Archive for the ‘ADHD’ Category

Cardinal Sins And Other Misdemeanors; Blessing Da Pope

Tuesday, January 7th, 2014


So. Its 3:43 am and I’m sitting, awake. With the first infestations of Mountain Jumpier Pollen- Version 2014.1, my entire body is itching from a spot that lies one-sixteenth-of-an-inch under my skin—a calamity wherein the more you scratch the more you itch—I’ve snotted up an entire box of recycled facial tissues since eight last night, and I’ve managed to obsess over almost every aspect of my life. I’ve finally managed to obsess my shit enough together on the professional front to make plans to play poker today, but, and alas, I feel like hammered cat fur balls, I’ve dried snot making my face look like Tony Montana’s in the last scene of Scarface, and I can actually feel the swollen blood vessels in my eyes when I blink.

I’m a fucking mess.

Then, again, a certain unsettling countenance can prove beneficial when playing poker for actual cash. Which reminds me. I was sitting in front of the TV in an attempt to watch Ohio State play Clemson in a bowl game. The dogs were both planted on me as I lounged in the soft den sofa and the score was 14-to-7. Don’t know which had what points and I didn’t really giveashit when the phone rang. I’d forgotten to bring a phone close to the sofa, so I was required to disturb the dogs to answer.

“You’re a total asshole,” the Squirt told me when I untangled her from her nest between my legs. The diminutive brown puppy likes to wedge herself between my legs and then have me wrap her with blankets. She then twists-and-turns until cocoonelated like a silkworm in its final life stage, sighs a “Harrumph”, kicks with her back feet to tighten said and aforementioned cocoon, and sleeps like a baby.

“I keep telling you to put a phone close. I was dreaming and almost caught the bunny rabbit when you roused me,” Squirt groused.

I didn’t bother a response because to respond would have caused me to miss my Gram’s call, and catch an additional load of crap.

“Happy New Year, you sexy old gas bag. How’s it hanging, Gram?” I love my grandmother in inexplicable ways.

“Don’t you be all sweetie pie talkin’ ta me, Mooner. Call yer fuckin’ mother an’ do it right pronto. She say’s ya ain’t call’t ‘er since Halloweenie an’ there’s a terrible cry shits ya need ta handle. Now you git,” and I was left with dial tone.

“Love you too,” I spoke to the dial tone, “and whatinthefuck is a ‘terrible cry shits’?”

I looked at the dogs and asked again. “Terrible cry shits?” The fractured English that spews from Gram’s maw can be unsettling, but does, however, provide the mental gymnastics that lubricates my brain. I’m told that keeping mentally fit stays off the terrible effects of dementia, a malady that has already struck my bloodlines.

“Oooooooh. Crisis. Mother has a terrible crisis,” I said with not a small amount of pride.

My mother is a batty old broad now living in an advanced living facility who suffers from advancing Alzheimer-linked dementia. I call her at least daily and she sometimes forgets but mostly pretends that I, as she would say it, “Never calls me. Mooner never calls.”

I hit auto-dial to ring Mother’s apartment. She must have had her hand on the phone because the first ring didn’t complete its tone before I heard a clipped, “What took you so long?”


Me: “What’s up, Mother. Gram tells me that there is something terribly wrong.”

Mother: “I wouldn’t need your grandmother as an intermediary if you would simply call me every month, or so.”

Me: “I called you what is now, maybe, seven hours ago, Mother. Don’t you remember that you told me that Mr. Rosenthal kissed you and tried to get you to hold his pecker for him when he pees?”

Seems poor old Mr. Rosenthal has the shakes so bad that he waters the entire bathroom when peeing. Me, I’m thinking of using Mr. Rosenthal’s pick-up line. “Pardon me, young lady, would you mind helping me a moment?” My personal solution for missing the commode and also as a water conservation program, is to pee in the sink.

My sinks, your sinks and their sinks.

Mother: “Listen to me, Butcher Einstein Johnson, and listen good. There’s a diabolical plot hatched by that African Muslim president of yours to sabotage the Catholic Church. We’ve got to stop him!”

Me: Huh? What in the world is she talking about? “Mother, for starters President Obama is not a Muslim or an African, and for finishers, what in God’s name are you talking about?”

Mother: “You know, Mooner. You’re one of the conspirators. Mr. Beck told us all about how you people have tricked those poor Cardinals into electing a communist as Pope.”

Me: “Oh, for shitsake, Mother.” I started laughing.

Mother: “Don’t mock me, boy!”

Me, feeling full of piss and vinegar: “I heard a joke the other night. God and Saint Peter are sitting up to Heaven, bored out of their gourds. ‘It’s been centuries since we had any fun,’ Peter said, ‘let’s go to Venus and hit a few bars.’

‘Too hot on Venus,’ God tells him, ‘I don’t much care for all that heat.

‘OK, then, let’s go to Mars instead.’

‘No,’ God says, ‘too cold there. Makes my bones ache.’

‘What about Earth?’ Peter suggests.’Earth has the perfect climate.’

‘Very bad idea, Peter. I went to earth a couple thousand years ago—dated this nice Jewish girl for a short time—and people just won’t stop talking about it.’”

After a long pause, Mother: “You’ll burn in Hell, Mooner. I’ll see to it!”

Me: “OK. I’ll change my will to have some marshmallows placed in my casket.”

Mother: “You’ll pay for your heresy,” and she slammed her phone in my ear.

Me, I was feeling pretty satisfied with myself, but I might have been the only one. “You can be such an asshole, “ Squirt told me. “Why do you always feel the need to stir your mother’s pot?”

In retrospect, why indeed? I’m plenty assertive with Mother, so there is no need to be passively aggressive with her. I’ll never get her to see the world any way other than from the right-wing, conservative Christian view, and I’ll never be one of those assholes. I picked up the phone and hit the redial:

My telephone: “Ring…ring…ring…ring…ring…ring…”

Mother’s phone: “Beeeeeep. (pause) Mrs. Johnson is away from her phone. Fine Christian callers may leave a courteous message after the tone. Mooner Johnson can go straight to Hell. Beeeep.”

Me, to the machine: “That is stunningly brilliant, Mother. I’m booking my passage to Hell. See you there.”

I remain flummoxed at the Christian right faction of the American fabric. There exists enough dichotomies contained in their logic to make a schizophrenic feel organized and also to make my head swim. Imagine what a devout Catholic must be going through right now.

Warms my heart. Fuck Walmart, y’all.

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Resolve To Fuck Walmart; Recycling Sentiment For Change

Wednesday, January 1st, 2014


So. Happy fucking New Year! Having said that in the most accurate and sincere way as I possibly can, I wish all a happy year of fucking in 2014.

OK, stop. Maybe I should backtrack for just a moment and fill in a couple blanks. As I now fire blanks, I likewise feel responsible to inform you that the blanks I speak of, or, rather, the blanks of which I speak, are not the sperm-less ejaculate of a sterilized old geezer but, instead, the empty spaces wedged between knowledge. Blanks as in the space between Rick Perry’s ears as opposed to the starter’s gun at a footrace.

Which reminds me. While I hate New Year’s resolutions, I made one for this new year of 2014. The dogs and I were lounging on the sofa in the den, lapping at glasses of champagne and nibbling from the quite varied assortments of holiday goodies given by Xmas-spirited persons to fatten us up so as to help us whittle our choices for New Year’s resolutions.

OK, again, and let’s stop this word slaughter for a moment. I just read what I wrote and find myself wondering if it is even possible for me to have been more obtuse. I’ve written 210 words and even I haven’t a clue what I’ve said. And having read those last two sentences, the writing contains five “I’s”, no “we’s”, and less clarity than a half-hour Sarah Palin speech. Maybe I should have resolved to make life less about me.

Then, again, and again for the who-knows-how-manyth-time, how can I possible write about what anyone else actually thinks when I have so much fucking trouble with the swill swirling inside my own skull, and “Yes, Virginia,” manyth is an actual word and because I say so.

Which brings me back to my point. Sitting on the woven reed footstool that serves as coffee table in the den were:

  1. Chocolate chip cookies with M&M’s serving chip duty.
  2. A 55-gallon barrel of popcorn—regular, cheddar cheese and caramel, all three segregated by cardboard dividers.
  3. A Mason Jar filled with holiday-colored foil-wrapped Hershey Kisses.
  4. A box of hand-thrown chocolates from this nifty Seattle chocolatier.
  5. Three personalized, pork-based doggie bones handmade by my Gram, one for each of us.
  6. Chocolate covered cherries.
  7. A container of Noosa lemon yogurt.

“Why?” you might ask, “are there so few items on the woven reed table, and why Noosa lemon yogurt?”

“Because,” I’ll respond, “we already ate the rest of the Xmas treats and I love me some Noosa yogurt.”

The Squirt was sitting in my lap, lounging between my legs with her head draped so she barely had to move to poke her tongue daintily into her champagne glass. The glass, one of three remaining from my fifth wedding—the one wherein Roshanda and I wed—is Squirt’s favorite, and Roshandra remains one of my favorite exes. Yoda sat on the old carpet that was the bedding in the crate I used to pick him up from the rescue lady who saved him from the puppy mill over to Oklahoma. The little white puppy swayed as he looked the table over between selections.

“Goat dog’s drunk, Mooner, you need to cut his beverage service.” Squirt’s words were not a touch slurred herownself.

“Yea,” I agreed, “and he always seems to puke in my slippers when he over-drinks. Hell, maybe we’ve all had enough to drink for one night.”

I ate a bite of my dog biscuit—a somewhat bone-shaped affair with my name spelled using liver treats—and drained my glass of its contents. “Gram’s treats are a bit dry this year. Maybe just one more glass.”

I poured us each some fresh bubbly, spilled some on the woven reed table, and cursed. “Goddammit-to-all-hell-and-back!” I might have yelled, but then again, I was pretty mellow.

“Maybe your resolution should be to curse less, shithead,” Squirt told me. “Expand your vocabulary and gain some small measure of that precision of communication you brag about so often.”

We watched the Abraham Lincoln movie on Showtime the other night and the Squirt has proven fond of Lincoln’s words. The other day I told her that she and the goat dog needed to start shitting on the little patch of grass I planted for that purpose rather than in the gravel that covers most of the back yard.

“Towering genius disdains the beaten path, Mooner. It seeks regions hitherto unknown.” I think she’d have held her lapels when pronouncing it to me, assuming she had lapels to tug.

“And, plainly, the central idea of secession is the essence of anarchy,” I replied in my best Presidential voice. “Please try to shit in the grass. It’s almost impossible to remove dog turds from gravel.”

Anyway, my resolution for this year is to better control my ADHD and produce writings with a smoother ebb and flow, just as I’ve done here in my first missive of the new year. And saying that has reminded me that my New Year’s wish for the entire fucking world is that we all have more, and better, sex. I was recently told that some Europeans try to have sex several times each day in an effort to be happier and healthier, and I know that laughter is the best medicine. In preparation for my 2014 full of sex, I’ve cut and dyed my pubbies into a lifelike rendition of the National Mall and I placed a hemp tattoo of Lincoln sitting in his chair at his monument on my pecker. I tried to organize the tattoo to look like old Abe was getting up from his chair when aroused, but, and alas, I lack sufficient skin to portray a diorama.

Yet another reason to end the cruel rite of circumcision. Fuck Walmart and all things Walton! And those idiot Koch brothers, about whom I loudly cheered when watching the 60-Minutes dealio on how the one brother was swindled of $25 million on fake wine. Rich little crybaby whined like a school girl.

Small victories for the little guy.

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Happy Holidays; An Xmas Story

Sunday, December 22nd, 2013


So. It seems that I have become one of those missing-in-action blog posters about whom my friends bitch—a once prolific writer of obnoxious drivel posting daily entries into cyberspace now posting monthly at best. Having just mistyped “cyberspace” as “cyber space”, I’ve been informed that cyber isn’t an actual word yet, and alas, cyberspace is.

OK, whatinthefuck is that all about? How can a nonexistent entity not exist yet have space? How can nothing occupy space? Other than in situations like Rick Perry or Sarah Palin’s brains, wherein skull vaults contain empty emptinesses.

Which reminds me. My across-the-street neighbor—a most interesting woman born in Holland and Americanized for the last forty years—invited us over to a dinner party last night. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson is in town for a visit, so when I say, “…invited us…,” I mean the brain doctor and first Mrs. Mooner Johnson joined me for the party, not the dogs. The dogs are pissed to be left at home alone when Agnes, said and same neighbor, has a party.

“Look, shithead,” the Squirt said, “Agnes has the most interesting friends, and the goat dog needs some socializing with a refined cultural element. Take us with.”

“No, little lady,” I told my tiny brown puppy. “Things will be too crowded and you’ll be under foot.”

“Fuck you, asshole. You’ll pay for this one.”

Am I the only parent who finds themselves revisiting the quality of their parenting skills at constant intervals? I raised three well adjusted, interesting, honest and productive kids as a much younger man, and yet, with the experience and maturity of an older man, the net results of my efforts to properly raise this miniature dog have resulted in the Squirt.

I was asking Dr. Sam earlier this morning, I asked, “Why is the Squirt so fucking headstrong, demanding and why does she stick to her principles like Gorilla Glue? She is the most exasperating person in my life.” I was taking advantage of my lovely ex wife’s visit by attempting to sneak a little free psycho therapy action into coffee time.

She answered, “For starters, buster, I just punched the clock and I’m now charging for out-of-town, weekend, holiday, emergency and crisis rates. Those rates are charged by-the-word at $25-per word. After I tell you that you have somehow managed to parent a formerly sweet young dog into a mirror image of yourself, know that if I stop now, you’re bill for this morning’s session has already cost you $1,775.00”

I thought for a moment. “Jesus Christ, Sammie, you’re charging me for prepositions and pricing contractions as two words! You are such a bitch.”

“And you, my dear ex husband, are a nut case. My free diagnosis of the day.”

Anyway, and before my ADHD drives this train into a gorge, we went to the party last night and had a ball. Everyone in attendance not named Mooner Johnson was an interesting and spiritual person and an actual artist producing incredible art, or an interesting, spiritual and renowned psycho therapist. The entire roomful of us thought Rick Perry is a brainless sack of shit, and when I said, “Fuck Walmart!” the room cheered.

Which reminds me. Dr. Sam I. Am is crazy about this private label Chardonnay wine from Costco. Since Costco is the polar opposite of Walmart—treating employees with respect and dignity while profiting still mightily—I was happy to visit Costco for a case of the wine when I was in the ABQ. I’ve agreed to help write and supervise the implementation of a five-year business plan for my buddy who owns the roofing company, and I’m in New Mexico’s largest city often.

Costco was crowded with holiday shoppers, and after bumping and bustling through the store to get the case of wine and industrial-sized buckets of red pepper flakes, smoked paprika, and olive oil, I went to check out. The shortest line had six overly-filled baskets waiting and I took my place at the rear. There were two, or more, persons with each basket, save-and-except the one immediately in front of mine. That immense and spilling-over cart was unattended. I looked for its keeper and finding none, moved it ahead of me as the line shortened. Nosy bastard that I am, I spent my time waiting in line searching the store around me and guessing who, and where, the cart user might be.

OK, I was also thinking about the five-year business plan, wondering what item from my Costco shopping list I had forgotten, trying—unsuccessfully—to not look at the ample bosom spilling from the holiday sweater on the lovely lady in the line next to me, and likely spurred by the ample bosom, was wondering if I was clever enough to talk the good doctor into joining me in an evening of sack time. For those of you interested in my sex life, the answer is, as it always is, “No, shithead, your ex wife is far too well adjusted to sex it up with the likes of you.”

I was now at the point where I had to either push the abandoned cart aside and start putting my own basket’s contents on the black rubber conveyor belt for pricing, or wait and piss-off the now seven carts-worth of shoppers behind me. Just as I had grabbed the cart’s handle with both hands to lift it aside, a short, plump Catholic woman walked up and said to me, “Oh, thank you, sir.” She started putting her items on the black rubber belt and added, she said, “And Merry Christmas.”

You might wonder how I knew she was Catholic, right? For starters, she had maybe seven crosses hanging from chains around her neck, I saw the edges of a wear-worn Bible poking from the giant purse she’d left in the basket, and pinned to the breast of her sweater was one of those little buttons that show a pair of tiny feet. With the personal experience and knowledge that that particular button is a favored demonstration of a violent Catholic strain of anti-abortion fervor, I pegged the lady as Catholic.

