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.

http://signon.org/sign/sign-me-up-as-a-citizen?source=c.url&r_by=2435700

Manana, y’all.

So. It’s a beautiful Friday here to the Land of Enchantment and all I can think to do for entertainment is walk and play daddy to the dogs. All of my friends are busy, I haven’t met anybody new to drive crazy, and the dogs are already on my nerves. The dog problem started at precisely 2:26 am, when the goat dog had a bad dream and started barking and growling as he tried to trench his way through my pillow, the bed and anything else between here and fucking Beijing.

“Phooph, pharph, phooph… Phooph, pharpf, phooph… Errrrrrrh!” would be my best efforts to spell the cut-vocal cord mania erupting from Yoda’s yapper as he shredded my pillowcase with maniacal, frantic front paw digging.

I made a reach for him but was cut short by the Squirt. “Don’t wake him up asshole. Don’t you know it’s dangerous to awaken a sleep walker?”

“He’s not sleep walking, little lady, he’s shredding the last remnant of my marriage to Dr. Sam I. Am. That pillowcase is all I have left of our stuff. Aunt Hilda gave us a set of embroidered bed linen for our wedding, and I stole Sammie’s pillowcase as she was moving out. I love that ratty old thing, sweetie, so get him off it.”

I do love that tattered old 600-count Egyptian cotton rag. Sometimes I still think I can conjure my first wife back into my bed by breathing through the tattered fabric.

“Wake his ass up and ask him what’s got him trying to dig to China.”

I didn’t hear the answer because my house phone rang and I got up to answer it. It was then 2:29 am, a factoid known to be fact as I looked at the big wall clock in my office as I said, “Hello, Mother, are you OK?”

“Where are you, Mooner?”

“Not in my bed dreaming of sexing it up with Allie McGraw, Mother. I’m sitting at my desk wondering why you called at 2:30 am.”

“Don’t you dare smart mouth me, Butcher Einstein Johnson. I can still bend you over the table and whip your ass with a belt.”

That was my family’s measure for corporate punishment for my sister and me. Fuck up, and you’d be bent over the end of the kitchen table where all the family members could take a crack at you. There was this one time when Streaker Jones—or was it Tony Butts—dared me to give Mrs. Browningwell a Wet Willie. It was right after lunch and I’d bought a Valomilk Cup that I ate walking back to class. It seems that my right index finger had some thick Vallomilk marshmallow residue left from my dessert and the Wet Willie delivered to Mrs. Browningwell’s right ear should have been renamed a “Wet and Sticky Willy”.

Maybe that sort of ear jelly should be called a “Sticky Wicket”.

I had trouble sitting for several days after. Never will forget my Daddy—laughing in my ear before taking his shots. “That might be the funniest thing you’ll ever do son. You remember this day.”

And then he slapped the thin, black leather belt across the tops of my thighs.

“Mother,” I told her, “you just come on up to Santa Fe anytime you want and take a crack at my ass. I dare you.” I figured telling her to come to Santa Fe to spank me would clue her to the simple fact that I’m in Santa Fe.

“Stop back-talking me, Mooner, and tell me where you are.”

OK, maybe not. “I’m in Santa Fe, Mother. I haven’t left Santa Fe since I got back after Christmas and I certainly haven’t left since four hours ago when we last spoke and you asked me ten times where I am.”

“Why are you in Santa Fe? Don’t you know that Santa Fe is run by the homo-sex-u-als? You’re not smart enough to evade one of those crafty homo-sex-u-als, Mooner. You never were all that bright, if you ask me.”

Bitch. Right-wing Christian asshole Republican demented old bitch.

“I think you might be right, Mother. I was just having this dream where I was trying to find Liberace so I could suck his dick. I was getting dream frustrated from not finding him, so I was about ready to suck any old dick that happened by. I guess I need to thank you for waking me up and saving my dream self from burning in Hell.”

Mother believes that all gay folks will burn in Hell. Me, I think gays are all due for a Heaven’s stay, as we straights manage to make their lives here a living Hell.

“Liberace wasn’t a homo-sex-u-al, Mooner. That’s just one more cog in the homo-sex-u-al propaganda machine. Liberace was a man’s man, and a great entertainer.”

I’ve always wondered about when Liberace helped turn Elvis from a singer into an entertainer back in the day. I’ve always wondered if old “I’ll Be Seeing You In All The Old Familiar Places” didn’t likewise turn Mr. swivel hips in other ways as well.

“Mooner, you stop talking like that and tell me where you are RIGHT NOW!!!” My mother seemed annoyed that I would impugn the sexual integrities of her beloved Liberace.

“Jesus, Mother, I’m still in fucking Santa Fe.”

“Well, you watch out for all of those homosexuals…” and the next think I heard was her fumble the buttons of her phone and then the disconnect.

The Squirt jumped into my lap and put her front feet on my chest and her face right up into mine. “OK, first of all, you need to stop antagonizing your mother. She’s old and fragile and she can’t remember shit. Let her go off on you and then just say good bye. Second, you need to spend some quality time with Yoda and me. Silly goat dog is having trust issues again and he’s been dreaming he gets locked up back at the puppy mill. All that digging is him trying escape.”

