So. It’s been an interesting week here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. My still delicate and tender veggie patch—this year containing mostly tomatoes, peppers and herbs—was, effectively, strip searched and deep cavity inspected by a hail storm that marched across town like Sherman stormed through Atlanta.
OK, except for the fire, raping and pillaging, I liken my damages by hail to Sherman’s March. That would be the hail storm that Santa Fe, “Never has.” Ask a Santa Fe native about the weather here and they’ll tell you, “It blah, blah, and blahs …but it never hails. Heavy sleet, maybe, but never actual hail.”
Does too hail, did hail, and the fucking hail stripped my plants to their skin and beat them black-and-blue and broken in the process.
“Would you look at that!” the Squirt said to me as the three of us stood gazing through the rabbit fence surrounding my tomato patch. “It looks like a scene from that prison movie we rented a couple weeks ago.”
With that, the adorable bundle of brown fur and unfettered wonderment chuckled. “Take all your clothes off and bend over, fellas,” she chuckled some more.
“Bend over and spread them cheeks, girls,” I replied with a chuckle of my own. “Lets us see what sort a con-tri-band you’re a-tryin’ to smuggle in ta my jail.”
We surveyed the rest of the estate to find half our apples and pears either down for the count, or battered so badly they needed to be removed from their branches. Everything except my little succulent garden was beat, and all to Hell.
“You replanting, boss man? There’s no produce coming off this patch.”
I thought on the tiny dog’s question. Thought some more. “Maybe, but maybe not. It’s already mid-July and I’m too busy to nurse young plants. Besides, this climate change that isn’t real has screwed-up everything. It’s liable to snow in September and kill the new tomatoes before they ripen.”
“But they say it never snows in September in Santa Fe,” she told me.
“Exactly,” the most precise response I had.
That’s when I noticed the goat dog over in the corner of the yard where the pear tree sits. Yoda was gobbling the downed pears like he was in an eating contest. Squirt said to me, she said, “Look at Joey Chestnut over there, Mooner. Looks like we’ve got a new world record for pears eaten in the fifteen-pound weight class. If he doesn’t puke those pears up before taking a shit, I’m catching a bus outta town, and you can clean up the mess. Remember when he ate the five-pound bag of Cheetos?”
OK, before my ADD takes over this conversation and drives the Squirt’s bus into the ditch, I want to tell you something. This is something about which I’ve long debated even mentioning, much less fully-disclosing, yet thinking of that issue reminds me to tell you that Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson is here with her sister and buddies for a short visit. It isn’t that they wanted to visit me, but, and rather, this last weekend was our International Folk Art Festival time. Same festival whereat last year I stumbled upon Ali McGraw and bumbled my way to fumble a chance for a date.
That International Festival. “Hey, look ladies,” I asked Sammie and her court in an almost conspiratorial way. “Keep your eyes peeled for Ali McGraw. If you see her, put in a good word for me and then call. I can be there in twenty minutes. I’m working on a new opening line and it’s ready for a debut.”
The four women gathered at my breakfast table, eating bacon, eggies and biscuits I prepared for them, and sipping mimosas mixed and poured by me, burst out laughing as if on cue at some fucking sit-com rehearsal. One of them actually spit a mouthful of orange juice-thinned champagne in a spray.
Sammie’s sister choked back her guffaw enough to say to me, she said, “Really, Mooner. Ali McGraw, Mooner,” yuk, yuk, yuk, wipe of tears from eyes, yuk and yuk some more. “Sam told us you’d gotten more delusional since moving from Austin, but really. Ali McGraw?”
I think I might actually be starting to enjoy my lack of close female companionship. While the Squirt is female, and she does get all up in my ass for no real reason, the lack of sexual tensions keeps her bullshit at manageable levels. Never need to worry about saying the wrong thing to my tiny puppy and having the backlash be me getting no poontang.
And that reminds me of something else. How ‘bout that Pope Francois, huh? How about that Popester? Me, if I had dedicated my entire life to promoting two millennia’s worth of dogma created by generations of greedy, murderous bastards, and all justified by a story with so many holes that it makes Swiss cheese seem as dense as a gold brick, I don’t know if I’d be strong enough to be so concerned with the little people or even the environment as is La Pope’. Me, I’d be pissed and want the rest of the entire fucking world to be just as miserable as I.
Me, I’d be like all those other Popes before our boy Frankie. Me, I’d be a miserable old shithead spending as much time keeping my good Catholic masses chained to the cross and whipped by the ridiculous tenants used over the centuries to control their minds. And their pocketbooks.
Going to make the Presidential politics quite interesting, this Pope is. Of the announced candidates, O’Malley, Christie, little Jebbie Bushkins, Marco Ruby Slippers, and Ricky Sanitorium are all good Catholic boys. Except for Bush, they were each born and reared Catholic, so they know they are responsible to follow the Pope’s teachings to the letter—that would be to the fucking letter, boys. All of the Pope’s teachings, not just the ones you find to be politically expedient. Bush converted so he could marry a good Catholic girl, so I’m giving him an excuse card to be an asshole and flip-flop on his Catholicism. Any man out there knows, as my good buddy Squatlo likes to say, that, “Pussy makes you stupid!” But not the rest of them—they need to be held to the letters of the Pope.
I can’t wait to see the flow charts showing who takes what stands both using their religion to take a position, and then defying that same religion to take another stand. Two-faced, bigoted pig fuckers. The rest of the religious-righties are just as squirrely with the words in their books of fables, but the Catholics are the only ones with a single leader with whom their God has installed a hotline of direct communication.
Then, and again, if that scenario is true and the Catholic God speaks directly to the Pope, then I have proof positive that there are at least two Gods—their Catholic fellow (Fellow, maybe) and my God. Having said that, I’m reminded that my God paid me a visit over the weekend. Not certain with any absoluteness which day as I spent the weekend partying with the girls, if you know what I mean, and assuming you know I mean no party sex included.
Must have been Saturday night because I don’t remember sitting outside late Sunday night in the rain. I was sort of nodding off in the wicker rocking chair that sits on the portal and contemplating how I would introduce myself to Ali McGraw when my God arrived sitting at my feet in that silly cross-legged yoga pose. God looked like Charlize Theron but spoke with Billy Bob Thornton’s voice—what I would have imagined to be a disconcerting combination, but I found it to be quite pleasant.
“Hey, God, how’s it hanging this fine summer eve?”
“Are you ever going to get a new pick-up line, dumass?” God asked me in BBT’s slow-cadenced drawl. “And you need to forget about Ali McGraw and Sammie both. Neither has the time or patience to deal with your issues. I hear Bo Derrick is headed to town—maybe that could work out for you.”
“I’ve got a new pick-up line in a queue, Ma’am, and no thanks on the Ms. Ten offer, big Girl. I heard her bitching as to how she hates her looks now that she’s “matured”. I need a woman with both feet solidly planted on the ground and the guts to work her way through the early months with an ADHD-addled old fuckball. Maybe you could help me land Laura Dern. I think she’d be really interesting and her daddy is a handful, like me. Hey, isn’t her mother Diane Ladd? I’d date Diane Ladd, and hey—didn’t Billy Bob drop Laura Dern to marry Angelina? That was a giant fucking mistake, if you ask me. What do you think?”
God was gone. Sometimes I wish my God were more like the Pope’s God—force a little action rather than simply counsel me. I could use a little Divine intervention in my dating life. Might could use a touch of reality as well. But a man needs to have lofty goals, right?
So, fuck Walmart!