“Happy Holidays,” I responded, full of holiday cheer and proud that I hadn’t pushed the nice lady’s cart aside.

“Merry Christmas,” she said, and again.

Thinking she hadn’t heard my first response, I responded with a somewhat louder and quite more cheery, “Happy Holidays!”

Wait. Would I have spoken more cheery, or would it be more accurate to have said my louder voice was cheery more? As accuracy and crystal clear communications are my life’s goals, me, I’m going with Cheery more.

“Merry Christmas!” she said, and again, this time through gritted teeth and with not a small level of menace.

Oh, now I get it. This crazy bitch is worried that America is killing her sacred holiday.

“And a Happy Holidays to you and yours,” I said as delightfully as I could say it.

“I saaa-i-ud Merr-ry Christ-mas.” Christmas was said as two words with a heavy emphasis on “Christ”. Her eyes had turned feral, like in a horror movie when the Devil posses to scare you into pissing your pants.

“Happy Holidays,” brightly said by me, and merrily so. It has been many months since I have enjoyed the special pleasure it is to poke and prod Catholic Anti-abortion Protest lady into spitting at and slapping my ruggedly handsome face. I do miss those times and felt this the perfect chance to push another silly Catholic woman off her kibble.

“How dare you blaspheme my sweet Saviour’s birthday!” she snarled. “He!!!” shouted now, “is the only reason you have a holiday and I will not let you disgrace His name.”

I was winding up my favorite three words for an occasion such as that when the Costco clerk managed to pry the angry woman away.

“Fuck your Jesus.” I whispered my anti-Fuckhead Christian mantra to myself in true holiday spirit. I always emphasize the “your” part to distinguish the various Jesuses apart. Some Jesuses are loving and accepting while others must be total fuckbrains, and often the lines blur for me.

After a fantastic party and great time, Sammie and I walked back to Casita Johnson de Santa Fe and opened the door to a frightful sight. The entire living room was covered in the shredded remains of a week’s worth of newspapers. Two piles of dog shit had been deposited on the laces of my snow boots that sit by the door, and everything that formerly sat on top of the coffee table was strewn amidst the shredded paper.

“Happy fucking Holidays, Mooner.” It was the Squirt. She and Yoda were sitting on the rug that sits half in the dining room and half in the kitchen. They were wearing the jingle bell collars that are my Xmas decorations. “Fix us some eggnog and light the fire, Bwana. Lets get in the spirit.”

I love my puppies, New Mexico and good friends. Happy Holiday, y’all.

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Teeth On Edge, Banana Pants?; Slow Dancing With Linda C.

Sunday, October 27th, 2013


So. Let’s talk about teeth. Maybe we should begin talking about my teeth and go from there. I’ve always had pretty good teeth until age of about fifty-five. Few cavities and very few toothaches. I am a giant pussy when it comes to pain, so after the first time I experienced the dentist’s drill and syringe, I started taking great care of my dentins delicti. Brush, floss, brush and floss again.

But when I hit fifty-five, some of my personal habits started taking a toll on said teeth and causing me considerable consternations. The worst of those habits is clenching my jaw and grinding my teeth—a terrible habit developed by me as a way to assist with enhancing my slack abilities to focus and concentrate. At a quite young age I had determined that a small level of self inflicted pain helped scatter some of my myriad thoughts to leave but a few for my ADHD-addled mental processes to sort through in order to gain a modicum of focus.

Suffering helps me concentrate, a situation that I now realize needs to be discussed with my psycho therapist.

I’ve tried biting my tongue, pinching myself, squeezing my balls, pulling nose hairs and stabbing tiny pricks in my skin with a needle as methods to inflict pain without causing too much injury. I knew a guy in college who cut himself with a razor blade—one of those old timey two-edged jobbers. He’d slide the razor blade across the skin on his arms in bizarre patterns of craziness.

I loved those razors, the way you screwed the knob on the bottom and the top opened up like a set of those little flappy things on the back of airplane wings. Set the blade in its slot and then close the flappy jobbers with reverse twists of the knob.

Me, I loved those razors, but I just couldn’t bring myself to draw the kind of blood that sort of pain set to flow. Besides, cut pain isn’t instantaneous. Unless you cut a nerve or tendon, it doesn’t really hurt until later. I needed to be able to start and stop minor pain at will.

Which reminds me. I was getting dressed this morning and had one of those bizarre deja’ vu moments. I had been slot machine dreaming last night—you know, the kind where your sleeping brain has maybe a dozen different dreams that it totally fucking insists it plays for you before time to arise. Dream a little bit about chasing honey bees across a clover covered meadow while wearing nothing but high-top sneakers in front of a bandstand filled with Dolly Parton look-alikes, and spin suddenly to that time I was back to Tennessee, and Beej and I were visiting over to Chez Squatlo, a wonderful time of frostbite, vittles and sink peeing.

Anyway, I was already confused when I awoke, and somehow managed to get confuseder as I shaved, showered, and to bring us to the having gotten dressed part previously mentioned—I sat on the lid to the toilet putting on my socks while feeling a sense of bewilderment.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, shithead? You look like your eyes are going to start spinning.”

It was the Squirt and she seemed to have a bead drawn on me. Before I could answer, my head filled with the sights and sounds of an eighth grade assembly back to William B. Travis Junior High School in Austin, Texas. In this assembly we kids were treated to a concert of slave songs and African American authored music sung by the choir from Prairie View College from down near to Houston.

“Did you know that “Cotton-Eye Joe” was a slave song—a witty ditty written to be sung by American slaves to help pass time as they toiled for their masters?” I asked the Squirt. “And can you even get your mind around the fact that we Americans had to fight a bloody civil war with our ownfuckingselves before we could abolish said and same slavery?”

“I’m a dog, asshole. Cats have always hated us and always will. Same thing with some cat people, brainless bigots that they are.”

The little dog was right, and that entire American slavery business is mind boggling. And boggling more it is to think that we still have what might be millions of our populace who would like to see the return of those old times not forgotten. Maybe that should have been “more boggling”.

Me, I hear this Dixieland rhetoric and Stars-and-Bars bullshit and I need to just look away rather than warm up my nose-and-ear thumper. Those silly fuckers are much better armed than a cranky old geezer with extra-strong thumb and middle finger. I can make your nose bleed with one heavy thump, but I’m too slow to dodge bullets.

Enough of your secessionist racism, boys, you lost that war and lost it badly.

So, I was sitting on the commode lid with my tiny brown puppy giving me shit, and I closed my eyes to think about gritting my teeth in concentration. As soon as I did, I was sitting in my seat in the school auditorium, eyes wide open as I watched and heard a few dozen black college kids dressed as minstrels sing and sway to slave songs.

The entire sight was eye-popping for me as I’d not before seen that many black people in one place except for down to Ruby’s Baptist church. Ruby was the head cook at the chicken joint I worked as a young boy, and the first black woman I masturbated to. And eye-popping more as there was this one girl singer, woman singer maybe, who held the raptest of my attentions at the assembly. The word in my head to describe her in that moment was “juicy”. I remember that I actually salivated with lust for her.

Mrs. Browningwell had separated Streaker Jones and me by placing Susie Ashburn between us as a preferred method to crowd control the two of us. “You are disgusting, Butcher Johnson!” Susie said when I stood up to clap after what I remember was “Dem Bones, Dem Dry Bones”.

Seems that my lust for the juicy singer had managed to overfill my pecker with blood flow, which had, in turn, pushed a knob in the front of my ever-so-soft, worn tan cord pants. Suzie never called me Mooner, always using my birth name instead. Suzie and her daddy, Doctor Ashburn, play an important role in my silly fucking book, a handsome tome of some 400-plus pages, and a true by-the-word bargain, which is available by clicking over there =====}}}}} to my bloggie roller.

Ever tried to hide a full-on boner after it’s already been spotted and announced? There was this one kid—Billy something—who’d take his out and wave it at you if you made comment. “Boy’s Not Right” was Billy’s nickname.

I remember this one time at the Junior-Senior Dance—the one whereat I was so stoned I couldn’t feel my feet—when I finally got a dance with Linda Crittendon. Linda was a juicy cheerleader and the subject of many visits to the bathroom with an Ivory Soap bar. Our local school band, The Undertakers, started to play one of those asinine Paul and Paula songs—slow tempo music with lyrics that say, “I can’t wait for you to be sixteen so we can screw in the back seat of my daddy’s 1958 Ford Fairlane.”

Anyway, stoned to the point of having zero impulse control, I asked Linda to dance, and for some reason she accepted. My plan was to simply hold her and touch as many of her important, juicy parts as possible without getting slapped. Linda, on the other hand, wanted to slow dance. In the 1960’s to “slow dance” was as sexual and provocative as a teenager could get in public.

I had this gray sharkskin suit back to high school, made of thin, tough fabric that had a silk-like quality. It would ripple and sparkle with light as I moved. As a stoner, I thought the visual effects quite impressive. Linda and I danced and she had pulled me close and pressed her entire body to mine, and I at first simply luxuriated in the contrasting firm and soft of all her juicy parts stamped to mine. At first, she and I were totally into the dance. And as I was quite a good dancer of the slow dance, and Linda a juicy cheerleader, after a minute of the song other dancers began to give us room, and watch.

I think it was at the “…true love means waiting..” part that my pecker woke up and realized that it was slowly rubbing Linda fucking Crittendon’s juicy mound. Totally unannounced, and without any conscious aforethought on my part, it swelled against the thin fabric of my sharkskin pants and wedged itself between Linda’s juicy legs and against the lower edge of her juiciest part of all.

The specifics of the remainder of the dance are a bit blurry in my mind. I do remember that Linda was drinking vodka spiked Coke with her cheerleader buddies and that explained her mood and willingness to dance with a nobody like me. And I do remember that I wasn’t the only one to moan as my woody rubbed against her. And I do know that she whispered, “Let’s go out sometime,” when the song was over.

But I’m missing the approximately three-minute interval between when Linda whispered in my ear with her juicy lips as the song ended, and the part where most of the junior and senior classes were staring in wonderment at the silly asshole slow dancing with himself as “Louie-Louie” was blasted out by The Undertakers.

My best friend since childhood is that man named Streaker Jones. Streaker Jones is a man of few words and was a boy of the same brevity. When “Louie-Louie” ended, I felt a hand on my shoulder and opened my eyes to his face. “Nice stiffy, Mooner. C’mon.”

The most interesting part of all of that is nobody laughed at me and I never was kidded about it. I was never made to pay the price for doing something embarrassing that teens usually extract. Maybe it was one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments that make great scenes in movies. Maybe that was my one best brush with the unattainable.

Makes a person wonder where Linda is today. Would I still find her juicy?

Fuck Walmart, fuck racists of all colors, and we’ll get together manana, y’all.


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Impulse Controls; “Hey Mikey–They Really Like it!”

Saturday, October 12th, 2013


So. The dogs and I spent last Saturday night over to some friends house in Albuquerque so that we could watch the big Balloon Festival. They live high on a hill in Corrales that is maybe four miles from the Balloon Park. As the ABQ is perfectly located for hot air balloon flying—what with its daily “box wind” phenomenon—the largest city in New Mexico draws people worldwide to attend the annual Balloon Festival.

The box wind dealio is because of the mountains around ABQ and the fact that the wind blows every which a direction as you ascend to different heights. So, basically, you can fly in circles by moving to higher and lower elevations. In spite of the rough landings that broke legs, and the one balloon that hit high power lines and burst into flames, it was fun to watch.

Before we left Santa Fe Saturday afternoon, we winterized the GTO—parked and covered and got it ready for a few months’ nap. The grand old girl is heady fun when it’s warm, but Winter’s cold and slick roads are anything but fun. Which is what sparked me to write today.

The other car previously holding the second slot in the fleet here to La Casita de Santa Fe was a rather large Chevy SUV. Big enough to carry 4’X8′ sheets of plywood, the oversize SUV was a menace on my adoptive hometown’s narrow streets and skinny parking slots. It was likewise a little clumsy in the mountains in spite of its four-wheel drive system.

The big Chevy met its demise two weeks ago when we drove it to get veggies from the Farmers’ Market. We were later in the morning leaving than usual and all the prime parking spots were already filled. I finally found a target space on Guadalupe Street, but some asshole in an Audi had parked over the back line of my assigned spot. The driver had not only parked over the line, but had done so quite crookedly. As I cursed started to drive off, Squirt said to me, she said, “You can fit it in, Mooner, I’ll guide you.”

I unhooked the diminutive brown ball of piss and vinegar from her harness and she jumped from front seat to back, and then over to the rear deck. I watched in the mirror as she surveyed the situation, pacing front-to-back and mumbling to herself, as she laid her backup plans. “OK, shithead, pull up at an angle and start backing up. Slowly.”

I started backing, slowly, and after we traveled maybe ten feet I heard, “Hard left!” and I did, and then, “Straighten her out,” and I did again.

“Slowly, slowly… slowly” Squirt cautioned me as she guided me with her muzzle pressed to the rear window. Her tiny face was squished to the glass as she gauged the distances between curb and Audi bumper. “OK, cut it hard right! No, shithead, the other right!”

After maybe fifteen minutes, the two of us managed to wedge the rear tire of the Chevy tight against the curb, and our ass-end to the Audi in a way that made it impossible for the Audi to move without dragging against the back of my car by snagging his bumper against the sharp, truck-like edge of mine.

The Squirt had the goat dog take a pee on his driver’s side door, and we left the two cars to defend for themselves.

“You need to send that monstrosity back to Austin and get us a proper New Mexico winter car, Bwana Mooner. Yoda and I plan to spend way plenty time exploring this snow season, and we want a fun car for it.”

“What do you have in mind, little lady? I haven’t car shopped for years now and I don’t even know what’s available.”

She and Yoda conferred for a bit. “Well, I want a Porsche and that silly shit wants a horse. He said that would be the historically correct choice of transportation.”

I’ve been reading Santa Fe histories to the dogs to help them get a feel for our magical hometown. The original roads in town were built to be only two horses wide, an effort to make invasion a quite difficult task.

“No Porsche and no horses. Too expensive, too much trouble, and uncomfortable for three to boot.”

We were walking along the railroad tracks that meander from Santa Fe to the ABQ like an umbilical cord sprung from my new hometown’s belly button, the Rail Yard. Squirt stopped at one of the many benches where she and Yoda jumped up to perch. “Sit down, Mooner, and let’s get serious. This can’t be a knee-jerk decision. Cars cost a lot of money these days and you need to take your time. The goat dog and I have a wish list—all wheel drive, roomy, dependable, panoramic sun roof, stain resistant interior all around, and a really great sound system. You can’t just be buying the first thing that catches your eye.”

She was right, you know. I can’t choose new cars with the same impulsive decision making process as I have with the wives. I keep cars for twenty years or longer.

We did our market shopping without too many distractions and returned to Guadalupe Street to find the Chevy SUV sitting on four flat tires and a full dozen Daisy’s Farm Fresh Free Range eggs dripping and sun-drying on the finish. I’m pretty sure they were Large, and I knew they were Daisy’s because of the color of the yolks. We buy a couple dozen of Daisy’s finest Large each trip to the market.

Anyway, the Audi was gone and I got pissed and after getting the car cleaned and tires inflated, we went car shopping. The three of us drove through every fucking car lot in town as we window shopped. The kids would “Oooo,” and “Ahhhh,” at all sorts of shit, and the Squirt was a running string of car commercials as we passed her favored models.

“What’s the matter, asshole, you haven’t stopped to see a single thing. What could possibly be wrong with the Acura MDX? It’s been totally redesigned and made for mankind! You don’t seem very excited about any of this.”

She was right. I just couldn’t get into it. “Let’s go down to the ABQ and get some hot dogs at Der Weinerschnitzel.” We love Der Schnitzel dogs, the three of us do.

So we did, and we exited at the wrong street and were forced to drive the access road to get back on the freeway. “Oh look, asshole, it’s the Mini store! Let’s check them out,” Squirt exclaimed.

So we did. Bought the first thing we saw—a Mini Countryman S All-4 with six speed manual transmission, no panoramic sunroof and a basic stereo system. It’s the ugliest thing you ever saw, and we love it.