Then she slurped my face with a rough tongue covered with day-old fish slime. “I love you too, Squirty-Poo,” I told her. “Grab your leashes and let’s take a walk under the stars.”

It’s now noon and we’re on our way down to Albuquerque to take a ride on the Sandia Peak tram and then dinner at the top. Another day in paradise with me at the helm. Manana, y’all.

So. It’s another day in paradise—Texas beat Baylor in college feetsballs, the Santa Fe air is crisp and clean and I went and entire minute without thinking about sex. The sex I’m not having.

OK, stop. Can you think about something that is nonexistent, or can you only think of the actual thing and not having it? Sex you are not having is sex that never was, so, therefore, how can you miss it? I should be missing the sex I have had instead. I should be missing sex with SAC Ellen or Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, or one of my other ten ex-wives. Over my lifetime, I’ve had me some pretty terrific sex. Hell, it’s all been pretty terrific except for that one time my third wife and I fell asleep in post coital bliss down to New Orleans. On St. Charles Street. On the toilet seat. In the womens’ room at Chef Lagasse’s Delmonico restaurant.

I had the signature steak and Anna the Amazon—now my sister, Sister’s, wife—had the oyster special of the day. Anna came from deep inside the closet and fell in love with Sister when Anna and I were on our honeymoon, a story you can read if you buy my silly fucking book. Click over there =====}}}} to any Full Rising Mooner linkster if interested.

This was back before Emeril became a big time TV cook and he spent more time in his eateries than in TV studios, and Anna and I were engaged. Long story short, Anna and I were Bammed!!! and canned down to police headquarters, where I spent a lovely twenty-four hours with other miscreants and Anna, “Met several interesting female police officials,” as she later recounted.

Maybe I should have seen that early warning sign and saved myself a divorce, but without that honeymoon my sister would not have found her true love. Sister is one of my favorite people and I would gladly make that sacrifice again.

Instead I miss something I’ve never had. That sounds crazy any way I try to spin it. I was over to see Katy this morn at the Lesbian Soup site, and I found myself contemplating a sex change operation. See, Katy is going through a post relationship sex drought just like me and I like how she thinks and, likewise, I feel we would make a good match. My logic thread was that if I were a lesbian, Katy and I could live happily onward assuming Katy would move from Houston to Santa Fe.

Maybe I should speak to Katy before making a down payment on my operation. And maybe my ADHD has ruined life as we know it. My head is a swirling cesspool of stagnant and mostly malignant thoughts.

Look, what I’ve been trying to get to is to tell you that I no longer have a romantic relationship with SAC Ellen. My move to Santa Fe was seen by her as an abandonment while I saw it—romantically speaking—as an expansion. Where I saw new places to leave sweat and other bodily excretions together, SAC Ellen saw an out-of-the-way village that would take days away from her life.

Ugh. Ugh, and shit, and FUCK! I don’t have time to search and research for a lover.

When I was last speaking to Mother, my demented old bat of a mother said to me, she said, “Serves you right, Mooner. I told you those homo-sex-u-als were going to brainwash you.”

She then went on to inform me that President Obama is a closeted gay man who kills his male lovers to keep them from telling his secret. She said her preacher said that the Secret Service loans the Prez their guns. That would be a Southern Baptist preacher, an asshole I’ve not met and plan to keep it that way.

President Obama must have spent some time in Santa Fe and come under the spell of our local homo-sex-u-als. I’ve yet to meet the evil ones but Mother assures me they are everywhere.

Dementia is a terrible condition that afflicts millions of older people. When my mother first started showing early dementia signs, I hoped they signaled she would have the sort of memory loss wherein she forgot what a right-wing Christian shithead she is. But, and alas, my mother has become forgetful of the good in her life leaving her to focus on what seems to me to be her hatreds.

Mother was a teacher. A proud, hard-working teacher who cared for her student’s education and welfare. She taught hundreds of kids before retiring and many of them still keep in contact with her. She was a member and Representative of the Teachers’ Union, and she fought hard for better conditions for educators and students with vigor. She stood up against politicians and school board members when they tried to politicize our kids educations, and she championed efforts to help less privileged families find ways to keep their kids in school.

On the phone yesterday, Mother told me that teachers are what is wrong with public education and that she supports Texas Governor Rick Perry’s efforts to gut public schools in favor of privatizing education. “If that homo-sex-u-al foreign Muslim President is for it, then I’m against,” were her words when I questioned how she could turn her back on her own life’s work.

Then there’s Gram. I’m picking her up from the adorable little Santa Fe Airport in an hour and maybe that’s why I’m in such a good mood. Gram and her best buddy, the P-cubed, are coming for an extended stay. They wanted to drive up in Gram’s bright red Ferrari so they, and here I’ll quote the horny old woman when she said to me, “So we can pick us up some New Mexican hombres.”

I told her that I’d hire a car and driver to escort them on their courting outings and that she is forbidden from crossing state lines in her little hot rod. I haven’t had time to meet and greet every law enforcement officer between Santa Fe and the Texas border.

Anyway, time to head to the airport and time to say, “Manana, y’all.”