Insights; I Call Your Epiphany And Raise You Three Fates

So. The last month has been a blur. Blurred hours either racing past or passing so slowly as to be nearly motionless; blurry decision making caused by both my own indecisivenesses, and the desired and not quite so desired, inputs from others; fuzzy thoughts swirling through the often disconnected synapses of my fevered brain; the disjointed confusion of not clear intentions of others—loved ones, friends, Mother.

The blur of second-guessing. Was it time to move? Did I choose the right place? Did America really elect Donald J. Trump as our next President? Really?

OK, here’s some facts for you. I moved back to Texas to be in more of a position to assist Sister in caring for Mother. Original intentions were to move back into the family homestead there to Austin, a ninety-minute drive to Mother’s dementia-filled side. After a weeklong visit headquartered in Austin, the daily trips to San Antonio proved too much for me. Not the commutes, the visits. I enjoyed the Hill Country drives racing to-and-fro, but daily contacts proved to be an overload of my mind’s few family circuits not previously ravaged by the maternal relationship.

Then, with an overloading of fresh mushroom juice, a strain of pot named “Cherry Bomb”, and a case of icy Carta Blanca beer drunk whilst sitting dockside with my best buddy, Streaker Jones.

“Don’t need ta come all tha way home, Mooner. Come back in degrees or you’ll go nuts.”

Yesterday, I was walking the dogs around my new neighborhood here to Denton, Texas—the best thing found that resembles my beloved Austin of thirty years ago. Two-college town, twenty-minute drive edge-to-edge, two Hilary signs per each Trump banner, and quite nice people. In two weeks I’ve met a rainbow coalition of neighbors and the puppies have settled in nicely. Yoda and I have already started our territorial marking of the smallish, fenced backyard, and the Squirt came within an inch of grabbing a squirrel’s tail.

“I hate those snittering little fuckers, Mooner. Wait ‘till I get ahold a one.”

We drove back from Thanksgiving down south Friday morning after a mixed-results holiday, and found many neighbors putting out their Xmas decorations. The Guatemalan family on one side have what must be a thousand lights strewn about walls, bushes and lawn. Good thing I’ve got blackout drapes in the master. Many of his bulbs are the old fashioned, larger incandescent type that sound like a 22-cal rifle shot when slammed into concrete.

One of my worst whippings came after getting caught stealing those lights from the elaborate Xmas display of a west Austin mansion. Got caught breaking them on the loading dock over to the downtown Post Office building. Now Travis County Sheriff Woozie Wozniack was my accomplice, and that shithead got off all punishments by blaming everything on me.

Was my idea, we drove my car, had smoked my pot, and my choice of the well-patrolled Post Office building to finish our act of vandalism. Got caught, however, because his fat ass couldn’t break twenty seconds in a ten-yard dash to an open car door.

Oh, and speaking of cars. A couple months ago my left hip started hurting—a ball joint already afflicted with arthritis was starting to ache with mind-numbing intensity. Long story shortened for reader’s sake, it was the operating of the clutch pedal in my hot rod Subaru causing the new pains. Seating position required me to lift my hip off the seat to shift gears, motions that un-naturally angulated the use of that joint, causing routine grinding of soft tissues and hard alike. “Get a new car or suffer,” was the prognosis.

Replacement is a Chevy SS. Look it up:

OK, the ADD is starting to take control more intensely than the traction control button in my SS. We were walking the neighborhood sidewalk circuit yesterday, dogs on long leashes and my thoughts fully untethered. I was thinking about a hand of poker I played at my new casino, an establishment located thirty minutes from locking our back door. I slow-played a set of sixes and lost to a runner-runner flush, a fate fully deserved by me for letting a loose player stay in the hand for free. I’ve decided to look at poker as a profession and am working to get my game repaired.