Which reminds me. Has anybody thought to say that the reason the Affordable Health computer systems crashed from overuse is because the silly fucking Repubbies spent so much time promoting Obamacare? Planning for the best from a soft opening, Government computer systems planners felt that as many as 50,000 people would be logged on at any given time. Since all the systems were new, no real advertising program was planned and when you give the great American populace three months to do anything, the great bulk of us do it on the next-to-last day. Plan was, get the glitches worked out in early October, fix those glitches, and then be ready for the rush with a proven system.

But—thanks to those silly boys and girls who wish to take affordable health care away from the rest of us—the months of heavily vitriolic anti-Obamacare rhetoric spurred huge numbers of visitors to the site. More than 250,000 at a time, or five times as many as expected in the wildest dreams of the planners.

And guess what. When people take the time to look at the actual data, they like it. Even the bigoted and greedy, close-minded assholes like it. It’s like that old cereal commercial. “They like it!”

Thanks, shitheads, for selling a great product. Manana, y’all.

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When Bison Speak; Fuck Republicans

Monday, September 30th, 2013


So. It’s been a Tennessee weekend for me here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. A new friend provided me with some brownies made by her cousin—rich brown delicacies cut into the size of large sugar cubes.

“Look, Mooner, don’t laugh at their size,” she told me as I giggled at the mocha nuggets in the triple-seal Zip-Lock baggie. “These are hash brownies, silly. One will mellow you out and a second will kick your ass.”

Friday night, after a long day at work, I ate one tiny brownie, fired up the grill and prepared a buffalo steak, potato, onions and scorching-hot peppers picked right from the vine. As things started to cook, I pulled a big handful of cherry tomatoes from their vines and scattered them around on the solid part of my grill. Grilling was a rather long process as I found myself especially interested in the sights and sounds and smells of our backyard.

“You’re fried, asshole.” It was the Squirt. I was on my hands and knees, sniffing at the herb section of our little garden.

“I’ve got a moral dilemma, my tiny pipsqueak of a poochie. Basil, oregano, sage, savory, mint or should it be a combination of them all?” I asked her.

“What in the world are you talking about? You don’t put mint on buffalo, shithead.”

She’s right, you know. Except I’m pretty sure it was a bison steak. I love mint on some occasions, but not on a cowboy grilled dinner. I snapped-off stems of basil and oregano and tossed them on a cooled fire. I like to finish things for a couple minutes on a cooler fire to allow the steak to get warm inside, but not cooked. I like the “moo” out of my beef, the “baa” out of my lamb and the…

What the fuck does a bison say? What do you cook out of a bison to cook it blood rare? Do they growl? Snort? Grunt, scream? I’m guessing some combination of bull snort and hippopotamus. Old McDonald didn’t have an “E-Eye-E-Eye-O” for bison or buffalo either one.

I didn’t like singing that song as a child. My ADHD would grab my attentions right about the “…had a farm…” part, and I’d be thinking of ways to pester little Susie Ashburn. My pesterings usually involved something to do with Susie’s long, braided pigtails. Buy my silly fucking book and read more on that subject. OK, those subjects.

After my cowboy grilled dinner, a chunk of cheesecake, two containers of Noosa brand honey yogurt, a half-bag of corn chips and another small cube of brownie, I sat on the couch and turned on the TV. The dogs settled into my lap and I flipped the tuner for maybe fifteen minutes before something dawned on me.

“I’m pretty stoned, kids.”

Have you guys tried Noosa brand yogurt? Spectacular!

I finally lighted on ESPN-U, the sports station’s fourth best choice of offerings. “Oh, look, guys, it’s Tennessee VS Arkansas. Let’s watch it for Squattie.”

My buddy, Bob, from over to Squatlo Rant, is a huge Tennessee fan. Regardless of their win/loss record, Bob is a die hard fan. “They’ll just get their asses kicked, Mooner,” Squirt told me, “let’s watch a movie instead.”

“I didn’t see anything that captured my attention, little lady. Let’s just do this for Bob.”

“Fuck Bob,” she said as she jumped to the floor. “Put a movie on the other TV and we’ll watch in there.

I did, they did, and I grabbed another brownie from the kitchen and went back to the game. Among the questions/comments I made—some quite loudly—as I watched the game were:

  1. Why is this video quality so poor?
  2. Those uniforms are so last decade.
  3. ESPN-U has really shitty graphics.
  4. Oh, would you look at that—Arkansas has another Stoerner at quarterback.
  5. This Stoerner kid looks just like his big brother except slower.
  6. Clint had more zip on his passes.
  7. Wow, look at the fog.
  8. OK, I need to read the sports section more carefully. Who inthefuck coaches Tennessee?
  9. This looks familiar.
  10. What would it hurt to have one more brownie?

I awoke Saturday am and realized that I had watched a rerun of the classic late nineties clash between Arkansas and Tennessee. Then I awoke this morning to discover that USC has fired the giant flaming asshole named Lane Kiffin. Fuckface Kiffin had coached Tennessee and screwed them royally before running off to USC a couple years back.

Anyway, happy Shutdown. Fuck all Republicans and Walmart too!

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Frumpy Old Man Commits Fraud; Donald Trump Caught

Monday, August 26th, 2013


So. I remember, and it seems like a couple years ago, when I first saw ads for “Trump University”. It appears our boy Donald “Ain’t No Such-A Thing as Too Much Hairspray” Trump was advertising to teach poor folks how to get rich, and quick. Charged the suckers as much as $35,000 for seminars to give them his secrets. I remember that I was wondering how much gall it took to charge $35,000 to tell people that they need to be born rich and then limit their losses on daddy’s inherited fortune, when Mother brought it up at the breakfast table.

“Did you hear that Mr. Trump is giving a seminar here in Austin next week? I was disappointed when he fired NeNe from the Celebrity Apprentice show, but isn’t it nice of him to share his knowledge and good fortune with the unfortunate.”

There was a pause—one of those “everyone stops eating at the same time to listen to Sally’s fake orgasm dealios”—and I figured I’d take the first shot at my right-wing Christian conservative mother’s silly-assed comments. “OK, Mother, I don’t even know where to start with that load of horse shit,” I began. “For starters, how can you have the least bit of interest in a man who is paying to sponsor the slur campaign against the President with that “Birther” bullshit? How can you support that sort of racist behavior?”

My mother took a sip of her hot tea, daintily wiped her lips with her napkin like a proper lady, and took the slow, painful breath of air that has become the prelude to a lecture on her martyred life. “My mother told me not to marry your father, son, but I didn’t listen. I could have married into a sophisticated family from Coastal Virginia, but your father, God rest his heathen soul, hypnotized me with those damned Johnson eyes. I guess it’s God’s will that I’m burdened with teaching my own family about family values. Mister Trump is trying his hardest to find the proof we need to get that Muslim out of the White House.”

It was at that point that steam started spewing from Gram’s nostrils. Her mouth was full of this spinach and smoked pork fritatta I’d made with the Gouda cheese that Sac Ellen had brought me from California. The creamy cheese made the oven baked scrambled eggies chewy and quite tasty.

“Wath tha futh yoth thayinth, Smothr?” Gram managed from her egg-packed maw. “I’mmath slith yerth throth swith thisth spoonth.”

My mother still lacked the good sense to keep some of her shitty ideas to herself even after decades of living under the protection of the Johnson family roof. Her husband—my daddy and Gram’s only child—was a solid man. An honest, hardworking, loving and an afflicted ADHD-addled fuckbrain much as yours truly. Mother can start Gram’s motor on any number of topics, but when she speaks poorly of Daddy, the “slit your throat with a spoon” thoughts fill my grandmother’s head.

“Mr. Trump is an amazing, Christian man. He helps all those talented young women with college scholarships in his pageants, he generates millions of dollars of donations to wonderful charities with his Apprentice show, and he fosters good will and truth in politics by funding the investigations to impeach this Muslim foreigner you people elected President. Why just the other week it was discovered that Obama was married to another gay man and murdered him so he could have a political career,” Mother went on. “How my own family could vote for evil over family values is beyond my ability to comprehend.”

“And how you can be so totally fucking racist and bigoted is completely beyond my ability to want to accept. Are you absolutely certain that you’re my mother? Are you sure that I wasn’t Daddy’s son from a girlfriend or something? I know he was my father, but how can you be my mother?”

I expected a different response, but did so in error. “It’s a good thing that I believe in a merciful God, son. I know that my Hell on Earth is His plan for my salvation. Living with this family will earn me a spot close to God’s right hand when He finally takes me home.”

Now that she’s demented and not living under the Johnson family roof, Mother’s martyrdom hasn’t waned as you’d expect. It’s intensified. I played poker down to the ABQ all day Saturday, so I’d missed all the latest news. Like the news that the State Attorney of New York has filed a fraud lawsuit against Hairbag Trump for $45 million. I was just finishing the paper where I read that the State of New York has solid evidence that Trump University lived up to its name and had bilked millions from the suckers with trumped-up claims. My phone rang.


Me: “Hello, Mother. How’s it hanging, baby?”

Mother: “Where are you, Mooner?”

Me: “Still in Santa Fe and hunting for a giant black pecker to see if I might be homosexual. Just like the last 288 times you’ve asked.”

Mother: “You need to be careful what you say, young man. God will strike you down for even thinking about sodomy. Now shut up and listen. I need a favor.”

Me: “I wasn’t planning on sticking the giant black pecker up my ass, Mother, I was planning to… What do you mean you need a favor?”

Mother: “I need you to go into my bedroom there at the ranch and open my safe. Get out all my jewelry and sell it. Bring me the money. Right now!”

Me: “OK, for starters, I’m in Santa Fe, not Austin, and furthermore, you don’t need to be selling anything. You’ve got plenty of money to live on and most of that jewelry isn’t yours to sell—it’s family stuff that you will pass down.”

Mother: “Why are you in Santa Fe? Did you divorce Roshandra? I knew that wouldn’t last.”

Me: “Mother, Roshandra and I divorced years ago and there’s been five more since. Now tell me why you want cash so urgently.”

Mother: “I don’t have to tell you a thing. It’s my money and my problem.”

Me: “OK, how much do you need?

Mother: “$45 million dollars”
Me: “Huh? Have you lost what’s left of your feeble mind? What inthefuck could you possibly want with $45 million dol… You’ve got to be kidding. Are you planning to pay Donald Fucking Trump’s fraud fines? Really?”

Mother: “Don’t you curse at me, you heathen. God will strike you down.”


Right after that Sister called to warn me to expect Mother’s call. Seems that she and Anna had been to see our shared womb holder Saturday and took her to lunch. Sister told me that when they arrived at the hostess desk to get a table, Mother said to the young girl, “We need a quiet table in the back, and don’t give us a homo-sex-u-al waiter. My system is weak and I can’t risk catching the infection.”

She also told me of the plan our batty old mother hatched to save Donald Trump’s good name and reputation. “She’s getting worse, Mooner. You need to come down and pay her a visit.”

“I’d rather send her the $45 million. How much can you loan me, sis?”

“It isn’t funny, asshole. If you come down I’ll let you kiss Anna on the lips.”

Anna—Sister’s wife and my ex-wife number three—has the ripe natural lips of that former model and actress, Brooke Shields. Many’s the times I’ve been slugged in the arm for moving in on those lips in my sister’s presence. Sister punched me so hard this one time I thought I would lose the use of my left arm.

OK, let’s stop for a grammar lesson. That next-to-last sentence of the previous paragraph has multiples of grammatical pitfalls contained therein. First, what is the contraction for “many was”? Second, might should the phrase be “many were”? And third, why do we say, “Many was the time,” when there were many having had time? OK, many were having had times, unless the many were having had the same time.

It should be, “Many were the times,” right?

I told my sister, I said, “Only way I’m coming down for the torture that is a visit to Mother’s place is if I get full lips, a little tongue action, and a quick squeeze—a two-handed squeeze.”

“You’ll come down for nothing but the knowledge that you’ve done the right thing, buster. And do it before the end of September. She’s slipping, Mooner, and it scares me. I’m still trying to make my peace with her and I‘m worried her mind will go before she gives in.”

I can’t imagine what it must be like to be gay and have your gayness hated by a parent. I know what it’s like to be hated by a parent for my simple existence, but I think gay hatred is much more venomous. My sister has tried to gain Mother’s acceptance her entire life. She needs it.

Me, I need a cold Carta Blanca beer. Manana, or so, y’all.


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I’m Not Really Crazy; Liar’s Poker For Dummies

Sunday, August 11th, 2013


So. It’s another glorious Sunday morning in Enchantedland. We’ve now had enough rain to ease the drought conditions and turn everything green. Not enough precipitation to end the drought, but amounts sufficient to make us forget about drought.

The temp is 51 degrees, and that’s the absolute truth. It rained a gentle rain for several hours last night and the air smells just like my Gram’s fresh-washed sheets hanging from the clothesline on a crisp fall day back to Texas. Back before fabric softeners and scented detergents ruined the actual clean smells that were the short term payoffs of hard household labor. Back before vaginal sprays replaced a vinegar and water solution squeezed from a douche bag. Back before the musky smell of a hard day’s work became offensive and needed to be wiped out by chemical anti antiperspirants.

Back before Madison Avenue became so powerful. Before the marketers of big business learned how to manipulate our desires so effectively, so terribly.

Me, I blame Hitler and the rest of those Nazi fucks. It isn’t that other assholes were not investing serious scientific efforts into making determinations as to how the human brain works and how to manipulate it. It is, rather, that the fucking Nazis sole goals were to further their evil desires to dominate the entire globe. And as with all extremist cultures, Hitler’s mind scientists worked at their jobs with the same furor as a modern day Muslim jihadist, or violent right-wing Christian anti-abortion protester.

The advances made by psychiatrists and other scientists from the late Eighteen Hundreds and into the 1920’s were used by the Nazis of the 1930’s and 1940’s to do all sorts of dastardly deeds. Mass manipulation of their populace turning good, hard-working people into robots; creating mass hatred of cultures and religions and social belief systems; instilling fears so strong that formerly rational men would use poison gas to mass murder fellow humans; brainwash a generation’s children to surrender their own parents to a chilling death.

It’s the fucking Nazis who developed the sciences behind most of today’s behavioral understandings, or said another way, it was the Nazis who taught us how to “spin” realities.

OK, let’s stop this train before I ruin the entire day. It’s just too perfect a morning for me to go off on the Nazis when I have some other thoughts to share. I got a call from Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson last night. She wanted to remind me that I’ve continued to “forget” to call for my regular phone psycho therapy sessions—a sign of either progression or regression of my lunacies—and also to tell me that she has finished her book.

It was the good doctor’s having decided to write a book that stimulated the desire in me to write a book and finish before her. Having said that, I now realize that I must have a mean competitive streak inside me that might require some additional psycho therapization.

How fucking sick can one man be?

OK, please don’t answer that as, again, this is a glorious day. Dr. Sam’s book is her memoir—the story of parts of her life. Maybe that would make it a partial memoir. Like, maybe she’ll mention the how I ruined her life but not my positive influences. Or perhaps how she managed to become a wealthy woman by over-charging me for unneeded services—maybe it’s a “how to” book rather than a life story.

She wants me to read it. She wants me to read it and tell her what I think of it. She knows that I’ll tell her the truth, and her knowing that I could never actually lie to her, this scares the shit right on out of me. After everything I’ve done to this woman—all the heartache and other pains I’ve caused—the last thing in the world I want to do is tell her I don’t like her book.

I lay awake all last night worrying about it. I tossed and turned something fierce. I must have “Ughed” a hundred times.

“Listen, shithead. If you ‘Ugh’ one more time, I’m telling the goat dog to shit on the pantry floor again.”

That was the tiny bundle of short brown fur and canine wit I call Squirt. It seemed that my worries were keeping her awake. Not so for Yoda, the aforementioned goat dog. “You’ll need to splash him with a bucket of ice water to get his attention, little lady. That little guy is sleeping the sleep of the dead.”

The Squirt looked at me with dead-pan eyes. “Get your ass out of bed so I can get some rest. Go write something stupid and post it on your blog. That always calms you down.”

And here I am. And here I now realize that I haven’t said anything that matches the happiness that Nature has deposited outside my door. I have so many things that bring me joy and all I can do is fret over the fact that I can’t effectively lie. I have spent my entire life in the attemptings to lie with believabilities, and I’ve spent that same lifetime tangled in the snares of a caught liar.

