Archive for the ‘Dementia’ Category

Insights; I Call Your Epiphany And Raise You Three Fates

Tuesday, November 29th, 2016

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Replacement is a Chevy SS. Look it up:  http://www.motortrend.com/cars/chevrolet/ss/2015/2015-chevrolet-ss-second-test-review/

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tis the season to Fuck Walmart!

 

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And Now For Something Completely Different; Going Home

Thursday, October 6th, 2016

So. What a month, and I’ve missed communicating with you and spewing my nonsense. Packing, planning, selling—wait, no leasing—wait again, selling. OK, selling what was previously leased. Buyers of a leased home forcing me to face the separate realities of a life lived wishing to be separated, yet drawn back by familial necessities. La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe will soon be renamed to suit the enjoyments of its new owners, and the dogs and I? Well, we’ll soon be back to my boyhood home, deep, deep, deep in the tainted heart of Texas.
Travelling to Texas to visit—revisit—seeing family, friends, ex-wives. Explaining—why, when, really, you’re leaving Santa Fe?—what the fuck is wrong with you? Struggling—words, concepts, desires, emotions. Smelling—dense garden smells of rich earth created by me, sharp odors from the compost made from rotting waste, the sweet, sweet aroma of fully-ripened Cherokee Purple tomatoes fat, and so plump they bend thick stems to break.
Staring—a gay pig and his ostrich lover—Laurel and Hardy in feathers and boar bristles slow dancing to Johnny Cash’s last CD, my Gram climbing into her bright red Ferrari with the mega-watt smile of a sexual predator, the stacked-rock marker that marks the spot of Dixie’s final repose. Staring—into Mother’s hazel eyes, deeply, seeing there but tiny flashes of the searing disappointment that once flared like the ass-end of a Titan rocket fully loaded for a moonshot. Sensing Mother’s judgements more than hearing them. Listening, carefully, for a thread of cogent thought not the repetitive patter of dementia.
Staring, sensing, thinking, planning, struggling, grasping. Staring—blankly into the giant Texas sky, wondering what has happened to my life, will happen. Wondering—the sharp blade of a second-guess slicing thin wafers of imagery to fix upon glass slides to reflect, refract, recombinations of decisions made, not made. Adjusting—focus, light, angles, hypothesis, conclusions.
Listening—hoping—searching for a sign of acceptance, the eager prospector panning words for a thoughtful nugget—but finding no golden speak, not even the fool’s gold of false praise. Wishful—not hopeful, as hope remains a four-letter word, its nastiness reinforced by the short, bitter proclamations of an old woman’s ire. Smells—old people confined, disinfectant, bile—the pungent stench of parental disappointment assaulting to even not delicate senses.
Thirsting—dry mouth, grainy eyes, parched soul probing for just a sliver of approval. Cursing—her, me, the fucking Baptists. Mostly me, myself and next the fucking Baptists. Might I have done more to please, had I not been raped would it matter? Should I have? Could I have?
Differentiating—reality/fantasy, want/need, love/hate, family/other. Reflecting.
The Squirt says Mother looks as healthy as ever, but tells me if my maternal unit asks one more time, “Where do you live now,” she’s bringing her final days pill stash for a dosing of Mother’s afternoon hot chocolate. “I’ll put a handful of those downers in her cup.”
OK, let’s reset. First I leased the Santa Fe house, then sold it. After the sale contract was fully accepted, we took a trip back home to see what would be required to resettle there. What I found is that four years can be a very long goddamn time. My psycho therapist, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson suggested to me that maybe I should let my mother go without any care from her adult children.
“Give her a few months without any familial support, Mooner. Make her ask for your help. You three stay in Santa Fe and live a good life,” was the suggested advice.
“I’d have to hogtie Sister and kidnap her to New Mexico, Sammie. You know she can’t allow Mother to suffer no matter how our mother feels about her.”
My sister is killing herself for a woman who despises everything about her own daughter. Tells her caretakers what an abomination Sister is when Sister sits in quiet repose at Mother’s side. When Mother “Sun downers”—the actions of a demented person to freak and try to escape whatever it is the feel captured in, happens each day as the sun goes down—it’s always Sister she calls, screaming and crying, to save her. Every fucking day, and sometimes many times a day.
Now, I’m substituting myself for Sister in Mother’s care, and I don’t know what to do. I’m a morose sonofabitch and troubled to find even a flicker of light in my tunnel. I do not have anything of what it takes to nurture a batty old woman who blames me for ruining her life.
“I could have been a dancer on Broadway if it weren’t for you, Mooner! You ruined my life!”
Fuck Walmart.

