It’s gotta be five-to-two, worst case. I haven’t been embarrassed since back to junior high school when I slow danced with an actual girl not Gram or Sister the first time. Accidently dry-rubbed against the silk and taffeta prom gown of who’s her name, and received both pleasure and a slap. She had one of those corsage dealios that girls used to wear on their wrist and I can still see how the air caused the baby’s breath to blow off her wrist as her flat hand headed for my cheek.”

Enjoyed the thrills too much to be embarrassed in the moment even with the slap, but paid the price next day in Sunday school. Offended young lady had to tell Mrs. Browningwell the story with added allegations. True, I did get a boner, and true as well that I left it pinned to her front halfway between her belly button and soft, budding breasts. But I wasn’t moaning. I was counting my one-two-three-fours under my breath so’s not to step on her tootsies. That was the only way I ever danced through an entire song without tripping over everyone’s feet.”

Who’s her name was far shorter than was I, and I was humming my numbered steps with my mouth closed. In reflections, might have sounded like moaning to her virgin ear plastered to my chest, spray-fluffed hair in my face. Oh, and I just remembered that she wore Taboo perfume except wasn’t it spelled “Tabu”? God, rememberating the sights and smells of young first encounters is exhilarating. Remember the first time you sniffed a lover’s sex smells? Intoxicating.

For those of you questioning my grammatical choices, I purposely used  “who’s her name” rather than “what’s her name”, and speaking of dry rubbed, my Gram called me last night to complain about her sex life. OK, she actually called to see if I’d come visit and, as she put it when she told me, she said, “Git yer fuckin’ pig ta stay tha shit out tha garden.” But as always, my Gram’s conversations will hit sex talk at about the ninety-second mark, as in this conversation when she ran out of steam complaining about Rush Limbaugh the pig eating all her squash.

“… fuckin’ Rushie Limberhog ate summer squashies an’ tha Zukkies too. So, there’s this Texas student working down ta tha church—nuclur engineerin’ or sum such a major, an’ doin’ tha Lord’s work with tha kids fer Pastor Browningwell—an’ he says ta me, ‘Mz. Johnson, that’s a mighty nice car you drive.’ An’ afore I can git tha door open to hop him on in, fuckin’ Leticia grabs tha boy’s arm damn near out tha socket. Yanked tha poor kid hard enough ta snap his head off, what with him eyeballin’ the Fee-rarie an’ all.”

And that’s twice now that Mrs. Leticia Browningwell has bothered into a Johnson’s sexual activities in four paragraphs of this word swill. Maybe I can’t sleep because that old bag had so much influence on my life. She’d have boiled me in oil had we lived back in the days of such, and then fed me to the pigs. Told me just that this one time. Maybe that’s likewise why I own 400-plus pounds of piggy meat on the hoof.

Folks ask me why I’m an atheist and moments with Leticia come to mind. In my world, no actual God would allow her to influence so many young lives. Then, and again, no God as a deity exists in my world excepting for my own, quite personal God, a creature of my own divining.

I often wish for a Divine all-knowing, all-being God, as that would make it easier to live life. Using a third party with a God’s power can justify any action one might choose to make, as abdication of our bad deeds to the edicts of a cult grants a pardon to some. No guilty consciences when you can confess your sins to your God for absolutions.

“Dear God. I’m so sorry for being a greedy and bigoted racist lying fuckhead, and if You make me President I promise I’ll be better. Ah, er, well ah, might You also consider making this current bankruptcy go away? Amen. Oh, and the lawsuits.”

Fuck Walmart and Donald J. Trump as well.

Rememberies Of Future Present; Racism’s Caustic Spittle

Friday, July 8th, 2016

So. I’m sitting here to my desk at 5:15 in the AM wondering what went wrong. I watched the live news coverage of the black man shooting Dallas police—apparently an insane reaction to recent police shootings of black men—and this morning I’ve been at this mental endeavor since I got out of bed at 2:17—three hours and two minutes ago—when the Squirt had finally had enough of my fidgeting and nudged me out of the bed.

“Jesus Christ, Mooner, get up and go do something productive,” the small, brown-furred bundle of piss and vinegar almost growled in my face. “Get up and leave us to sleep or I’m telling the goat dog to start licking your face.”

While I do sincerely love both of the little Chihuahua-mixed puppies that are my companions, the Squirt is a pain in my ass, and Yoda’s spit is so corrosive it can dissolve the silver coating off a plated serving spoon, and smells bad enough to drive a pig off a bucket of swill. These things I know as facts.