Ugh. The Squirt tells me that I need to get lying lessons, maybe apply for an internship over to Fox News. Learn how to twist the truth into total shit without so much as a facial tic. Then again, maybe it’s best that I can’t lie.

But who really gives a shit? It’s a beautiful day and I’ll see y’all manana.

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What Happens When It’s Been Three Weeks? This Silly Shit!

Saturday, August 3rd, 2013


So. How y’all been? Me, I’ve been busy. Plain and simple statement, made simply and plainly. I’m not bitching or whining, just stating the facts, Ma’am. That busy-ness is why I’ve been missing in action for a couple weeks.

Not that I couldn’t whine should I be the type. But I’m not wired to complain unless I’m unhappy about something in my life, and it isn’t my life I’m unhappy about. It’s the lives of the right-wing Christian conservative shitheads—and their attempts to force their religious dogma down our throats—that’s totally and completely stuck right on up my craw.

Asswipe right-wing racist Christian greedy and narrow-minded chicken fuckers.

Which reminds me. My buddy Bob, over to the Squatlo Rant, ran a video of a man—the husband of a woman who was carrying a terribly damaged fetus—who walked his wife into a clinic to the screams and vitriolic “you’re a murderer” tirades of two anti-abortion protesters. This man—a man who was enduring the terrible human condition of knowing that the baby he was so excited to father was already doomed to die as a fetus in its mother’s womb—had been forced to deliver his pregnant wife through a labyrinth of evil-spirited old hags spewing their toxic swill.

Please go over to Squatlo Rant and check out this amazing man’s response to his plight. Take four minutes from your life to see how a decent, strong man handles those maniacs. Watch his calm, measured words. Watch him debate against evil intent with reason and pure logic. His love for his wife and destined-to-be still-born offspring will tear streak your eyes.

And, if you are me, as you see and hear the protesters’ responses, your anger will surface at realizing that truth and logic and personal freedom are meaningless realities to religious zealots. When I watched that video on my lunch break yesterday, I got so pissed that I decided to unpack my old anti-anti-abortion protest sign and find myself some anti-abortion protesters. I was pissed enough to take the afternoon off and put myself even farther behind at work.

See, while I appreciated that incredible man’s reasoned logic and basic parental love-based emotions, I happen to have the experience required to understand that truth and reasoned logic have no place in the life of Christian zealots. The only thing they understand is that there is not someone with beliefs opposite theirs who feels more strongly they do they. They so strongly believe that they have the firmest convictions, when they meet a giant flaming asshole like me—they either shit their pants and run, or they become violent.

My anti-anti-abortion protest program is a simple one. First, go down to your local Fast Signs or Rapid Signs or Signs-While-You-Wait store and have them make you a sturdy, two-sided placard. I like the corrugated plastic type like they use on real estate signs, and I always get the extra thick. It costs a little more, but lasts way longer in the face of a bunch of shitholes trying to tear it up.

Oh, wait. Did I tell you that I bought some earrings from Ali McGraw? Did I? She was a volunteer at Santa Fe’s International Market, and she manned this booth selling Ethiopian jewelry. Wait, maybe it was Nigerian jewelry—stuff confiscated from INTERNET thieves who bilk dumbass Americans with those silly letters about deposed monarchs. Whateverthefuck, Ms. McGraw was manning a booth and I was walking the dogs, attempting to walk-off a serious after-a-lesbian-dream hangover.

I have been getting these hangovers ever since I married a lesbian—ex-wife number three—and had her fall in love with my equally-lesbian but already out-of-the-closet sister, Sister. While hurt and heart broken by the entire dealio, I found a highly-evolved personal perception of the homosexual conditions, as well as a highly-refined level of lust for lesbians.

My psycho therapist—ex-wife number one—has long held the position that my lesbian lust is nothing but my typical over-the-top response to a “you most want what you can’t have” situation. But me, I know that’s not it at all. I know that I like strong women and some of the strongest are lesbian in nature. Lesbian of nature, maybe.

My first lesbian crush was Martina Navratilova. OK, stop. My first crush after Anna the Amazon crushed my heart and married my sister, was the fabulous tennis star. While my buddies all lusted after Chrissy Everett as she “Uhned” and sweated to chase the powerful strokes of my Eastern European diva, me?—I was hang-tongued over the simple grace and focus and machine-like beauty of Tina.

I called her Tina. Still do. That chiseled body and strong-featured face. I’m in my forties, and I’ve got a poster of Tina Navratilova hanging on my closet door. My feelings were quite hurt when ex-wife number seven made me take it down. Wait, maybe it was number eight. Or was it six?

Anyway, I was walking around up to Museum Hill at the International Festival with the dogs in tow and a powerful post-lesbian dream hangover.

OK, stop once more. I just realized that in fewer than three pages of print, I’ve struck the hyphenator key fifty-one times. Fifty-two if you count typing the word “fifty-one”, and two more just in the telling you that I’d typed it so many fucking times. That’s not an ADHD thingie, that’s the simple precision of my word-smithing. The ADHD influences lie in the fact that I’ve now written almost a thousand words and said absolutely nothing.

Maybe I should try to focus and try to tie all of this ADHD-addled word swill together somehow. OK, I had a dream about Tina. She was planning to make a sports comeback and I was her manager. Like many sports stars who had past-their-primed in their sports-of-stardom, my Tina wanted to stage a prize fight. Box her way back into the limelight.

“Look, Tina—sweetheart,” I advised in my best sports manager voice, “you know and I know—hell, the entire fucking world knows—that you’ve got bigger balls than Sean Hannity. But what’s the point? You kick that little pussy’s ass and you’ll look like a bully. Why don’t you fight Rush Limbaugh instead?”

Tina grabbed me by my shirt collar, twisted it tight against my neck and said to me, she dream-said, “Look, asshole. I’ve already asked you to stop with the male analogies. I don’t have any balls at all, and neither does Sean Hannity. Say I’m tougher or stronger or smarter than him, but drop your fascination with your fucking balls.”

She had a dream point. “Oh,” she’d added with a finger pointed at my nose, “that includes that ‘How’s it hanging, baby,’ bullshit as well. All that’s hanging now are my tits and it pisses me off.”

I’ve seen an actual recent photo of my Tina, and I don’t think she’s got saggy anythings, but in this one dream we were suddenly standing together on the boxing ring apron as the announcer was making his pre-fight speech. “And in this corrrr-neeeerrrrr, from the world of tennnn-issss, The Fore-Hand Assassin… Martinaaaaaaaa… Nav-roooo… Ti-loooooooooooooooo-vaaaaaaaaa!”

Anyway, as I was saying, I was walking the dogs up to Museum Hill at the Festival, and I was distractedly viewing the booths on the one side of the aisles while reliving the dream kiss Tina had planted full on my lips after she KO’d that pompous little Hannity prick.

“Hey, shithead, pull it together. Ali McGraw sighting at your 11 O’clock.”

It was the Squirt. “Whaaa?” I responded as I tried to drag my head out of the dream. “Ali McGraw what?”

“Over there, dumbass, on the left. That booth with the striped canopy,” the adorable lump of brown fur and strong will told me. “Get your shit together and let’s go get us a date with Ms. Destiny.”

With that, Squirt started dragging both me and the goat dog to the booth where Ali-fucking-McGraw sat. I’ve spent months practicing my opening lines to be spoken to the Goddess, Ali McGraw. For months I’ve stood in front of my mirrors perfecting every word, each facial pose, the tenor of my voice, the tilt of my head. All in preparation for my first face-to-face encounter with Ali McGraw.

I was ready. We approached… Ten yards away—she’s finishing with the sale of a beaded necklace to a lady wearing the chic-cowgirl look of Santa Fe’s wealthy visitors. Five yards—Ali turns away from my approach and reaches for a glass. The previous night’s rain has beaded the glass with moisture that clings to her long, lithe fingers in much the same way I’d cling to any of her parts, given the chance.

One yard and closing. The glass is at her lips, my tongue is out to touch both glass and lips, her eyes close and she sips, and swallows. Half-a-yard and closing still. Here I am, in the place I’ve dreampt of being for ten long months. I’m less than three feet from Ali McGraw. I’m primed and ready to fire off my well-practiced, highly-intelligent lines.

I cock my head sixteen degrees to the right to give her my best side, plant a gigantic smile on my face, take a deep breath… And just as she lowers the glass, I bump the table in front of her—hard—and that bumps her chair, which shakes her arm, which then spills water down her chin and into her lap.

“Oh, fuck a duck!” I muttered, maybe a mutter.

“Ooo,” whispers Ms. McGraw, raising a slender hand to brush water spilled on her chin.

I watch the water removal operation with embarrassment tinged with a surge of electrified loins. “Say something to her, asshole,” Squirt is chiding. “This is your big moment.”

My lips were locked in the same silly smile I plastered a million times in the mirror and the words were in my mind. I stared at the beautiful Ali McGraw for what seemed a minute as she now looked back into my eyes. Speak, Mooner, speak! This is your big chance!!!

“How’s it hanging, baby?”

I bought a pair of very expensive earrings for no one in particular, took the paper receipt from the cool-to-the-touch, lithe fingers of Ali McGraw, and slinked away from the booth, towed by the dogs.

“You…” the Squirt muttered, “are a mess. A total fucking mess.”

Which brings me back to my point. Print a personal slogan on each side of your dense, corrugated plastic sign. My personal favorite sign says, “A Woman’s Right To Choose Is Sacred!” and the reverse says, “I’m An Abortion And I’m OK!”

Take your sign down to the Planed Parenthood parking lot and join the protesting. Stand among them and raise your voice to one notch above theirs. “A woman’s right to choose is SACRED!!!”

“I’m an abortion and I’m OK!”

No matter what they say to you, stick to your script. No discussion, no other responses. Don’t try to reason. They yell at you, “You’re a Godless baby killer,” you yell louder, “A woman’s right to choose is sacred!”

They scream at you, “You’ll burn in Hell, Mooner Johnson! I hope God burns you slowly on low heat!!!” and you yell back, “I’m an abortion and I’m OK!”

OK, if they call you Mooner Johnson, you have a special problem, but you catch my drift.

Maybe I can start something here. Maybe some of you will join me in this cause. I’m tired of these attacks on women and humanity—all of them. Let’s make our voices in opposition even louder than theirs.

Fuck right-wing extremist Christians, and Fuck Walmart too!!!

Manana (or sometime after manana), y’all.


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Happy 4th; Fuck Walmart Always!

Monday, July 8th, 2013


So. Happy Fourth of July, y’all. While this date in history has no actual historical significance as far as our freedom from English tyrannical rule, it is, by edict, the day we celebrate independence as a Nation—a People. Our celebrations originally settled around the freedoms sought by humans from many countries, of many religions and wildly variant political views. We had Catholics and Quakers and Pilgrims and Anglicans and Atheists and more.

Weren’t any fucking Southern Baptists, though. As a matter of fact, there were not any Baptists of any kind who left another continent to settle in America for religious freedom. Fact is, the first Baptist in America was some guy from up to New England—Rhode Island, I think—who got pissed at his church in the early 1600’s and then adopted and adapted some Dutch guy’s theological pissinesses at the Catholics because this guy—Smyth or Smith, maybe Johnny Smyth I think was the asshole’s name—didn’t think that you should baptize babies against their sins.

OK, let’s stop for an ADHD off-the-tracks moment of reflections. I might should have interjected my hypotenuse before continuing what is today’s hypothesis. And why don’t we go ahead and stop once more to carefully explain why the injection of an hypotenuse (a hypotenuse?) has anything to do with my hypothesis that all religions are fucked. And don’t even start with your “Hey, shithead, pissinesses isn’t even a word” bullshit. You can be pissed, be pissy, and pissed off. The resultant thoughts and emotions of having been pissed and pissy are your “pissinesses”.

Me, I see religion as a simple thing whether you are an evolutionist, or an ignorant “All this shit was created in seven days” brain-dead Southern Baptist. Either way, there was one, original Homo Sapien human person of each sex. One male and one female from whom to propagate and fill Earth and screw everything all to Hell and back again. At some point, and likely early in those first generations of we humans, somebody either got curious—or scared—about how we originated or what happens when we die.

This one time when God came to visit me I asked It how did people get invented. I say “It” because God was sitting in a canvas deck chair out to the dock in Austin, Texas, sampling the air with a split tongue.

“Holy shit, Big Guy, you look like one of those Gila Monster lizards. This is very unsettling to me. As the fruit of the labors of my Southern Baptist upbringings, to see you in reptilian form makes my skin crawl,” I explained.

“Get over your prejudice, Mooner,” God told me in Walter Cronkite’s voice. Wally “That’s the way it is” Cronkite was staying in Austin for an extended period and I thought him to be the News God as a kid.

“Fine, Sir, I’ll try. But I like it much better when you look like a woman. Remember that one time when you came as Marylin Monroe? Now that was some visit!”

“How could I forget? You tried to get Me to have sex with you.”

He was right, of course. “Well, ma’am,” I replied to what had morphed into the visage of Marilyn Monroe, “I was fourteen and you did show up in the middle of a dream.”

Anyway, during this visit I asked God about the religion dealio, about what the first religion was, and how She fit into these scheme of things.

“Look, son, I had nothing to do with religion and even less to do with why you people are here. For the life of Me, I don’t now why I get the blame and credit for everything you humans do. Ever since your kind congregated the first time you started looking for something to justify your bad acts.”

Now God looked like a granite slab—pink granite with gray swirls—and as It spoke, the legs of the deck chair creaked under the weight. OK, stop again. Should I have said that the chair creaked under “The” weight? You know, capitalize the The because it’s God?

“But what about our souls? Aren’t you responsible for those rotten and truly wonderful things?”

I had long wondered about our souls, and mine specifically as mine had already been subjected to my rending and other abuses. “Mother keeps telling me that my soul is going to burn in hell because I’m a heretic,” I told God.

“That’s simply poppycock, Mooner. Reality is that you humans have no more soul than does any other brained animal, you just managed to evolve with the most useful brain cells. And just so that you understand Reality with a big “R”, having all that brain power will eventually bring the end of you.”

That unsettled me. “That’s unsettling, Sir. You’re sitting there looking like the granite kitchen counters over to Norman Eaton’s Polonaise restaurant telling me that brains are our demise. Does the term “dumb as a rock” strike a chord, sir?”

The Polonaise restaurant was Austin’s classy cafe back to the mid-1960’s. Our buddy, Craig Carthel, was a cook’s helper back to college. The owner wanted everyone to call him a “sous chef”, but Craig was a cook’s helper.

God changed forms once again, and I was sitting on an old wooden dock and staring into the deep eyes of Albert Einstein. “Listen, son. Take it from one of the wisest men ever to grace your planet. Smart doesn’t always make good decisions.”

I didn’t know Albert Einstein’s voice was a dead ringer for Gregory Peck. I told God, I said, “Did you know that my middle name is Einstein, Big Guy? Butcher Einstein Johnson’s the name, and mastering heretical acts is my game. But back to this soul thingie. Are You telling me that if an organism so much as has a single, linked synapses that snaps off a command, said organism has a soul? Really?”

“Really,” God answered. “How can you people be so smart yet so dumb. You guys are greedy, Mooner, and prejudiced. Combined with brainpower, it’ll get you killed.”

The reason that visit came to light this morning is because the Squirt asked me if the goat dog has a soul. “He’s so fucking stupid, Bwana, how can he have a soul?” were the precise words.

“Souls and brains are separate entities, little lady. And if God was telling me the truth, neither is all that special a deal in the big picture of things.”

“But Mother says that you’re soul is going to burn in Hell because you’re a heretic. Will Yoda burn in Hell because he’s dumb?” Squirt asked.

Have I told you guys that we decided to paint every fucking thing in the back yard in the “Santa Fe Style”? Bright colors contrasting with muted ones. I had stopped writing this at the end of that last paragraph Thursday morning, and now—Sunday morning—I’ve picked it back up. What I’ve done between writing sessions is scraping and sanding and primering and painting. And repainting when the attendant color combinations induced nausea.

Oh, and pig meat cooking. I found this giant package of pig ribbies at the store and we drank beer and cooked pig meat and worked outside. The ribs are not my best by a long shot, but even bad-cooked pork is good eating.