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Pickled Peckers; An Atheist’s Prayer

Saturday, May 7th, 2016

So. I’d promised a Johnson Family update some weeks past, yet, as of this date I’ve been unable to string enough cogent thoughts together re: said family to create writings that might provide any useful information, thereof. Maybe that should have been, or better said, “…provide useful information, thereabout.” And now, having spent the last eight minutes cogitating over the proper placement of commas in that last sentence, I find myself wondering if I have enough mental alacrities to cogently speak to any subject.

OK, do you speak cogently “to”, “of” or “about” a subject? And while we’re stopped in grammatical reflections, allow me to pre-apologize for my ADD.

With alacrities used herein to mean quicknesses, take, for example, last names. I’ve been forgetting people’s names and mostly their surnames. The worst memory faults are coming with last names of people with simpler first names. Like Bob, or Jim, or Barbara. Or Anna. Yesterday I was speaking with this nice lesbian couple over to the line to purchase Powerball tickets at the Chevron station. I was maybe third from the back of the line and they were in front of me. As the line was slow moving, and I’d overheard the nice ladies talking about their pending wedding, I interjected myself into their conversation.

I caught that they are from Austin, visiting Santa Fe as a sort of pre-honeymoon scouting trip, and that they were having difficulties identifying an Austin venue for the actual wedding. Me, always the helpful sort even when unasked, inserted myself into their conversation.

“Pardon my interruption, ladies, but my sister and her woman were married out to the dock at our place there to Austin. Anna did all the party planning and I bet she’d be willing to help.”

The one woman looked at me like I’d just shit on her head, but the second quickly moved between us and said to me, she says, “It would be really helpful to speak with someone who knows the town. We just moved to Austin and are yet unfamiliar. We have joined the local community, but haven’t made friends yet.”

“Well,” I started, “Anna’s a big wig with the Austin Lesbian Club, or whatever it is they call the lesbian confab that meets on a Thursday over to Guerro’s Taco Bar, and she can help you with that as well.”

That caught the interest of the other lady, and she says to me, she asks, “Anna who? What’s Anna’s last name?”

“Ah, uh, ah…” I was flummoxed.

Took me maybe thirty seconds to say, “Oh yea, it’s Johnson. Anna Johnson.”

Now, the new readers hereof might not think this such a big memory thingie, but it actually is. See, Anna was born Anna Johnson. Then she married me—the third of ten suffragettes—and divorced me to marry my sister, Sister. Having completed the surname trifecta, Anna Johnson-Johnson-Johnson is all Johnsoned up, factual information that should make the remembrance of her name a simple mental task.

I can’t figure what it is that’s causing these lapses of synapsis. Is it simply the process of aging and my olderating? Did The Great Radiator alter my brain functions as well as those of my alimentary tracts? Worse of all, might I be getting the starts of a genetic dementia passed from Mother to me?

OK, let’s stop for a second. I know with certainties that the alimentary tract involves the processing of solid wastes in our bodies. Is our urinary system also alimentary, or is it considered to be a totally separate tracting? Me, for my part, I consider that since both liquids and solids, and solids containing liquids, enter all through our mouths, then the two systems are conjoined at least from the start. A well-oiled digestive tract will remove the liquids to be used elsewhere then eliminated through the bladder, so I get that there are two separate spigots as terminus. But, does having differing last stops mean separatenesses in total?

It’s like a subway system to me. Two guys get on the train together at Broadway—one guy the swimming coach and the other is executive chef for the Dean of Women and both from over to Columbia University—and travel over to the Greenwich Village area, whereat the swim coach transfers to a train to Yonkers and the other guy keeps on to New Jersey. In comparison to the alimentary track analogicals, first guy’s a liquid rider and the second a solid. Both start at the same entrance, one—while still inside the hidden chambers and transportations of the system—exits the initial tracks to head to a not that unpleasant bedroom community, and the other, Mr. Solids, travels all the way to the end of the original tracks and into the shitter.

What I do know is that my personal solid and liquid waste systems have been fucked into dysfunctionalities since contracting the dreaded prostate cancer and having endured the attendant multiple visitations to The Great Radiator. Hell, one side effect is that sometimes when an urge to purge hits, and the hitting is with significance, I know I’d best sit for relief, as my body’s subway system sends conflicting signals to the tracts. You know, the sign says, “Yonkers,” but travels instead to Paramus.

Likewise, I can say with purity of heart that the occasional urgencies plagued upon the middle of my body will affect my mental stabilities and alacrity of thought with great effects.

Do not stand, or otherwise tarry, between me and a bathroom when an urge strikes. I’ll run your ass right on over and not stop to apologize. I’ll seek you later to make amends, but I’ll not stop, or even attempt a, “So sorry,” over my shoulder.