We’d stopped to let the Squirt growl and bark at a tree rat while I examined my dumb actions at a house with a yard-full of those molded plastic Xmas scenes. Toy soldiers, nativity scene, Three Wise Guys, wrapped packages—you know, that sort of puffy plastic stuff. I was, I guess, in a poker evaluation fog.

“Hey you, what the fuck? You, standing in my grass there with the dogs!”

Huh? “Huh, you talking to me? I asked.

“Yea, you. Your fucking dog just pissed on baby Jesus!”

Dogs got extra treats upon our return to Johnson Family Denton Central Headquarters, and my head cleared somewhat. It started to look like this neighborhood in this town was a good place to safe harbor for at least the next few years.

“This was a good choice, Squirty girl. I think we’ll be happy here.” A long walk can refresh your thinkings.

My sweet brown puppy jumped into my lap, a dead serious look on her face. “You know, Yoda pissed on that plastic on his own. I didn’t say one word. I was figuring a way to climb that tree and snatch that jabber mouth by his throat. I know I can catch them if I can get high enough. I’m thinking you can build me a ladder, and…”

Tis the season to Fuck Walmart!


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6 Responses to “Insights; I Call Your Epiphany And Raise You Three Fates”

  1. Katy Anders says:

    You’re a Texan again?

    Some people can’t make up their mind.

    Nothing worse than someone who can’t decide who they are.

  2. Mooner's Cascading Rivulets says:

    Katy. Holy fucking shit!!! I have missed you, I love you, can we have babies? OK, no babies, but whereinthefuck have you been. I assume you are aware of the whole Nasreen dealio. Oh boy, wait until the guys here about this.

    Yea, and fuck Walmart!

  3. well Mooner, try to stay outta trouble … and fuck WalMart who sells all those darn Christmas decorations to include the 20 feet gigantic blowups…those make good BB targets barring of course any living creatures around before one takes aim!

  4. bj says:

    WHOA!! Now THAT’S a hot rod! 415 horses kickin’ in that lil’ red craft? Get the bleach ready for the burnout! Snazzy looker, too. The kwershun is, though, do your big ass fit in there without being scrunched all up agin’ the steerin’ wheel? That’d be werser than that old hip affliction you have.
    You’ll feel better about the situation with your momma when it’s all over with. My Uncle lived almost five years after being diagnosed with alzheimer’s, but with the diagnosis? The outcome was pretty clear. Whether she even recognizes you or not isn’t that important. Just make sure you feel good about YOU.
    I’ve heered about that Cherry Bomb before. It’s from Mother Skunk, ain’t it? HERE’S what I hope to be able to purchase(in mass quantity) before they toss me in the retort … GONZO’S Gonzo!
    heh heh heh

  5. Mooner's Cascading Rivulets says:

    Bellamia. As Trouble is my middle name, it fits me like a glove. As cheap and tawdry Xmas decorations are a part of modern Americana, my personal distastes for said and such are hugely lubricated by Yoda’s actions. Looking for a condiment that melts plastic yet not kill the carrier. Add it to his and my water bowls.

    Beej, my buddy. Driver’s cabin but a touch smaller than your own Big Daddy Chrysler 300 with sporty, supportive seats and massive legroom. Accidentally smoked the rears in front of a cop at a traffic light when in Austin for the T’givers. Touch of water on the road, foot not yet used to the automatic and over-gassed it. Big horses are great, but the 415 footies of torque—- something special. Got the exhaust tuned to where you touch the start button and it “Frrpts, next growls and then burbbles.” Remember the late sixties wedgies with factory header upgrades? Rev it and all the neighbor men come out to check their lawns.

    As for Hunter’s pot, I’mma sneak up to Colo and get me some. And “MushroomS R Us” is now a registered trademark owned by The Johnson Family Interests, LLC. My thoughts are that the medical industry will soon figure out that the native cultures of the world have long had a head start on modern medicine when it comes to compounds which make lives better.

    Oh, and thanks for the Betty Book camel toe. Merry fucking Xmas to me.

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