In the last couple days, I had forgotten about my adorable brown puppy’s question about my mentally-challenged and equally adorable white puppy’s soul. As a child, I wondered the same question about my own soul and those souls not mine. To answer that question for all of us, I want to quote my randy old grandmother when she was asked the question this one time.

We were all at a church picnic held under the big oak trees at the family Baptist church property. One of the church ladies brought up the question was Marilyn Monroe’s soul truly doomed to burn in H-E-Double-L, as Pastor Browningwell had said in that morning’s sermon. Several of the women tittered and tsked about MM having gotten D-I-V-O-R-C-E-D, and then they made it to local women having been divorced and their souls’ final resting places. I could see that Gram’s patience was already thin when someone said, this bigoted old gasbag asked, “Well, what about that Penelope Paxton-Parades?”

Asking about Gram’s best buddy’s soul was the clincher.

Gram smacked her flat palm hard to the folding card tabletop. Paper plates and plastic forks jumped an inch in the air. “Who really gives a shit? If’n ya ask me, it’s gonna be a Hell full a back-talkin’ fuckballs jist like y’all. Now shut yer yappers an’ pass me the iced tea.”

My sentiments, exactly. Manana, y’all.

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Homegrown Tomato Maddness; Clarence Thomas- Old White Man

Friday, June 28th, 2013


So. Summer’s here and so are the big forest fires that burn and blacken our beautiful mountains. Just as the fire scorches the earth and consumes everything in sight, our US Supreme Court burns and blasphemes a hundred years of increasing civility with one sweeping act. Fires are blind and greedy; heartless and dumb. Fires are indiscriminate—fire consumes each and every thing without prejudice, without emotion, without thought.

Some of our Supreme Court Justices—the five assholes it took to strike down the most powerful tool we have to enforce nondiscrimination in our voting booths—have acted with extreme prejudice in turning a blind eye to the continued racial hatred and distrust that seems to have managed to refill the ranks of the new neo-conservative Republican and Libertarian Parties.

This Justice isn’t blind, it’s instead five old white men who have chosen to not see the truth. And don’t even start to tell me that Clarence “Marshmallow” Thomas isn’t an old white man. That brain-dead and gutless shithead is the worst of the five. Just as a former smoker is the worst of we anti-smokers, a former black man is the worst of all racists.

I can just hear the fuck head. “Why, nobody has ever discriminated against me. I kissed so much white ass that I actually turned white, like a chameleon. Those darkies need to get a grip.” Then that Long-dong Silver asshole would add, “What I meant to say is that all of me except my dick turned white. You know how the white women love black dick.”

How can Clarence Thomas deny that racism is alive and well in many, identifiable areas of the United States? How can five of those Justices live with themselves having made this decision?

Fuck the five of them!

Which reminds me. Did you know that dogs cannot tell a lie? They can fuck with you with evil intent and they can withhold pertinent facts, but they can’t lie. Don’t have whatever it is that allows you to lie. As the owner of two yakking dogs, I can attest to the this as fact. Many’s the time I’d take Dixie—my beloved Golden Retriever and first speeched puppy—out to help me troll for women, and many’s the time she’d say, “I’m not telling any unsuspecting woman’s dog that you’re a good catch, fuckhead. No way I’m lying for you.”

We’d watch cartoons together, and whenever a dog character was on the show Dixie would be a running narrative. “That is NOT what we say. I’d never say that, that Deputy Dog is a fake. That’s a human trying to talk like a dog”

And my sweet Dixie has a special place for Walt Disney characters. “And that Goofy. Someone needs to put that asshole to sleep.”

Dixie is old and has retired to live with my good buddy, Streaker Jones. Her replacement, the Squirt, came to me as Dixie’s protégées, and why, inthefuck, is a single follower and student a plural? Why isn’t Squirt a protege? Fucking French. I’m starting to think that most of the stupidity in the English language is all the French’s fault.

I do wish we’d inherited the way they flip their hands dismissively. I also like the way they say, “Oui-oui-oui-oui-oui…” softer and softer and really fast until they run out of breath. I’m always looking for apparently unoffensive ways to piss people off.

Anyway, I’m sitting on the portal with the dogs with a snoot full of beer and a head full of my favorite bud last night. I was looking at the little garden in the raised bed—the one I surrounded with rabbit wire to keep the dogs out of the tomato plants—and I noticed that the four heritage tomatoes that were days from picking were gone.

“Whuh?” I mumbled through the haze in my skull. “Where’s the tomatoes?”

Yoda sat up at my feet and looked at me like I needed a lobotomy, and the Squirt jumped from my lap and said to me, she said, “I’ve got to go take a crap,” and she trotted off across the little patch of grass and around to the side of the house where I couldn’t see her.

Like I said, I was, effectively, wasted, so it took me a minute to remember what it was that had me all consternated. I re-lit the doobie, dragged another thousand brain cells to the curb, and emptied the Carta Blanca bottle hanging in my hand between the index and middle fingers of my left hand. I’m a left-handed beer bottle holder when I’m smoking pot, and have you ever noticed how comfortable a long neck beer bottle is when fitted between index and middle fingers of a hand that dangles off the arm of a chair? The easy motion of bringing the bottle to your lips as you sit, slouched from brain fog, is something I need to remember to thank God for the next time They pay me a visit.

“Wait a fucking minute… Wait just a fucking minute!”

Now the goat dog looked like he was the one needing a lobotomization. He suddenly jumped up and ran around the house to join the Squirt. And don’t you grammar Nazis even start on me about my jumping tenses. I was, am, and always will be an ADHD-addled fuckbrain who did, does and will do multiple-track thinking, so you will, should and have to put up with the textural blending of my sequences.

If you can’t handle it, go the fuck on over to Glen Beck’s place and leave me alone.

Anyway, it finally dawned on me that the dogs had acted mightily funnily when I asked about my missing tomatoes, so I walked around and confronted the dogs. “I know how much you two like tomatoes. Did you two somehow find a way into the garden and eat my almost ripe tomatoes?”

They each looked away. “Well, did you? Answer me, Squirtie girl, are you the guilty party, little lady?”

“Na-na-na… Na-na-na-na…” Squirt stammered. She was sounding like a Frenchman with the Oui dealio except it was like she was trying to say “no-no-no”.

“Squir-rt?” I slowly queried, “you need to an-swer me.”

“God dammit, Mooner, you know I can’t tell a lie. Yes, we did it. We’re sorry, we didn’t mean to do it, but we love tomatoes,” she said with what was not a small trace of indignity.

“But why, little lady, you know you aren’t supposed to get in that garden area.”

“Humph,” she went, “we’re dogs, idiot, we can’t help ourselves.”

“But how’d you get in? I had rabbit fencing run both ways up and down. A snake would have trouble getting inside. There’s no way you could get in.”

Squirt stuck her chest out and said, “We’re smarter than you think.”

“Bullshit. I made that fencing dog proof. I’ve watched you for six weeks try to get inside of there. Somebody must have aided and abetted you. Did somebody fix you a way into my…”

Have I ever told you that my mother doesn’t really seem to like me. Did I tell you that she was here a week ago and how I was thinking that things have gotten better between us?

“Squirt, did Mother fix you a way to get into the tomato patch? Did she?”

She puffed her adorable little chest out even further. “We’re not squealers, asshole, we’ll never sing like canaries. Eat shit and die.”

Eat shit and die? When was the last time I said that wherein she picked it up to pitch back into my face?

It took a few minutes, but I found the place where someone had cut and bent the wire into a Squirt-sized opening and then pushed mulch over it. Seems the dogs uncovered and then recovered the opening as they came, and went. I repeated a conversation Mother and I had while she was here and I was showing her the back yard. “How are you going to keep the dogs out of your tomatoes, son?”

“Not a worry, Mother, I’ve dog-proofed it with two runs of rabbit wire. They’ll never get in.”

Once again I found myself forced to sing that Don Henley song. “Forgiveness, forgiveness, even if, even if, you don’t love me, anymore.”

I need to call my buddy BJ—talk to him about the great relationship he had with his momma. He just lost her and is going through those tough times, and I’m needing a support group.

Ugh. Manana, y’all.

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Thinking Of Beej; RIP Polly

Wednesday, June 19th, 2013


So. I awakened this morning at 2:30 am Mountain Standard Time, my head full of the normal ADHD-fueled swirling thoughts as usual. I wake most nights about that time to go into the bathroom to pee and also to assess whatever dreams have inhabited the swill filling my skull to that particular point in the night. As is typical with most of my normal rituals, my middle-of-the-night ritual is a planned routine—a somewhat complex set of steps that must be taken, in order.

Wake; ask myself where I am; realize I’m in bed; move Yoda from his nesting place in my armpit; sit up and scratch balls; stagger to the bathroom; check for night wood to avoid peeing on the floor; sit and pee while recounting my dreams. Should I miss any steps or take steps out of order, my ADD will consume the rest of my day. Missing steps of any obsessively compulsive routine in my life will, generally, fuck up whatever day I have left.

OK, stop. When it’s 2:45 am and you are writing about your life events that happened fifteen minutes before, do you say, “I awakened last night at 2:30 am…” or, rather, would it be more appropriate to say, “This morning at 2-fucking-thirty…”? That’s one that has always screwed with my head. When does morning actually take the day’s reins from night? Is it a specific time? Does it depend upon how long you’ve been awake? Does it really make a shit?

Tonight, the normalcy of this waking ritual was disturbed by a not normal line of thought. This morning’s first wakening thought was the same as the primary thought in my head when I lay down and snuggled the puppies into their nests at my side. I was dreaming the mangled imaginations that heavy emotions often place in our minds, and I woke with the dream surfaced in my conscious.

“BJ’s mother died, and he’s worried about me… Fuck!” I know I didn’t shout it, but both dogs jumped to alert status at my words.

“What the Hell’s wrong with you, Mooner? You got gas cramps again?” Squirt asked me.

The diminutive brown dog was at my side. “I told you to lay off the bean burritos late at night. You drop a bean burrito fart under the covers and I’ll have the goat dog eat all your new socks.”

I found a large display of thick cotton crew socks in the Size 12-15 Mens I require, and I bought them all. Four dozen plus an extra tube of three. When I unloaded my shopping cart and placed the socks on the counter, the sales lady said to me, she said, “That’s a whole lot of very big socks, sir. You a football coach, or something?”

I explained that they were all for me and how it is difficult to find the extra-large size and how I only wear cotton, and she said that fifty-six pairs of socks are a lot of socks for one guy under any circumstance, and then I told her it was only fifty-one pairs. She said, “Oops, but still a lot of socks,” and rang-up the five-sock reduction from my bill. I paid it with my American Express card—the one that says, “Member Since 1976.” I won’t tell you how many points I have, but I will say that I have never spent a single point in all these years. I’m saving for a first class ticket to Mars.

“It’s not terminal gas, sweetie, it’s sadness. Bill’s momma died and he’s concerned about my relationship with Mother. I just dreamed that God came to visit us again, and I offered to trade my live parent for BJ’s dearly departed. God told me to pull my head out my ass and get a fucking grip. And that’s a quote.”

God told me that He thinks I can learn a great deal about humility and love and forgiveness from my good friend BJ. Again, a quote.

“But I have trouble letting go of some of this shit, Ma’am,” I told God. “And really. Phyllis Diller? You had to show up looking like Phyllis Diller?”

God looked like the comedian, a personal favorite on my Way-Back Machine, and we were sitting on the fishing dock at the ranch back to Austin. “Came as Ms. Diller, dumb ass, to show you I’m serious.”

Some people have truly, deeply human relationships with their parents. Like BJ. And me, I find myself jealous of them. Truly. I think I need to fix that. Maybe manana, y’all.

Rest in peace, Evelyn Ruth Johnson. You are missed.



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Hoeing Rows; Fuck Memory Lane

Sunday, June 16th, 2013


So. Happy Father’s Day, just for starters on this crisp early morning in Enchantedland. The sun is still a pale orange promise shading the backdrop of mountains, and I finally have the quiet than can only arrive after the debarkment of a houseful of guests. If you don’t like the word “debarkment” you can go fuck yourself. Much of the power embodied in the Poetic License I earned by writing a book, and scribbling over 2,000,000 words published herein, lies in the right to make shit up.

OK, that might have been confusing. My Poetic License—the physical presence of which hangs all framed and gilded on the wall facing me now—grants to me various authorities to make shit up. Make up words, make up new sentence structures, make punctuation abnormalities routine, and, likewise, we poetic licensees can lie with immunities to the criticisms appropriately leveled at a regular person’s writings.

Which reminds me. I have a favorite word. It became my favorite word the first time I said it aloud as I was hoeing a row of sweet corn back to Austin, Texas. I was five years old and I was weeding a row next to Daddy weeding a row next to Mother weeding a row, who was next to my Gram—a quite young and handsome woman of fifty fewer years than today—who was cutting okra pods from their stems and dropping them into a bushel basket.

Gram used a sharp, hooked carpet knife to separate pod from stem, and the slimy okra juice had stained her hands and clothes. Granddad was still alive and kicking, and he was over to the Callahans Feed Store shooting the shit with whomever squatted with him at the card table that sat next to the cash registers. Sister was just turning four and she dragged Gram’s wire-trussed wooden basket across the clumpy surface soil between rows.

It was early morning and the prior night’s dew still chalked the dirt chocolate brown, and my clothes were damp—almost wet—from rubbing against the taller-than-me corn plants. “Pastor Browningwell gave an inspiring sermon last night, don’t you think?” Mother said as she wiped sweat, or maybe dew, from her face. My mother was a pretty woman of superior social upbringing from coastal Virginia, a woman who met and fell in love with a Johnson man from Austin, Texas. Met right after the war when Daddy was stationed at the Quantico Naval Base and was commissioned to decommission the Navy ships made useless when World War Two was terminated by Mankind’s second most destructive force. Dropping atomic bombs on the Japanese shortened the useful careers of much military hardware and software alike.

Mankind’s most destructive force is bigotry, hate.

“What part are ya talkin’ ’bout, Mother? They was some a that shit I don’t cotton to.”

That was Gram, and the tone of her voice caused all farming labor to cease. I remember that I nudged my hoe into the bottom of the row and leaned into its handle the same way as Daddy would do during the brief breaks taken when weeding. “Me, I wasn’t too happy with the pastor last night. I’m a thinkin’ we might a hired us a Grade-A, Nummer One assholie. Me, I’m a thinkin’ we shoulda hired that Martinez fella from down ta Brownsville. He was real handsome and had some big, strong hands on him. Pastor Browningwell’s got parlor woman hands—all clean and not a single sign a hard work. Cain’t trust a man with parlor woman’s hands.”

Mother bucked at Gram’s words and thrust the chest of her breast-filled work shirt Gram’s way. Defiantly, Mother made her point in defense of Reverend Browningwell. “I especially liked what he said about how we Baptists are the only real Christians and when he quoted Timothy to condemn the Sodomites.”

My father was a good man—honest, helpful, hard-working—and he loved my mother desperately. My mother was, is and has always been a bigoted and vocal right-wing Christian. Daddy spent an inordinate amount of his time supporting and defending Mother. I do sympathize with Mother in just the one instance. It would be hard for any conservative socialite asshole to be married into a clan of near-communist, hedonistic Texans. But Mother chose her life and did so in adverse disposition to the loud and strong advice of her own family.

“Let it go, Gram,” Daddy would plead. “Please, just let it go this one time—just this once.”

And just this once, Gram did. “Fuck it,” she said, and went back to cutting okra pods.

“Yea,” I said with enthusiasm, “fuck it. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it.”

I had no fucking idea what it meant, but I knew I had just fallen in love with a word. “Fuck it and fuck this and fuck that.” I started imitating a chicken, strutting and flapping my arms. “Fuck, fuck, fuc-kuk!” Daddy and Gram were finding my actions hilarious, so I pushed onward. “Fuck this, fuck that. Fuck the corn, fuck the okra,” and now I turned to Mother and said to her, I said, “and fuck you!”

The entire world went still, quiet. Seemed that funny had turned, suddenly, not so funny.

“Butcher Einstein Johnson,” Mother snarled as she grabbed my ear and twisted. “You will regret the day you were born!” and she started dragging me, by the ear, toward the house.