Anyway, having found myself with difficulties rememberating the last name of an ex-wife—said ex having my same lastie, and thrice times at that—it has dawned on me that maybe I’ve never been good with names. I can remember the color of the stains on the edge-worn white panties Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson wore the first time I personally removed them from her flanks (green from the grass in which she squiggled), and the first two words Sammie said when I eagerly placed my face where panties had formerly resided (“That tickles,”), and her first words after that first sexing (“Interesting,”).

But I can’t remember my own last name when it sits behind my third ex-wife’s first.

Ugh. Total fucking ugh! What’s next? What part of me will show its deteriorations next? Eyesight weakening, memory fading, prostate withered like plum to prune,  knees aching with Morning’s rise.

“Dear God, please don’t let it be my pecker. Please, pretty please. I swear I’ll make better use of it if you’ll just let me use it. Amen.”

So, while it’s still working, let’s all fuck Walmart with my pecker!

 

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Spring, Sprang and Sprung; Needlepoint For Beginners

Friday, April 3rd, 2015

So.  Spring has sprung and all my fruit trees are low hung with the colorful blossoms that promise a bountiful harvest of cherries, pears and apples.   Then again, our average last freeze is April 15th, and a hard freeze on that date will nullify that promised bounty.  Having said that, colorful blossoms hung without care brings to mind the phone call from Gram last night.  When my caller ID informed me that “Gram” was on the line, I punched the speaker button, and answered.

“Hey, baby, how’s it hanging?”

“Loose n low, shithead, like ya had ta fuckin’ ask.  But tha major dominatrix question here is how’s yers a hangin’?  Yer aint Hilda said she was reading somwheres as ta how them atomic blasters kin put a serious hurtin’ on that tiny pecker a yurs.  Makes yer shit shrivel right on up.  Do I need ta send ya one a them magnaphone spy glass dealios?  Hate ta have ya loose sight a yer manhoodie an’ get yerself all googlated.”

The chicken cackle giggle of my randy old grandmother filled my ears.  Filled my heart as well.  If there is a person breathing who can make my troubles go away with a simple laugh, it would be my Gram.  And her slaughter of the language brings extra joy.

She went on, “Er, maybe ya could tie a string on it an’ pin tha string ta yer zipper, cluck, cluck, cluck.  Yer pants zipper, not the pecker zipper.”  Her giggles were near maniacal.

The referred-to pecker zipper is a longish story that ends with me living my life since childhood with a chunk of the rusted zipper from a pair of men’s coveralls pinned in a small, twisted scar on my penis.  The fact that my Gram can poke fun and laugh at it makes her all the more endearing.

I tell her, I say, “Me, I’m hanging long and lean, old woman, and ready for action.  Two megatons of X-rays aren’t nearly enough poison to kill this Johnson’s johnson.  Can’t seem to stop peeing long enough to find suitable company yet, but that situation should change soon.”

“Why’nt ya call tha Sacster an’ have her bring tha stunner gunnie.  That oughtta git yer man meat started right on back ta work.”

Again with the sounds of happy chicken.  I’m unsure if I know another person, besides me, who says “man meat” in that context, and it always makes me laugh coming from her.  That thought hit me, and then I realized where the majority of my genes had originated.

“I love you, Gram, and I miss you terribly.”

There was a pause, and then Gram said to me, she said, “You OK, Mooner?  Don’t you be a tellin’ me tha fucking cancer came back.  I’ll kick yer ass if’fn ya still got tha cancer.”

“Nah, I’m OK, just missing your mangy old ass.  We’ll know in a couple months if the treatment worked.  Really, I’m doing alright.  Besides.  SAC Ellen likes her job and The US Department of Homeland Security does not even like me.”

“Well, if yer OK, why ain’t ya called yer crazy fuckin’ mother?”

Oh, for shitsakes.  I call Mother most days and sometimes more than once.

“Oh, for shitsakes, Gram.  Do I need to send you a phone bill to get everyone off my ass?  I hung up from Mother less than an hour ago.  Better yet, check that loony old martyr’s phone bill when you next go visit.  Highlight my numbers for her and call me in the morning.”

Dementia is hell when you are living with a loved one who has it.  OK, a mostly loved one in this particular case.  But imagine what it must be like to be the demented.  I freak when I misplace my keys, so I can’t imagine losing decades of memories.  Or the last ten minutes.  I’m looking forward to when Mother can’t remember who I am.  Then I’ll be, “That nice young Johnson fellow who calls all the time.”