“Well now, Mr. Johnson, just how might you know those tasty morsels of information to be, as you say, ‘facts’?”

“Well, Missy Tamara (Tamara is who the name tag claims her to be), the spit part was learned when I used this old serving spoon—a silver-plated jobbie whose matching knife and fork had long ago disappeared—to slop a blob of peanut butter onto a toasted English muffin. The peanut butter was organic from the bulk aisle over to Sprouts, and the muffin from this nifty bakery down to Austin, Texas. As the Squirt was in the other room watching Oprah with Gram and Streaker Jones, Yoda got both first and second dibbies to lick the remaining thin smear of goober spread off said spoon.”

Missy Tamara looked at me like I’d lost my mind and said to me, she says, “And?”

“And nothing. I put the spoon over to the counter next to the sink with intentions to hand wash it, hand washing a needed action after the goat dog’s tongue touches anything you wish to reuse, like dishes, flatware or faces. Little shit licked my underarm to get me to roll over in bed this one time and I got a dreadful rash right there where the bottom part of every shirt sleeve rubs. It was very uncomfortable.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“The spoon, Sir. Did you have a point?”

“Oh, that. Forgot to wash it until the next day. I remember my Gram getting all up in my ass about it. ‘What in all God’s green pastures is this here?’ she asked me. The spoon looked like I’d dipped it in a vat of acid. It was all green and florescent and shit, and you could see the cheap pot metal showing through the silver coating.”

I love Trader Joes, I truly do. Their staff is always so friendly and interested in you. I’ve had several of these pleasant conversations with Tamara as she checked me out. And she always makes naughty innuendos when it’s time to insert my chipped credit card into the slot of the reader.

“It’s time, Mr. Johnson. Steady, straight and gently. Push it all the way in and then don’t touch it until it tells you what to do next. If you move it too soon you’ll have to pull it out and do it all again.”

Tamara has short, curly hair, light brown doe eyes, and a fearsome grin. And a girlfriend. Why is it that I’m so attracted to lesbian women? Put me in a dating mixer with a hundred interested straight women and one lesbian who doesn’t actually like men, and I’m making time with the lesbian in six minutes flat. What’s up with that shit? I love lesbians so much I forgot to tell you the pig part of my puppy’s spit stuff. And what’s up with my focus?

Did I tell you I have the dreaded ADD? I mean recently? I sat down now three hours and forty-five minutes ago to tell you that I think my country has gone all to Hell, and back, and I still haven’t told you about the time Yoda licked all over the galvanized tub used to feed Rush Limbaugh the pig. First and only time I saw that hog turn his nose up at food.

OK, and way back up there when talking about the spit and the spoon, I used the personal “whose” when referring to the spoon’s former mates. I really wanted to use “which’s”, as I feel with absolute certainty that it is Spoon’s mates which whom are missing. Then, again, maybe there are times when inanimate objects can take on human qualities. Like this one time when my Gram’s mushroom juice caused my Boy Scout pocket knife to carve the miniature Jesus off the faceplate on Mrs. Browningwell’s Sunday school lectern.

The term “He Is Risen”, painted in gold leaf above the carving, sort of fell flat after I’d whittled a crater where that old bag’s precious cherry wood Savior had once rested. Speaking of that entire “He Is Risen” dealio, a person close to me recently told me that she has figured out the entire set of mysteries revolving around Jesus dying on the cross, getting buried and then coming back for a farewell dinner with his boys.

“He didn’t die,” she told me with a look of sheer delight plastered all over her face. “They didn’t have modern science to check if he was actually dead, did they? There were no stethoscopes back then, they didn’t know to put a mirror under his nose to see if it fogged.”

Maybe I haven’t yet gotten to my point because I’m so frightened of it. America is this close to electing a racist, bigoted, braindead and greedy misogynistic failed businessman as President. Racial tensions are as high as they’ve been in my lifetime. America has enough military-styled rifles on its streets to arm the French Army. And representing our fellow citizens in public service has become one of the ten highest-paying jobs you can land, and the highest-paying job with no requirements for intelligence, integrity or common decency.

We were headed in such a good direction coming out of the Sixties and into the Seventies. Now we’re at the “Last Days of Pompeii” stage, where our hate, greed and gluttony are consuming us.

It hurts to say this, but my best effort to fight back is to simply say:

FUCK WALMART!!!!