“Boy don’t know what he said, Honey,” Daddy pleaded. “He’s just a boy, Mother. Tell him what he did wrong and punish him next time—when he understands what he did was bad.”

Mother heeded not my Daddy’s plea and dragged my ass all the way to the kitchen, where upon she stuffed the dirty bar of Lava soap—used by the entire family to wash hands upon entering the house after work—deep into my mouth. I can still remember how it grated against my teeth and how I gagged when it rough-dragged against my soft palate.

“You’ll burn in Hell, Butcher, you’ll burn in Hell for certain. You’ve the Devil in you son, and it’s my duty to wash him out.”

You might notice that I was not referred to as Mooner in this story and your observation would be prescient. This was two weeks before my sixth birthday and a month before I started First Grade whereat I was nicknamed my first day in school. If you give a shit about that story, go buy my silly fucking book and read it for yourself.

“Muth ahs thon’th untherphannth, Muththr. Thwath ahth tho twronth?”

“What did you do wrong? What… Did… You… Do wrong??? You little heathen, you know exactly what you did. If you ever, and I mean EVER say that to me again, I’ll drop you at the orphanage and you’ll never see your family again!”

It seems that I stood frothing at the mouth and cramping all over my face for days. I cried and wondered what it was that I did wrong. It wasn’t until after we’d finished eating dinner that night and the dishes were cleared from the table that I learned I still had punishments to take. Mother pulled Daddy’s thin, black leather belt from the pocket of her house dress and said to us, she asked, “Who is taking the first licks on this boy for what he did to me this morning?”

The entire table looked down at their hands and said nothing. After a full thirty seconds of Mother searching for eyes with which to connect to her own, she slapped the belt on the table and said, “OK, I get it. Butcher, get over there and put your hands on the table. You know the drill, Buster.”

“But why, Mother? What did I do wrong?”

“You know what you did wrong, now get over there. Now!”

My mother hit me several licks and held out the belt to the table, and I started crying tears of hurt and misunderstanding. Family custom was that each person present could express a sentiment about the youthful offender’s transgressions and take a few licks in their turn. This time Mother stood alone with belt in hand, a slight to her that she took out on me. She whipped me harder, and said, “I asked who will be next.”

Again no answer, so she whipped me harder still. Daddy jumped from his seat and grabbed her hand. “That’s enough, Mother. The boy has had enough.”

Now Mother and I were both crying. “What have I done so wrong, Lord, that You curse me with all of this?”

Fuck is still my favorite word, and my mother left yesterday afternoon headed back to Texas from her visit to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. It was a weird visit and not totally unpleasant. It seems that Sister and Anna spent the ten hours of drive time to Santa Fe asking Mother to be nice. I know that because Mother told me ten times a day, and I’m telling you this story because Mother told it Friday night at the dinner party I threw in her honor.

I invited all of my new Santa Fe friends for a roasted pig BBQ to meet Mother, Sister and her wife, Anna, and also my third ex-wife (the same Anna). I had to be asked several times “where is your ex-wife?” before it finally settled with those invitees not close to me that two guests were the same person. Again, buy my silly book for further elucidations.

Anyway, Mother told this story on me not for its long term humorous natures of childhood mistakes, but rather, to illustrate just what a hard life she has endured at my evil hands.

“Sometimes I wonder if Mooner pays people to befriend him,” she asked the table of diners. “I also wonder what I did for God to punish me so. My son is a heretic and my daughter a homo-sex-u-al. I’ve quite a cross to bear.”

Anyway, as I said, it was a relatively pleasant visit and I only wanted to slit her throat twice. OK, I wanted to slit her throat ten times but only envisioned the doing of it twice. I’m glad she came and I’m glad she’s gone. She’s losing more of her memory and she’s unsteady on her feet and maybe she’s loosing some of her mean.

Maybe. Manana, y’all.



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The Square Root of 10; Musical Mysteries

Thursday, June 6th, 2013


So. I got a call from a good buddy last week inviting me to listen to some music, said he had an extra ticket to see Lyle Lovett and Robert Earl Keen out to the Santa Fe Opera.

“Hell yes,” I told him, “when and how much for the ticket.”

“Sunday at 7 pm, and your money’s no good in my town.”

That’s my buddy Doug, a man with a big heart and a photographic memory. He’s a man who remembers every slight word-for-word yet holds never a one against you. Me, if I had a photographic memory, I’d be extracting retributions.

“Hey, Sister, remember that time you ate the blue Crayola and I had to color the princess’s eyes brown? Well, fuck you… Huh, what’s that? You were only two-years old? Who gives a shit, you were an asshole and I never forget anyfucking thing.”

I was expecting Robert Earl to open as a solo for Lyle and his big, sassy band and found myself disappointed when we took our seats to find the stage set with two chairs, two mike stands, two feedback speakers, and four beautiful guitars racked—two beside each chair.

Did you know that Robert Earl is taller than Lyle? Not me. I always knew he was tall, but thought Lyle was the taller. Not that it makes a shit. My disappointment at missing the horns and saxes and backup singers dissipated as soon as the two men sat—their longtime friendship visible in the comfort they took with sitting at each others side.

A weird thing happened for me at this concert. OK, stop. Background is everything when you try to interpret the words of a backwards-thinking writer, so let me provide you with a little info. Due to my having been genetically inflicted with the dreaded ADD and its big brother, ADHD, my musical comprehension is incredible—for maybe ten bars of every song I have ever heard.

I can provide you a few lines of melody and/or libretto for anything in the catalogs of such varied artists as Harry Connick to Frank Zappa to Amadeus fucking Mozart. I can hum a couple bars of anything I’ve ever heard yet can’t sing you the complete verses of even my most favorite songs. Hell, I even have difficulty with the Star Spangled Banner. After six decades, I still mix up “Home of the free” with “Land of the brave”.

But what I lack in musical comprehension I have been spaded with human and emotional association connected with any song and my own life. I can tell you all the details of my life surrounding any song ever to pass through my brain. Take “In the Jungle, the quiet Jungle” as an example.

I had this tiny crystal transistor radio bedside as a young adolescent. I lay in my bed one summer night—the summer I grew 11-inches between school terms, and every bone in my body ached with the pain of their expansion rates. My legs and feet hurt the most, and this one night I was thinking I could actually hear my bones creaking and splintering as they expanded and extended under my skin. Each night I pressed the zero end of a yardstick tight to my sphincter and measured the distance to my foot—you know, that spot where the smooth skin of your leg turns into the rough sandpaper of heel. I’d mark the measurement on a Big Chief Pad, then measure again in the morning.

Most nights the increase in seam length would be small—discernible, yet quite small. But this one night I actually grew a quarter-inch overnight. Anyway, I was lying there on the cool cotton sheets debating the virtues of masturbation and whether I wanted to get up and make a date with my personal bar of Ivory soap, or just lay there and hurt. I remember that I was thinking about adding steps to my nightly yardstick ritual and see how much my pecker was growing and whether I should measure softy or stiffy.

I had just voted “stiffy” when that silly song squeaked from the paper cone speaker on the radio.

“The lion sleeps tonight, weem-a-wacka, weem-a-wacka?” I asked myself in the darkened bedroom, “What, inthefuck, does that mean? That might be the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

However, I must now edit my teenage thoughts by saying that I had not yet discovered Iron Butterfly at that point. “…Inna gotta da vida, baby…” Really?

So, the memory/emotional responses I got from Lyle and Robert Earl were for/from my buddies Squatlo and BJ. I laughed for Bob at songs such as “She’s No Lady, She’s My Wife”, and I teared-up for Bill with Robert Earl’s family stories. Bill’s mom is really sick and Bob likes silly shit.

And that reminds me that this woman at the Whole Foods asked me a question the other day. She somehow knew that I’d been married ten times and she asked me, she said, “Which of the ten was the sexiest?”

After a lengthy discussion about how each was quite sexy and the many different ways so, she asked me again. “OK, but which was the sexiest?”

I then had a question of my own, that being, “Why do you ask, you blue-eyed sexpot? Are you angling for a spot of Mooner?” a question that did not quite draw a slap to my well-sunned face, but did garner a look that might have shriveled the pecker of a lesser man.

And here I now sit, asking myself that self same question, and have come to an answer. The sexiest of my ten ex wives is as of yet unknown to me. I will, however, ponder the solution and report herein my conclusions. I can say for certain that if your idea of sexy is a woman having an insatiable appetite, then I must go with Roshandra Washington-Johnson, the gun-toting Nubian warrior guarding the headquarters of the Austin City Council. If mystery is your clue to sexiness, then maybe it’s number seven. OK, stop, maybe mystery would be number four, the shortest-lived of the ten. Then, again, mystery is a word of mysterious definitions in its ownself, and the understanding of the very word “mysterious” provokes a myriad of interpretive adaptations.

Ugh. Mother will be here in four days. Buy my silly fucking book and you’ll understand more. Manana, y’all.

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The Garden Is In; Yoga Is For Lovers

Sunday, May 19th, 2013


So. The dogs and I have been landscaping and garden planting, and I must admit that I find myself both impressed with our results, and, likewise, satisfied with the efforts. The reasons I’m impressed with the results are obvious—good design, personal preferences considered all around, and strong team participation.

“No, no, shithead, get ones that already have tomatoes on them. I’m hungry.”

That was the Squirt when we were over to the Aqua Fria Nursery yesterday choosing garden plants. If you know anything about us Johnsons, you know that we are absolute freaks for homegrown foodstuffs and totally bonkers for tomatoes raised by our own hands. Squirtie and I were in the big greenhouse where the nursery keeps the dozens-of-varieties of heirloom and regionally-adaptive tomato plants that thrive here. We were arguing about “is it smarter to get healthy, barren plants or weak ones already fruited”, and I was pushing for strong starter plants. The diminutive brown-furred smart mouth wanted weak plants pre-adorned with snacks for the ride home.

“Sir,” a not all that friendly voice said from the open entry in the plastic-covered greenhouse. “There, you, sir, the big man in the dirty shirt with the noisy dog. Do you also own a white dog that looks like that Star Wars gremlin?”

“Why that would be my Yoda, sir. Isn’t he a cute little shitbird?”

“That ugly mutt of yours just ate our last three flats of Thai basil, five one-gallon spinach, and is now started on the Greek oregano. Will you be paying cash or credit, sir?”

When we finally had a tabulation on the damages, I told the Squirt as we were checking out, I said, “Well, at least his farts won’t smell so bad. Asshole’s been eating the stink weed growing behind the shed and he’s had the gag gas.”

My puppy giggled and said, “Yea, he’ll be farting Pad Thai and spanikopita gas. If he gets a-hold of the Italian parsley, he’ll be an international fart festival.”

Reality is often different than imaginations. I was awakened last night by bedsheets billowed with rancid dog gas and a pile of plant stems that had been puked half on the edge of my bedside rug and the other half on my socks. Which reminds me.

Am I the only one who has become more tolerant of stuff as I age? Ten years ago, just the thought of a mouthful of short dog hairs would stir my gag reflex. Now, I simply think of it as roughage. I don’t gak up fur balls like a cat, but I do often crap small patches of brown and white fabric. I clean up animal turds as a routine and don’t even bitch so long as it’s solid.

OK, stop. As I sit here bragging on my maturities, I realize that my growing tolerances are with animals and I’m becoming less tolerant of asswipe humans. The number of humans I want to thump on the nose grows daily. If I’m ever to meet that right-wing goat fucker, Texas Senator Ted “Cruzin’ for a Bruzin’” Crudz, I’mma wind-up a nose thwack like never before delivered.

Anyway, I was sitting here early this morning with my first cuppa Joe. It was a quite strong and bitter brew, my favorite. As I gazed at the small, just-planted vegetable garden through the open window of my office, the dogs were out back standing—tails wagging—with their snouts jammed through the small crack between the back gates here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. Squirt left the gates and walked over to push her head through the rabbit fencing I placed around the tomato plants. She grabbed what appeared to be the largest Cherokee Purple that was a week from harvest and trotted back to the fence. She pushed the dark purple orb through the crack, wagged her tail and ran toward the house.

I watched as the goat dog started grazing in the dill and mint section and heard tiny puppy toe nails ticking on the wood floors. The Squirt skidded the corner from the hallway into the office, jumped into my lap, planted front paws on my chest, jammed her face into mine and said to me, she said, “Shit, shower and shave, asshole, and put on your tights and that new Humane Society tee shirt you got from the animal shelter last weekend. We’re going to go yoga.”

“Fuck yoga, little lady, we’re cleaning this house today. We’ve got company coming the next three weekends, including Mother.”

Squirt jumped off my lap and headed from the room. As she left, she flipped over her shoulder, she said to me, “Fine with me, shithead. But just so you know, Rooster the Dalmatian knows a Chow dog from Second Street who knows Ali McGraw’s dog, and Khan—the Chow dog—says that Ali does yoga most days at the place up the street.”

That was six hours, one shit-shower-and-shave, and four hour-long yoga classes ago, and who would name a Dalmatian “Roster”? I’m cramped from ears-to-knee caps and I can’t feel my pecker. Balls are swollen from the natural squishing that happens with some of those stupid yoga positions, but that’s not a happy ball swelling. Happy ball swellings occur differently, more naturally.

Anyway, I couldn’t last long enough to see if Ms. McGraw made it to an afternoon yoga class today and now I’m too sore to clean house. And that reminds me of that tantra yoga shit—you know, that yoga wherein you’re supposed to have six-hour sex.

I now believe it’s possible, and that reminds me to tell you something that I have already forgotten. Fucking ADD. I’m having a cold Carta Blanca while I decide about dinner. Manana, y’all.

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Fuck The NRA- A Capitalization Offense

Sunday, May 12th, 2013


So. I’m wondering what it is about America and Americans that makes us think we’re so fucking great. I know the words we use to tout ourselves, I’m just having trouble translating the conceptualizations contained in all this “America is wonderful” rhetoric into actual actualizations. After extensive research and memory searching, it appears to me that the most common “sell America in as few words as possible” sales pitch would be contained in the old tried and true axiom stating that America is:

“The Home of The Free, Land of The Brave.”

Really? Home of the Free? Free what? Free to love who we want? Free to make decisions about our own bodies? Free from economic suppression? Free from the autocratic edicts of another’s religion?

Land of the Brave? Really? Like brave enough to vote for simple, smart gun legislation?

Bullshit. It’s like the same thing as I see on the sides of police cars. “Protect and Serve,” might be written on the sides of more American automobiles than the word “Police”. Ask those three young women up to Cleveland in the O-hi-o about the quality of protective services rendered in their favors.

Which reminds me. Whatthefuck is up with the grammatical usages of the words “who”, and “whom”? Why does it even matter? Is there a single English-speaking non-moron on the face of the Earth who wouldn’t know what you meant if the two words were merged into one?

OK, maybe that should have been, “…non-moron whom wouldn’t know…” See what I mean? It’s the same thing with I/me. And answer me this. Why, in-the-dog-shit, do we capitalize I and not me? Hell, if I’m so important to deserve capitalization why aren’t me and mine? For Christsakes, I am me. And what about you and her and them? Why does my shit stink and I don’t?

Talk about your capitalization punishment. I say we string up all the grammar Nazis by their nipples until they fix some of this shit. I think it’s time for a little Grammatical Anarchy!

We need a slogan and a name for our cause. How about “Free Americans for Brave Grammatical Change!” as our name? Oh-oh, and our slogan could be, “It ain’t about whom, it all about Who?”

And speaking about stringing-up by one’s nipples, there was this one time when one of my ex-wives visited her buddy up to New York City. I’ll not tell you which of the ten exes I’m referencing herein, except to say that she’s the one with aureoles the size of porcelain saucers and nipples you can hang your old letter jacket from while role playing “Cheerleader meets football hero”.

Anyway, this lovely and buxom woman had this buddy living to the big city, and on this one trip to visit, the friend took my wife to one of those bondage clubs. Wife comes home with an extra suitcase of what she called, “This is a case full of sexual delights, Mooner my main man.”

After a short discussion as to why I was her “main man” and not simply her man, and, likewise, numerous slapping of my hands when I attempted to open the suitcase, I was instructed to, “Go take a shower and shave yourself from your belly button to your knees. Then put on the pink Speedo I bought you and meet me in the basement.”

And don’t even start with me about the pink Speedo. I never went swimming in it and you, likely, have never seen nipples the size of Little Smoky Sausages get hard enough to cut glass. So back off on the pink Speedo.