Which reminds me.  Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson gave me the name of this acupuncturist lady who says she successfully treats the side effects of radiation therapies.  Me, I find myself quite reluctant to visit any alternative medical facilities, as having a witch doctor for a grandmother has created bias.  However, having the need to carry a gag and muzzle for myself those times I must pee in a multi-fixtured public bathroom, I was willing to try anything to ease my symptoms.

Arrived the ten minutes early I was asked so as to complete my paperwork, I walked into an empty reception area.  An open door to my left revealed sight of a skinny man in his undies, bent and twisted into a pretzel, and the sounds of his grunts were accompanied by the aggravating noise of his Germanic-voiced tormentor.

“Find your chi, Robert.  Passt auft, Robert, pay your attention!”

I stood and wondered, for not the first time, why “pay attention” sounds so like “pissed off” in German.  I walked to a chair and sat, and before I could ask that question aloud, Herr Zen Master stuck face around the door jam.  I was surprised to see a smallish woman’s face and not that of a six-foot SS officer.  “What you want?  Who are you?  What is your name?”

I had to think.  “OK…Ah, well that would first be nothing from you even if my appointment is with you.  I’m next the man who has a 10:00 appointment at this address getting interrogated by a rude person, and finally, name’s Mooner Johnson, man-about-town and general bon vivant.”

Pretzel man snickered, the head disappeared, door slammed and, “You tink dats funny, Robert?”

Later, as I lay on a table impersonating a victim of porcupine assault, I heard the sounds of one of those humming bowls humming and the terse German voice saying.  “Find your chi, Robert, and find eternal harmony.”

The yoga lady next door might be a terrific stretching and Zen teacher.  But for my money, I want my lessons in soft French vowels and sloppy consonants rather than the crisp, harsh German dialect.  “Lick my titties,” in German sounds like a scold.  Try it, say it aloud with a German accent:  “Kusse meine Bruste.”

Anyway, my lingual bigotry aside, I did the new patient intake, which from my perspectives was an outlay, and only made a few minor, yet intemtional, misstatements as to my personal habits.  I did tell the lady doc about my urination issues, but I’ve long ago learned that medical professionals lack the constitution to hear that one human can consume an ounce of weed, half-a-pound of magic mushrooms, and a case of Carta Blanca beer each week.  Doesn’t help to tell them that you aren’t a binger, that you pretty much enjoy average doses daily.  They all remember a bad acid trip from back to their college days and get all preachy on your ass.

But let’s not let my ADD get us waylaid even though a waid lay would be my first lay in months.  When the nice lady needle poker told me to get up and put my shoes and socks back  on after my treatment, I asked her, I said, “Did you get all the needles out?  Several spots still sting quite a bit.”

She gave me a quite sweet shit-eating grin, and said, “Of course, Mr. Johnson.  How amateurish would it be for me to leave needles in your person.  Acupuncture is powerful medicine.  It would be dangerous to you and I’d, well I’d never.  Those stings are the powerful chi working on your issues.”

Spent the rest of the day scratching the stinging itch at my right ankle and bitching to the dogs about it.  Then, when I had undressed last night and sat on the pot for a last pre-bedtime pee event, the Squirt came in to ask what we were going to do today.  This is our daily routine, as the little brown puppy likes to sleep on the next day’s plans so as to determine any alterations she might find suitable.

Instead, she stared at my ankle for a minute and then said, she asked me, “You have some stun gun sex today, shithead?”

“Huh?” my reply.  “What are you even talking about?  Gram mentioned it on the phone, but I took no actions.”

“Looks to me like you had some electrified sex and one of the barbs is still attached to your ankle.”

Sure enough, I could see the blue-green plastic top of an acupuncture needle boinging in the air as I bent to take a look.  I pulled the little fucker out—which action hurt—and held it up to see.  It was bent about 3/8ths-of-an-inch from the end where is was stuck in my flesh and twisted at a 90-degree angle by my sock.  It had been like that since 11:00 yesterday morning.

I’m leaving now to go apply for a refund.  Powerful medicine my rosy red ass.  And by the way.  Fuck Walmart!

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Dark Skies And Darker News; Sad Times In Santa Fe

Monday, July 14th, 2014
  1. I have a quite unenviable task to perform later today.  Today I tell my mother that one of her children is dying.

Let me back up.  When I started this silly fucking bloggie dealio I was required to make two specific subjects verboten and totally off limits.  The first were my children.  Except to mention that I have them, I’m not allowed to talk about them.  My kids did nothing to deserve me.