Me, I should have had the presence of mind to carefully examine my lovely spouse’s words. See, the “shave yourself from B-button to knees” part was a key phrase. Shaving my hairy ass alone is a two-hour process involving the dulling of three new razors, so the half-day it took me to get skinned and make it to the basement in a pink thong gave the wifey-poo plenty of time to adorn said basement with her newly-purchased sexual delights.

I slid the pink swimsuit up my legs, settled it into place, and took a look in the mirror. “Holy shit!” I said to the surprised look on my own face, “Half of my man package was fur!” I then spent a few minutes fluffing myself and then went to the basement, which was locked.

Me, I’m thinking that my finding the key and doing a “breaking-and-entering” scenario was part of the plans. After finding the key I decided to sneak in like a cat burglar. So I craftily opened the door and crept (creeped?) down the stairs where I fully expected to find a pair of giant, oiled breasts awaiting me.

“What about that? Is that one there fer you twatter er yer titties?” I heard from behind the big stone column that supports the floor above. It was my Gram’s voice, and “that one there” was a pair of car battery clamps with mink pads, fastened to a fancy bungy cord.

The wife’s voice answered her, “Here, let me show you.”

There was a yelp, and then, “Oh, baby, that’s what I’mma talkin’ ’bout!”

I turned the corner around the stone column and saw a sight that still gives me nightmares. Wife and grandmother—both naked—were standing at my work bench with the opened suitcase atop. I can only describe what I saw by saying, “Think battery boosting competition.”

Remember how the Bedouins used to make water bottles out of dried camel stomaches? Pin jumper cables on a pair of those nomadic water jugs and you have a perfect visage of Gram. Think “instant wood” and you’d gain understanding of the lovely ex-wife.

Have I ever told you that I have the dreaded ADHD and its little brother ADD? I have no fucking idea why I called this meeting other than to say, “Happy Mothers’ Day!” to all you mothers, and that reminds me that my very own mother is coming to visit in less than a month.

Ugh. Please send drugs. Manana, y’all.


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Family Issues Trump Moonlight Madness; Who Really Gives A Shit?

Friday, April 26th, 2013


So. It’s been two weeks since I last had the freedom to write and post to the pages herein, and even with all the elapsed time since, I find myself verbally tapped-out. It isn’t that I have nothing to say, as my brain is brimming with shit to say—the Boston bombings, the gun control issue, the Boy Scouts of America, the George W. Bushkin Liebary, the new Popester—it is, rather, that I have an overriding issue that plays trump card to even the Ace of Spades.

With me having been so busy—too fucking busy to write—you’d have thought that I’d be spilling and spewing with my usual alacrities and verbosities once I had a waking moment of freedom. But, alas, you’d have been wrong in those thinkings.

The busyness of me started when I accepted a position with a buddy’s business. Having always had my own business since I was a kid, and having always been the guy with both the financial responsibility when things go badly and losses are suffered, as well as the guy who profits from my businesses’ profitability, I assumed, falsely, that I would not feel any pressure from the Big Picture responsibilities of the business attached to my new job. I assumed that I could do my job and only concern myself with the doing of that job to my best and let the rest of the marbles gather as they may.

What I didn’t assume is the simple fact that I find myself more concerned about my buddy’s financials than I ever was for my own. I worry that any imperfect decision made by me will cost another man a buck. And more important than anything else that is involved with this string of misguided thoughts, I’m finding myself worrying about another man’s business more that I ever worried over my own, and I love it—am almost consumed by it.

OK, stop the train before my ADHD drives said train up the ass of the crowd gathered at the station. The aforementioned Trump Card has, actually, nothing to do with my new job, and everything to do with scheduling. See, it’s Spring in Enchantedland, and everyfuckingbody I know wants to pay a visit here to Santa Fe. Normally this isn’t an issue, as I love my friends and the seeing of them, and I love to cook and entertain. But with the job, my many visitors have had to mostly entertain themselves and I have eaten out more times in the last sixty days than in the previous sixty years.

OK, maybe that was a slight exaggeration, yet the slights given by me to my guests have taken a toll on me. I find myself apologizing for not entertaining people who have had a ball entertaining themselves, and then feeling badly for myself for not having balled with them.

Well wasn’t that an awkward sentence construction? I didn’t mean to say that I feel bad because I didn’t sex it up with all of my friends, but, rather, that I didn’t get to have fun with them, and that all said not withstanding the simple fact that it’s been so long since I’ve had any sexing that I’ve forgotten what I’m missing.

And that, dear friends, is sad.

Anyway, I sat down to write last night after driving this last week’s guests to the airport. I had full intentions to tell you about something that occurred to me as I was watching the continuing coverage of the Boston bombings. It dawned on me that this 24-hour coverage is a recreation of the frenzied media circus that surrounds despicable acts by humans on humans, and that this sort of dealio started when OJ Simpson brutally slaughtered his wife and the waiter and then acted like a shitty-diapered baby as he was chauffeured around LA in that fucking Ford Bronco.

I remember that everyone sat and stared at the TV pictures of the Juice’s car as it wound through the streets just as all of America was staring at the Boston coverage. I remember what my Gram was saying to OJ, through the TV, in the repeated staccato of a Mockingbird.

“Shoot yersef and git this shit over with, ya big woman killin’ shitball. Pull tha fuckin’ trigger already. I’mma missing tha Goldie Girlies an’ yer pissin’ in yer panties like a baby. Pull tha fuckin’ trigger!!!” Gram said over and over again.

Which reminds me. Isn’t it ironic that the surviving Muslim extremist Boston bomber is getting his medical care at Beth Israel Hospital?

When I sat computer-side contemplating the entire OJ Simpson connection, the dogs were both attempting to sit in my lap. The Squirt has always been a daddy’s girl, but the goat dog came to me with the standoffishness that can only be beaten into the soul by the brutish brutality of an abuser. But it seems that Yoda has finally begun to truly trust me, and I also sense a little actual love.

“Jesus Christ, Mooner, will you make him get down?” the Squirt implored me. “He’s got his smelly ass jammed against the side of my head and I’m starting to get the gag reflex.”

And that’s when the phone rang. I answered.

Me: “Hey, Gram, how’s it hanging, baby?”

Gram: “Don’t ya go a talkin’ bout my titties, Mooner, they’s startin’ ta look like roadkill. Now tell me what yer doin’ inna middle a June.”

Me: “Well, except for work, I had plans to explore some more mountain ranges. Did I ever tell you that New Mexico has more than seventy different specifically-named mountain ranges? I plan to visit each before the end of the year, and I’ve been to a dozen so far.”

Fram: “Oh, who gives a shit ’bout yer fuckin’ Canadian cookstovies, we’re a plannin’ ta come up yer way tha middle a June.”

Me: “Canadian cookstovies? Gram, what in the hell are you talking abou… Oh, mountain ranges goes to Mountie ranges goes to Canadian cookstoves.”

Gram: “Don’t backtalk me, shithead, er else I’ll come down there an’ kick yer ass. Now make plans. Me an’ Hilda and tha P-Cubed an’ yer sister an’ Annie are a comin’ down ta’ see ya, an’ we ‘spect ta be havin’ a mighty good time.”

Me: “That’s great, Gram, it’ll be great to see you guys. We can go hiking and camping and looking for wild mushrooms and all sorts of shit.

Gram: “An’ line-up some poontanger fer tha P-cubed an’ me. Somthin’ with a little stayin’ power this time.”

Me: “OK,” I said to dead phone air.

“Hey, Squirtie Girl, we’re getting a family visit in six weeks. We need to do some planning.”

The adorable bundle of brown fur rustled in my lap, pushed Yoda to the floor and said to me, she said, “Maybe we can arrange for them to go to a funeral. I met a man who knows a man who can end my miseries with that bug-eyed asshole.”

I picked Yoda off the floor and held him up for a squeeze. “You’d miss him if he was…”

The phone rang again. “Hey, Gram,” I answered.

“Fergot ta tell ya that yer mother’s a comin’ with,” and the phone clicked in my ear again, this time sounding like a shot.

“Huh?” I said to the dead phone in my hand. “Mother is coming to visit? I talk to her every fucking day and she’s said nothing about it to me?”

I didn’t sleep all night and now I’m sitting at my computer at 4:30 am trying to sort my feelings of dread from those of hope. I dread the visit and I hope I survive it. I dread Mother’s words and hope she doesn’t spoil everyones’ time here.

Ugh. Fucking ugh.

In the real-time of this writing, the full moon has just now made its appearance through the thick boughs of the big Ponderosa pine that frames my view of the mountains. It glows with the light of Hope and Calm, and seems to drench me with the same Peace I felt with my first dunking in the smelly, tepid waters in the fiberglass baptismal pool of my family’s Southern Baptist church. I was nine years old and had already been convinced that I was a worthless sinner, and the promised Salvation of a near drowning salved my tattered, wicked soul. For about a month.

And in this instant, the sense that the visit from my mother will be OK—that calm and peace gained from bathing in this moonlight—is already turning into dread. Just as the promised salvation of Preacher Browningwell’s words turned into the realization that my family’s chosen religion was a pile of bullshit, the same instincts in my preteen brain tell me that the Moon’s calming light brings a false calm. The happiness I feel to see my family is trumped by the overwhelming dread that Mother’s inclusion adds.

But like Gram always say when she says to me, “Who really gives a shit, Mooner. Lot kin happen in six weeks.”

It’s daylight now and time to feed the dogs. So I’ll say manana, y’all. OK, maybe I should say, “Semana, y’all.” OK, maybe that should be a couple of semanas, y’all.

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Perils Of ADHD; A Tale Of God’s Visit

Sunday, April 7th, 2013


So. It’s a cut crystal sky awakening in the view from my office window, and the dogs are back asleep in the bed. I’m sitting here with soggy eyes and nose from the juniper pollen still filling the enchanted air of my new homeland, and I just realized that God paid me another visit last night.

“Why, Mooner,” you might ask, “does sitting at your desk with three pounds of crusty snot plastered on your face remind you that God made a house call to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe?”

“Because, dear reader, I’m an ADHD-riddled fuckball who has absolutely zero controls on his thoughts.”

OK, stop. Do I lack controls ON my thoughts, or, rather, would it be more grammatically correct to lack controls OF my thoughts? I do know that I would ponder ON my thoughts should I be in a pondering mood—which I am—yet, and alas, I now realize that the aforementioned ADHD has taken control of the steering wheels of my brain and has every intention of driving us into a ditch.

To emphasize this notion, I got a call from Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson Thursday afternoon for a scheduled psycho therapy session. While the original intent of that particular session was to, and here I’ll quote Sammy with some precision when she said to me, she said, “I’ve been meaning to speak with you about your blog posts, Mooner. I think it’s good for your audience that you are not posting so many of your whatever it is that you post on your blog. While it might be good for you to write your loony thoughts often, I think you should consider the fact that your kind of crazy might be contagious.”

Huh? Did my lovely first ex-wife, babies’ momma and psycho therapist just tell me that I’m making other folks nutso? “Are you saying that my writings make other people crazy? Really?”

“OK, maybe I didn’t say that just right when I said that your sort of lunacy MIGHT be contagious.”

I blew my snotty nose and wiped the hardened pellets of tears from my eyes while I thought of an appropriate response. After thirty seconds of careful debate I responded into the phone. “Bitch.”

The good doctor did that “Tsk-tsk” noise that has always pissed me off. I added, “You sound just like Laticia Browningwell—the other bitch to ruin my life in a significant way.”

Mrs. Browningwell is the wife of my family’s Baptist preacher and was my school teacher in three different grades. And that thought re-reminds me that God stopped by for a chat last night.

I was maybe a little drunk, maybe stoned, and was certainly under the influence of my grandmother’s mushroom tincture. The three of us were sitting out to the portal admiring the sliver of dusty light made by the moon as it dripped its way through the darkend sky. The Squirt was in my lap almost purring as I scratched her back just above her tail, and the goat dog was in the far corner of the yard eating his fill of the newly-hatched weedy fodder Spring-sprung from the dusty soil.

“Yoda’s gonna be puking all night long, Squirty girl. I bet he’s eaten five pounds of green weeds,” I mostly mumbled as I scratched the little dog’s back.

“He can’t help it, Mooner, he still has fears of going to bed without any supper,” Squirt informed me. “I guess when you consider that he was caged and beaten and sent to bed hungry as a routine…”

She was referring to the fact that the little white dog spent the first years of his life incarcerated in a puppy mill over to Oklahoma, where they beat and otherwise abused him. Rotten pig fuckers even cut most of his vocal chords to quiet his plaintive pleas. To hear him bark is to want to slit the throats of animal abusers.

OK, maybe slitting their throats is a tad bit harsh. Perhaps a better thought would be to crush their nuts with a ball peen hammer.

Anyway, I had dinner Friday night with two new friends I met through my Realtor. Georgia and Mary Michelle are a lovely pair of ladies who have been in a committed relationship for decades. They are smart and funny and thoughtful people for whom I hold much admiration. To me, any same-sex couple who has stayed together for the last few decades are admirable in so many ways.

As we sat on the portal last night watching the moonlight move through the big Ponderosa pine tree, I heard the rustling and scraping sound of a metal chair moving on flagstone. “Ah, now this is what life is all about.”

I knew the voice. It was Jeffery Holder’s rich basso-profundo from one of those Seven-Up commercials back in the day. I didn’t bother to look His way when God spoke to me, and in response I said to Him, I said, “Hey, Big Guy, how’s it hanging, Sir? Are you in the form of a tall black man or did you come as Ali McGraw again?”

“Too many questions, Mooner my man. And just so you know, Ali McGraw is out of your league.”

I turned to give God a piece of my mind only to discover that He had appeared in the visage of Montana Wildhack from Slaughterhouse Five—my favorite movie of all time. I was somewhat stunned and mildly aroused. “Holy shit, Sir. Are you telling me that I’m in Valerie Perrine’s league?”

God laughed—a huge and hearty sound that vibrated dead needles from the big pine tree. Needles floated like heavy feathers and covered the four of us. “Your little white dog will be OK, son, I’ll see to it. So stop worrying about him. And you need to leave Yoda’s puppy mill torturers to me as well,” and God laughed again.

“Alright,” I answered. “Is that why you’re here tonight?”

“Nope, I’m here to give you some advice. Ask yourself a question, OK? Ask yourself why it is that whenever you first meet homosexuals you feel obligated to demonstrate your support by telling them every single fucking incident in your entire life where you were supportive of a gay person?”

“Huh?” I responded, “I don’t do that… Do I?”

“Yeppers, you certainly do.” Now God sounded like my good buddy Lloyd. Lloyd and his husband are two of my most-admired human beings. “Look, Mooner, gay people realize that you understand their plight and support their causes by intuition. But you act silly and try to impress-just like you used to act around black people. Remember?”

Oh, yea, I remembered. Anytime I was in the company of a black person I would conjure up every instance of my support and interaction with black people for my entire life. I even married two black women, but not just because they were black. I married them because I had sex with them and until recently, that would have been my modus operandi. Until recently, I had had sex with ten women and, therefore and to wit, I have ten ex-wives.

“I think you might have something here, Sir. But could you cover your breasts so I can concentrate?”

Valerie Perrine had the most adorable breasts I had ever seen, and many was the night they filled my passions. OK, many the night, morning and afternoon did my Ivory soap and me visit memories of Montana Wildhack in the scene wherein she first lands in Billy Pilgrim’s domed world.

“You think I should call Georgia and Mary Michelle to apologize? I really like them and don’t want to have driven them off.”

“No, shithead, that would make matters worse. Just treat them like any other friends you have and let sexual orientations be their topic of conversation.”

And with that, God gave me a chaste kiss with Valerie Perrine’s lips (or were they Lloyd’s?) and disappeared in a puff of smoke, leaving me to ponder why it is that I’m such an dumbass sometimes. Why is it that I sometimes feel the need to demonstrate that I’m not an asshole to people who have been oppressed and abused by Society’s assholes?

Is it guilt? Do I feel responsible for all the ignorant and prejudicial old white men of the world just because I’m an old white man?

Is it a desire in me to be accepted? Do I admire people who have stayed stable and true to themselves in the face of extreme prejudice, and feel a need to be accepted by them? Do I want them to like me? Am I an insecure shitbrain? Am I the only one?