The second subject unavailable for my discussions is my younger than Sister sister, Tammy.  Named for “Tammy, Tell me True,” the youngest of the three Johnson siblings was a full sheaf of wild seeds wide-eyed and naïve enough to wish those seeds sewn westward from Austin, Texas as a testament to personal freedom.  During one of our once-a-decade phone conversations, Tammy informed me, she told me, “If you ever speak of me again, I’ll sue your pants off.”  Then she laughed and added, “OK, that’s not a threat to you, you inappropriate sonofabitch.  I’ll sue and take the ranch away from you.”

See, my sister Tammy is a wild yet private citizen who prefers her associations to be with persons not named Johnson.  She once told me that she wanted so little to do with Johnsons that she avoided anything that had Johnson associated with it.  Even got married once just to drop the name.  “Cheaper than going to court,” she told me when I asked her about marrying a man she’d known less than a week.  “Besides,” she told me, “he’s going to make me famous.  I’ll be a rich and famous model.”

Tammy had model good looks.  She’s tall, curvaceous, and has that fabulous Johnson bone structure.  That “pretty Johnson girl” was her nickname all through school.  But Tammy took the brunt of Mother’s wrath when we were kids, and Mother pushed her away.  I want to say so much more, but I must honor Tammy’s wishes and not tell more.  Hell, she may sue me for saying this much.

Anyway, Tammy now lives in Las Vegas and she’s in Life’s deep doo-doo, and I’m the designated family informer.  I’m to wait until Sister can get over to Mother’s place just before noon, and then I’m to call with the news.  I lay awake last night rehearsing the words and way to break this terrible news to my mother.  Terrible enough that Mother will learn that she’ll outlive a child, but terrible more that her dementia will cause her to relive learning that news over, and over again.

Fucking ugh.

I’ll be heading out to Las Vegas for a while to assist my sister in whatever way I can, so I guess I’ll be missing from these pages during.

Fuck Walmart.  Fuck Hobby Lobby and SCOTUS.  Fuck cancer and fuck Death.

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Trickle-Down Integrity Is The Only Trickle-Down That Works; Has Anyone Seen The Fucking Cat?

Friday, July 11th, 2014
  1. So. I’m attempting to set a new Santa Fe record for consecutive days writing, this making three such productive days in a row, and I’m finding it difficult to talk about anything not related to my new retirement.  My psycho analyst tells me that is because I’m sad and hurt by the events that prompted my early departure from what had been a fun and fulfilling work experience.  But there is this annoying Windows 8 dealio that places outline numbers into my postings for no fucking reason.  Anytime you see these examples of bad format, Blame Billy Gates, not me.

(Editor’s note:  When I started this shit it was, actually, for the third day of writing in a row, said writing to have been published for the third consecutive day.  Today is now Friday, and I’m hoping to actually finish and publish whateverthefuck it is that I’m trying to say before today becomes Saturday.  See, on Monday I got a call from a buddy asking me to discuss some stuff with him, so I closed this down, showered and dressed, and went to his place to talk.

We then discussed what it was he wanted to talk about. OK, after first talking about the wonderful rain we’d had the night before, we discussed what it was he wanted to discuss, and then after all that stuff, we talked about poker—my new profession—and what my plans were for the day.  One thing to another, and it slipped my mind that I planned to set a new Santa Fe writing record as I went to the casino. What comes hereafter was previously written Monday save, and except, for some editing and infill.)

Which reminds me.  I spent the day yesterday (please read here yesterday to mean “last Sunday” as I was writing this Monday) doing nothing but mindless chores and other shit with the dogs—cleaning the carport and shed, trimming landscape, running the vacuum, reading a poker book—and it was the most pleasurable day I’ve spent in a year.  I forced myself to be, as Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson calls it, “in the moment”.  In the moment is another word for enjoying what you are doing as you do it.  OK, three words, but who really gives a shit?

And speaking of living in the moment, my mother’s dementia is worsening by the day and I’m speaking of the actual worse rather than her previously pretended memory losses.  Until recently I could never tell when Mother was gaming me with her dementia, whether she was acting like she didn’t know or was it for real a moment of forgetfulness.

Now, it’s for real.  For very fucking real.

Last night the phone rang and I could see Mother’s San Antonio number on the little display of my cell phone.  “Hey, Mother, how’s it hanging, baby?”

“Why doesn’t your sister ever call me?  I can understand you abandoning me, but never your sister.  The lesbians have told her to abandon me and it’s all your fault.”

When all I could do to fill the blank time was breathe heavily, Mother added, “I just wish the Lord Jesus would just take me right now!”

“Mother, you and I were on a conference call with Sister just an hour ago—remember?  We discussed my son’s wedding this fall and we tried to help you make decisions about that happy event—do you want to go, would you sit in the car for an hour with Sister and her wife or would I need to drive four hours out of my way to pick you up, and why didn’t either of your children ever call you?  Do you remember any of that?”