Ugh. Is it too early for a Carta Blanca beer? Manana, y’all.

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Lessons In Dementia; A Mother’s Love

Friday, March 29th, 2013

 So. The last several days have been interesting. OK, if you have a perverted sense of humor, then you will find the last several days of my life interesting. Me, it’s been but one more week living the drama that has become my mother. This week started with my usual Sunday afternoon phone call to the loony old gasbag I call “Mother”. I had called her Saturday evening and had one of our typical conversations where she was nasty and I tried to be nice. She was especially nasty and I snarked at her before I hung up. So, maybe that means my week started on Saturday. Or maybe I should say that last week’s shit spilled over into this week.

Anyway, I said, “Fuck you, you batty old bitch,” but I said it sweetly in spite of what she had said to me, and I finished the call with, “I love you anyway, Mother.” I rang her number:

Mother: “Who is this?”

Me: “It’s me, Mother, it’s your loving sonny boy making his usual Sunday afternoon call to his mother. How was church?”

Mother: “Sonny who? Sonny Hicks or that other Sonny?”

Me: “Oh, for shitsakes, Mother, look at the Caller ID—it’s me, Mooner.”

Mother: “Well why didn’t you say so in the first place? How come you never call me? And where are you?”

Me: Deep breath, small sigh, “I’m still in Santa Fe—home of the homosexuals—Mother. Where are you?”

Mother: “I’m where I’ve always been—in the special Hell the good Lord placed me for raising such horrible children. I just wish He’d take me now, put me out of my misery. You never call me anymore. Now tell me where you are before I hang up on you!”

Me: Sound of telephone receiver thwacking on skull, low, anguished groan, “I’m still in Santa Fe, Mother. Just as I have been for the last two-hundred thirty-seven times you’ve asked.”

Mother: “If you don’t tell me which Sonny you are I’m hanging up and calling Sheriff Wozniak. How dare you scare an old woman.”

Me: Sounds of me wondering why sweet Jesus won’t take me instead, sound of an idea light bulb going off, “I’m sorry, Mother Johnson, it’s me, Sonny Hicks. How are you doing down there to San Antonio? Do you like your apartment?”

Mother: “Oh, Mr. Hicks, I live in such a fine place. My son loves me so much he’ll only have me living in the best apartment in all of Texas.”

Me: Imagine the sound of question marks and total confusion, “Huh? What the fu… Er, that is to say, you’re son must love you very much. Have you spoken to him lately?”

Mother: “Oh, my yes, he calls me almost every single day. Sometimes we pray together—Mooner is a fine Christian man. His sister is a fine Christian as well.”

Me: Sound of a man sharpening a wooden stake, “That’s nice Mother Johnson. I hear Mooner moved to Santa Fe. Aren’t you afraid of all those homosexuals turning Mooner into one of their kind?”

Mother: “Mooner’s a good boy, Mr. Hicks. Where did you say you are?”

Me: “I’m still in Santa Fe, Mother. How was church?”

Mother: “We studied all about Sodom and Gomorrah, Mooner. Every day I get out of bed and look to see if there’s a story on the news about how you’ve been turned into a stone pillar. You never were smart enough to stay out of trouble, Mooner. You’ll soon be a homo-sex-u-al, and then you’ll see.”

Me: “I think you might be right, Mother. Just today I was driving down the street and I thought to myself, I thought, ‘I sure would like to suck on a big, fat and juicy dick right about now.’ You think that might be a sign?”

Mother: “I’ll pray for you, son. Now put that nice Mr. Hicks back on the line.”

Me: “OK. Love you and talk to you soon. Click.”

I do wish I was a gay man, or at least a bisexual man. If I could stomach the idea of sticking another man’s pecker in my mouth, I’d fucking be gay. No attachments or long term promises of fidelity and all that shit. Then again, it appears that same-sex marriage is going to become a reality, and that will totally spoil the benefits of same-sex sex for me.

Me, I’m wondering if this entire same-sex marriage dealio is going to end up as one of those “Be careful what you wish for” thingies.

Anyway, the second woman in my life who shares familial blood and messed with me by phone was Sister—the aforementioned good Christian woman. Sister is married to my third ex-wife and was excommunicated from the Baptist church about the same time as me—the year, I think, was 1968. Sister has been a lesbian from her first breath and a proud one at that.

Sister seems to feel the same way about sucking on a pecker as do I. And don’t start on my ass about how the fucking Baptists don’t excommunicate their wayward flocksters. Anytime a scolding ends with the words, “…and don’t you ever darken our door again,” you, dear friend, have been excommunicated.

My phone rang:

Me: “Hello, and thanks for calling La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. How might I direct your rude disturbance into my ever so enchanted life?”

Sister: “It’s me, asshole. Call your mother and do it right now! You haven’t called her in more than two weeks? I can’t believe you, Mooner.”

Me: “Huh? What time is it?”

Sister: “It’s a quarter after three here in Texas. Did you lose your watch?”

Me: Sounds of irritation, “I stopped wearing a watch because everyfuckingthing I own has a clock on it, and, well, that makes it two-fifteen here and I hung up from speaking with Mother approximately twenty-one minutes ago.”

Sister: “Mother says you haven’t called her in weeks. Oh, and before I forget, she told me to tell you that Sonny Hicks called her this afternoon. Wasn’t Sonny Hicks the guy who took a crap in the pocket of Mrs. Browningwell’s raincoat?”

Me: “No, I think that was the other Sonny. How’s Anna? I keep hoping she’ll get tired of you and want to switch Johnsons again. It’s been months since I’ve had me any sexing, and…”

Sister: “Not even funny, fuckbreath. You blew that one and it’s my good fortune you did. I’ll tell her you still love her. Sorry I doubted you.”

Me: “It’s OK, Sis. I love you a bunch. Come see me, OK?”

Why is it that some of my favorite people are gay? Sister and her lovely bride, my buddy Lloyd, and George Tokay. Ellen DeG? I was contemplating that question when my phone rang again.

Me: “Hello, and isn’t it a lovely day at Mooner Johnson’s House of Contemplations. Is it better to have loved and lost or to count your chickens before they hatch?”

Aunt Hilda: “Well, Dearie, you seem to have another perplexing situation on your hands. I’ll go with the chickens. Are you getting enough bulk in your diet.”

Me: “Hey, Hilda, how’s it hanging, baby?”

Aunt Hilda: “High and tight, kiddo, high… And mighty tight! Why haven’t you called your mother, Mooner? She’s calling the entire family and boo-hooing all over the place.”

Me: “Oh, for shitsakes, Aunt Hilda. I just got off the phone with her a half-hour ago.”

Aunt Hilda: “Well, call her again. You know she’s a touch forgetful.”

Me: “OK, alright, I’ll call her again. Bye-bye baby. I love you.”

Aunt Hilda: “Me too. Why don’t you try one of those granola cereals with dates and raisins—move your stools right on along. Say “Hi” to Sonny Hicks for me, and go call your mother!”

I wondered if maybe it would be less stressful for me to move back to Texas. For like maybe ten seconds I wondered. Fuck Texas. I’ve never been happier than since I moved to New Mexico. I was counting my many Enchantedland blessings when my phone rang again.

Me: “Thanks for calling the Fuck Texas Hotline, Mooner speaking. Today’s special is your basic crew neck tee shirt emblazoned with our copyrighted slogan, “Fuck Prick Perry and Walmart Too!!!” Available in white, black or tittie pink, these high thread-count cotton tees are….”

Gram: “I’mma kick yer Texas-bred butt from here ta Waco, shithead. Git offn yer ass an’ call yer crazy fuckin’ mother and do it on the pinto!”

Me: “Didn’t you mean call Mother pronto, Gram?”

Gram: “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner, you ain’t got tha brains of a fuckin’ bean. Now quit yer talk-backin’ an’ call yer mother afore I come down there to New Mexico an’ kick yer skinny ass!”

Me: “God, it’s good to talk to you too, Gram. Are you getting any?”

Gram: “Hell to tha yessiree-Bobby! Me an’ tha P-cubed got a couple Aggie boys tied up over ta her place right as we’re a speakin’. Now call yer Mother.”

P-cubed is Penelope Paxon-Parades, Gram’s best friend and the woman whom Gram calls her “Poontanger huntin’ buddy”. Those two old broads are a horny young boy’s worst nightmares, and I got to thinking that I need to try to be more patient and caring for my mother. Dementia is a terrible affliction and I don’t need to inflict my wounded child bullshit on the woman who bore and wounded me.

Which reminds me. Why is it necessary for every single consumer product to now have a clock in it? What makes Time so fucking important that we now need it available in every instant of our lives?

Anyway, with my fancy new ball point pen with a flashlight, compass and clock in its top, I was writing one of those “Ben Franklin” evaluations—you know, wherein you draw a line down the center of a page of paper and write a plus sign on one side and a minus on the other? You put the goods on the plus side and the bads on the minus side. An old fashioned decision-making device that I have used all my life.

I was a good fifteen minutes into my decision-making process, one wherein I had sixty-seven good things about living in Santa Fe, and but one bad one—my new-found allergies—when my phone rang once again. Ring:

Me: “Hello, Mother, and thanks for calling Mooner Johnson’s House of Ben Franklin Decisions and Predictions. Pick your poison and talk to one of our experts. How might we assist you today?”

Mother: “Learned your lesson?”

Me: “Huh?”

Mother: “I did not mumble. Don’t ever mess with me again, Butcher Einstein Johnson. I am your MOTHER!!! Click.”

Me, into the dead phone line: “Sonofabitch. Mother, you’ve been playing me.”

Son… of… a …. Bitch! I guess my mother is going to screw with me until one of us dies. On a brighter note, Cynthianne sent me the linkster for the petition I couldn’t find the other day. Please take the time to sign it.


Manana, y’all.

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All That Is Golden Is Not Gold; Fuck Walmart Anyway

Saturday, March 23rd, 2013


So. As a well-traveled man of reasonable reasoning, I have long known there must exist a yang for the incredible enchantments that are New Mexico’s yin. There is no “perfect” anyfuckingthing, and each of the Universe’s ups has a down. My New Mexican yang was discovered Wednesday morning.

I was standing rooftop on a two-story house in Eldorado, New Mexico. Not an actual Zip Code, and not an actual town, Eldorado is a sprawling sketchbook of high desert beauty that is dotted with homes built in a somewhat thoughtful coexistence with Mother Nature’s beauty. The main roads meander for miles, homes are situated on quite large lots, and un-buildable common areas occupy large swatches many times more land area than does the infrastructure and habitats.

Whenever I reach a perch here to New Mexico, I stop and take a moment to look around. With over seventy different, specifically-named mountain ranges, our state has more varying vistas than the cut glass chards in a kaleidoscope—a complex word that I just spelled correctly with my first effort. When I wrote my stupid fucking book, I had trouble rememberating the word, much less its spelling.

Which reminds me. I’ve had but one applicant for my open position for an Editing Assistant. And that one applicant—the lovely and charming former editor, Cynthianne from the ABQ—has agreed to take the position just so long as she isn’t required to perform her job. To misquote myself when I posted the ad for this new position, basically what I said was, “I’m looking for a nice lady to rub my feet while I self-edit this shit before publication.”

What with the ADHD and ADD and all, my original drafts are daffy documents full of drivel. And misspellings and tense changes and wait. See right there? See where I should have said, “Changes of tense?” That sort of shitty grammatical crap litters my verbal landscape like so much fresh dog shit on the little rug everyone has beside their bed. You know, that little rug set perfectly so you can place your tootsies in comfort as you sit on the side of the bed—rubbing your eyes upon first awakenment from deep slumber—to contemplate your first conscious acts of a new day.

Fucking dogs. They wanted to take a long walk yesterday and I didn’t. They felt like cruising the walking trail that runs alongside the Rail Runner tracks, and me… I felt like I was getting water-boarded by my ownself.

“Quit sniffling like a baby, shithead, and take us for a walk,” The Squirt told me after several hours of bargaining. She and the goat dog had offered me everything from their promises to behave to threats of making my life miserable in efforts to barter a walk.

“I’d love to, little Missy, but I just can’t risk going outside right now,” I told her. “And that’s that.”

“Alright, fuckhead, you’ve been warned. On a brighter note, is it still whole fish Friday?”

Once a week I buy a whole fish from Whole Foods, cook it in an interesting way, and then place the head, carcass and whatever else remains after the dogs and I dine, out back for the fucking cat. Honor—said fucking cat—returns from wherever it is she habitates on those days not whole fish Fridays to visit and dine with the family. She purrs and rubs Spring sheddings from her long coat all over the fucking place, pukes fur balls of bones and feathers woven with the hair she’s swallowed hair into little sausage links, eats her fill from the fish offering, and then disappears.

Early this morning, I awoke with a head full of congestion and reached for a handful of Kleenex with which to blow my nose. I got my head cleared just enough to take an actual full breath through my nostrils, and took said full breath.

“Holy shit! It smells like rotten fish in here.” The stench of old fish and camel ass was strong enough to burn my half-cleared nostrils.

I turned and put my feet on that small, aforementioned carpet carefully-placed by most of us at our bedside, and squished both feet into piles of dog crap.

OK, stop. My ADHD has dislodged the train and headed us off into the wilderness. What I was saying is that I was on this roof out to Eldorado Wednesday morning. It was cool, crisp and windless as I surveyed the views of the Sange de Christo mountains and the golden hues of the rolling landscape between them and my house roof perch.

“The golden hues are beautiful, Jerry,” I told the homeowner upon whose roof I perched.

“I call it the Beauty and the Beast, Mooner. That gold you see is the Spring pollination of the Mountain Juniper. Some people are allergic to it,” Jerry told me.

We surveyed his roof for a good half-hour and stopped to look at the mountains a last time before taking the ladder down. “Look over there, Mooner. See where the wind is coming over the mountains and stirring the juniper trees?”

It took me a couple seconds to see what he saw. When I caught the sight, I could see the wind starting and puffs of golden smoke bursting from the trees. As the wind thickened and moved downhill towards us, the air quickly filled as if by a dust storm. It was actually quite interesting to see the sky grow golden as the wind pushed—harder now—towards us. The first wind hit my face as I held the ladder for Jerry, and by the time I said “Goodbye” and got to my truck, its white finish was already covered with gold dust.

It wasn’t until ten minutes later as I reentered the Santa Fe City limits that I first sneezed. Ten minutes after that that my eyes itched enough to want them scratched out. And within an hour of first exposure to juniper pollen, I became a test dummy for self water-boarding.

“We’re going to rename you Snot Bucket, asshole,” were Squirt’s words to me last night. “You’re hacking and spitting and blowing constantly.”

Anyway, I’m miserable in a major way and maybe the pollen will go away soon. Which brings me to this instant—the one wherein I’m first drafting today’s missive. I just flipped the page of my wall calendar to take a peek at April, and was greeted by a photo of one of Salvador Dali’s’ melting, exploding clocks. It’s a photo of the same Dali’ exploding clock I have tattooed on my left arm. The calendar has a different Dali’ painting on each month, and this painting was inked on my arm when I first learned that my father was dying from cancer.

Now, I can’t tell if the tears spilling from my eyes and the snot bubbles billowing from my nose are from the allergy to juniper pollen or my allergies to the loss of Daddy. But as my Gram always says, “Oh, who gives a shit, Mooner. Yer a fuckin’ mess. Now go put a bag on yer head an’ walk them two dogs a yers. Maybe you’ll run inta that alligater crawfish lady an’ git ya some poontanger.”

Huh? Alligator crawfish lady? “Oh, you mean Allie McGraw, don’t you, Gram?

“Lik’ I told ya, Mooner, I don’t really give a shit who ya choose so long as ya git yersef laid.”

After all these years my father’s death still leaves a huge hole in me. I loved him when he was here and realize that I took him for granted. The tattoo was a manifestation of my commitment to not fall victim to the slippery explosions of Time’s realities melting away. I think S. Dali’ was fantastically brilliant, and his insights into Time sublime. Take a minute to find some of his clock paintings and linger with them… See if you agree.

Me, I’m putting a wet gunny sack over my head and taking a walk with the dogs. Maybe Allie McGraw will be out with her puppy charge, and maybe the wet gunny sack fabric can filter enough pollen to prevent my death.

Manana, y’all.

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