“Who’s getting married?”

Oh, for fuck sakes, I was thinking.  “For fucksakes, Mother, I’ve discussed this with you for the last month.”  I’ve been trying to say the word “fuck” so much around my mother.  Seems she has begun to think that her sweet Jesus will think less of her for what I say and do.

“I don’t know why the Lord doesn’t take me now before you swear me all the way to Hell.  I worked so hard to bring you up the right way and my reward will be to burn for all eternity in the fiery pits of Hell.”

“That’s fine, Mother,” I told her, “save a set of chains for me, will you?”

Her response was to ask me, “Where are you?” and then we did the “I’m in Santa Fe/what are you doing in Santa Fe?” dance.  I’ve done what I consider to be my best to heed my buddy BJ’s advice and not be angry or tormented by Mother’s mental deterioration.  It appears that my hard work has resulted in less motherly meanness, yet more motherly memory loss. Maybe I should stop retaliating.  Maybe I can feel better about Mother by enjoying her newfound niceness rather than trying to punish her.

A trade-off I need to discuss in my next psycho therapy session.

Anyway, I promised you that I would provide you with a copy of the short presentation I devised years ago to aid my employees with their decision-making processes and behaviors.  Here it is:

Integrity from the Top Down

Leadership Principles for Success

  1. Critical Thinking on a Critical Path- the Scientific Method.
  2. Stop Peeing on the Campfire (It’s never too late).
  3. The Man in the Mirror.

 

This was designed by me because I have this business philosophy related to my employees.  It’s pretty simple, actually, and it goes like this:  I want every employee to be a leader, reach their full potentials, and do those two things even if they find another, better job or go out and start their own competitive company.  Good, smart thinking and decision making skills are critical to business success, and better businesses make for a better life.

I’ll leave that with you to ponder and if I remember to follow up, I’ll fill in the blanks on what should have been the fourth day in a row.  In the meantime, help me with my Hobby Lobby protest sign slogans.  Everything I think of is too long and clumsy to fit on the stiff corrugated plastic signs I favor for protesting work.  And by the way, has anyone seen the fucking cat?

Fuck Walmart!

 

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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?”

Then:

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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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.

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

 

Manana, y’all.

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Did Liberace Turn Elvis?, And Other Sticky Wickets

Friday, February 15th, 2013

 

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.

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Yoda Yellows The Pristine Snow; Happy Veterans’ Day, Beej.

Sunday, November 11th, 2012

 

So. Here we all are on a fine Sunday morning—a Veteran’s Day morning and a morning for reflections on life. Here to Santa Fe, we got our first dusting of snow and now the air is crisp and clean and bright. The snow fell overnight, and when we first got out of bed I took the dogs to the back door to let them out. Doing our business is always the first order of business for each day and Sunday morning business is always a family affair.

When the three of us got to the back door to go outside, I said to the puppies, “OK, guys, let’s slip on your sweaters. It’s cold outside.”

The Squirt stuck her nose on the door glass and jerked her head back like a shot. “Fuck you, Buster Brown, I’m shitting on the carpet and going back to bed.”

The diminutive brown dog headed back to the bedroom and flipped over her shoulder, “Wake me up when the French toast is ready.”

My mother called me Buster Brown whenever I pissed her off in my childhood and she called me John Henry when I pleased her. I guess I should be glad I earned the nickname of Mooner back on the first day of school. Buster Brown would have been tough to live with.

Yoda and I dressed for the cold and went outside. This is the first snow the goat dog has ever experienced from the outside of a tiny wire cage. The first year of his life was lived inside the hog wire prison of a puppy mill over to Oklahoma, and most of our experiences together are firsts for him.

I wish he could talk to me like the Squirt. I can’t get anyone to tell me the specifics of who’s and wheres regarding that dog factory. Then again, I fear that Oklahoma jails are far less friendly places than my usual barred haunts.

He and I walked the back yard and marked our territory in the usual way. I think he actually giggled when he first peed into the pristine white snow. The ice crystals cracked and fizzled and steamed before turning yellow, and the little dog snickered like a boy. Which made me snicker too.

“Let’s write our names in the snow,” I said, and I wrote as much of mine as I had ink left to write.

Yoda looked down at what I’d melted into the white snow, looked up at my face and back at the snow again.

“OK, it says ‘Moo’, shitball. All I had left was enough to write a cow sound.”

We both giggled some more. “Now you,” I prodded.

The small white half-Chihuahua half-Whippet looked up at me like I’d asked him to define Pi. “You’re right. Here,” and I picked him up, “you pee and I’ll spell.”

Have I ever told you that Yoda’s name was Pi when I first adopted him? What kind of name is that? What character traits might a dog even have to resemble a Pi?

Stupid fucking dog name.

Anyway, I got some news from Texas as Gram and the P-cubed had Ralph drop them off down there to the ranch rather than back here. They drove out to New Jersey with a Hummer limo full of “supplies” for the hurricane victims and then headed home to Austin rather than back to Santa Fe.

“We’re a moving Mr. Dave over ta tha old folks’ homie down to San Antonio. Seems he’s been taken by tha same dramentia as yer fucking mother.”

“It’s dementia, Gram, but I get the picture. Anything I can do?”

“Nopers. Ralph’s gonna load up tha Humdinger an’ drop Mr. Dave off with yer mother. He’ll stop back here to tha ranch to load up some shit fer you afore headin’ back yer way. Wacha want?”

I gave Gram my list and told her I love her, and when I hung up I felt melancholy. To think that Mr. Dave has the same dementia as Mother unsettled me. Mr. Dave is a gentle man and a gentleman in every way. My mother is an angry and mean spirited woman, and is so in most ways. My hopes there are that the giant peckered old gentleman can fuck some good nature back into my mother.

Otherwise, I’ll get him his own apartment.

Anyway, French toast and bacon are the order of the day. The bacon is the last of my stash from Texas and one of the staples headed this way in Ralph’s Hummer limo. So is the maple syrup Streaker Jones brings back from Vermont. I need another few gallons.

I wonder if Mr. Dave’s dementia will make him forget he’s a good man. It hasn’t made my mother forget to be a shithead so maybe he’ll be OK.

Which reminds me. Did you guys hear that Mitt Romney cut off the credit cards of his campaign workers before he gave his concession speech? He made them pay for their own ways home from Boston on Tuesday night.

I wish every American would carefully think about that. Manana, y’all.

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Support Public Education; Romney Still A Lying Prick

Sunday, October 21st, 2012

 

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.”

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Free At Last; A Mother’s Forgotten Love

Tuesday, September 11th, 2012

 

So. I’ve been back to Austin from Santa Fe for ten days and I have several things to say. First, had I been born in Santa Fe I would not own property in Austin, Texas. I would not have a second home anyfuckingwhere within the borders of the Lone Star State. I might have an alternate home in some other state—like maybe Oregon or Vermont—but I would avoid the red states like the plague to humanity they have become.

My birth state is in a state of shambles from the perspective of civility. Right-wing Christian politics has turned a wonderful place to live into an almost third-world country and I find myself done with it. I’m too fucking old to think I’ll live long enough to see things change, so I bought a place over to Santa Fe, New Mexico. I’m moving in over there the middle of next week and after this move, I have no plans to move back.

When I first started thinking of getting a place over to the New Mexico mountains it was to gain temporary respite from the hot weather in Austin. As our globe has warmed under its canopy of greenhouse gas, the heavy, fetid heat of an Ecuadorian jungle has supplanted Austin’s once bearable weather cycles. Austin’s summer heat and humidity can suck the air out of your lungs in thirty seconds.

Not that I’m selling out here to Texas. Everything here will remain status quo save and except my presence on a continuing basis, and thoughts of hot, fetid air remind me of something.

Ann “When do I Blink” Romney has declared that the issues of gay marriage and contraceptives are distractions to her and not worthy of debate among true Americans. Mrs. Herr Rommel made the claim yesterday that over the last year her hubby has been on the campaign trail, she has grown to understand just what things are important to we common people and, especially, common American women.

Really? Access to contraceptives is not an important issue? Nope, not to the Herr Field Marshall’s modern Stepford mate. Fitting the politics for the spouse of a greedy man who secrets his immense wealth offshore, Ann Romney wants to focus on economics.

Of course her focus is on economics.

Second on things to say is to say that my mother’s memory loss has blossomed into full-fledged dementia and an associated dull idiocy. At breakfast this morning she informed the table that she has rented an apartment in, as she calls it, “That nice old folks home in San Antonio where they treat Christian ladies with the respect we deserve.”

When I asked her why she was leaving the loving comfort of her family home to live with strangers, she told me, she said, “It’s all your fault, Mooner. You allow homo-sex-u-als to sit at your table and you mock the Lord. You are evil and I don’t want to remain in your presence.”

She then handed me the Lease and first Invoice for her new apartment and demanded of me to, as she put it, “Handle this. You owe it to me.”

She is moving this coming weekend and asked me to notify people of her new address and contact information. She poked a hand written list into my hand and told me, “These are the ONLY people I want to know where I am. DO NOT, Butcher Einstein Johnson, give my information to anyone else.”

I scanned the list and when I raised my eyebrows, she said to me, “I mean not one other person !!!”

What had raised my brows was not who was on Mother’s list but, rather, who was not. Not on the list is Sister and her wife, Anna the Amazon, Streaker Jones, Dixie, Aunt Hilda, my Gram and me.

“Are you saying that you don’t want your family to know where you are, Mother?”

I was asking from a sense of confusion and got a confusing answer. “I hold no stead for homo-sex-u-als nor heretics, son. You’ll miss me. Did you get the birthday card I sent?”

My initial thought was to pretend to forget about the Lease and list and give Mother a chance to forget she had done it, but further thought convinced me to do otherwise. I’ll follow the instructions to the letter, and my last planned gift to Mother will be to pay her expenses while she spends her last days degenerating into a head of cabbage in a small apartment two hours’ drive from her closest family. I’ll tell her that she can request contact from those she’s excluded but that I’ll insure that none of us will darken her door without an invitation.

When I examined the lease, it’s cover letter was dated August of last year. My mother made this decision with forethought and before she had lost much of her mind. If it didn’t reflect her actual feelings—if it was an aberration of thoughts—I’d ignore her wishes and barge ahead in typical fashion.

But this is what she wants and I guess that I should be proud that she can finally be honest with me. When I told her that I would honor her wishes she said to me, she said, “Thank you, Mooner. You’re a good son but a terrible human being. You and your sister are the biggest disappointments in my life, and it’s your fault she turned out as she did.”

When my mother expressed her disappointments in my lesbian sister and me, I had an epiphany—an unsettling deja vu moment that should have been a foreshadowing for me. While my father was alive I thought that Mother was a saint of sorts. Daddy had my ADHD and a child’s exuberance for life. He was, in a word, a handful.

Whenever Mother would mistreat Sister and me with callousness she would blame it on Daddy. It didn’t matter the instance, Mother would treat us badly because Daddy was whatever he needed to be to explain Mother’s uncaring attitude. Mother always made it clear that she was only acting on Daddy’s orders. I loved my father but I always thought he was mean.

It was after my father had died that I felt like publicly exposing the fact that I had been raped as a child. I didn’t want Mother to hear it from someone else, so I decided to tell her first. I felt that she would be shocked and angry that one of her friends from church—a man she respected—had sexually abused her son.

I felt that Mother would be horrified and angry. I felt that she would comfort and console me.

I invited her to join me out back to the patio with a glass of iced tea. When seated, I explained to her the story of my thirteenth birthday and her not picking me up from aquatics camp, and the church Deacon-Boy Scout leader molesting me. The story rolled out of me in a rush and it seemed as if I had told it all in one breath.

When I finished, I took a deep breath and said, “I wanted you to hear it from me and not someone from your church.”

Mother lifted her frosty glass, sipped thoughtfully, and set it down carefully in the water ring already glistening on the marble tabletop where we sat.

“A boy tried to kiss me once and I fought him off,” my mother told me. “Are you going to grill for Easter dinner or will you make me cook?”

So much for comfort and consolation. I grilled goat and pork sausages for that Easter dinner and never again sought solace at my mother’s bosom. I’m not certain why, but Mother has made it crystal clear to me that I’m unwanted in her life

If you love something you are supposed to set it free. I have decided to set my mother free.

Manana, y’all.

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Diplomacy: It’s In The Dictionary, Mr. Romney

Saturday, July 28th, 2012

 

So. There’s an elephant in the room, folks, and it’s name is Mitt Romney. If you want to gain a keen insight as to how a wealthy, privileged, rich American asshole views the rest of the world, take a good gander at Herr Rommel. For months now, the Republican Presidential front runner has given we Americans that snotty-nosed rich prick attitude wherein he, and his ever so lovely wife, call us “you people”.

“You people don’t need any more of my financial or tax records,” and, “You people just don’t understand how business actually works,” or my personal favorite, “I just don’t care about you poor people.” Mitt Romney has been stomping around America and talking down his snooty nose at us as common people. Now, he’s taken his blue blooded act on the road.

When Gram was reading the paper this morning at breakfast, she came to the story of the Mittster telling London, and all of England, that, “You people don’t know how to run an Olympics.”

“What tha fuck is that silly asserholie doin’?” Gram asked the table full of gathered Johnsons. “A man wants ta be President cain’t be sayin’ silly shit like that.”

“He’s just speaking his mind, Gram,” said my mother, “the British can’t even keep their promise to protect our athletes from the Muslim terrorists. Somebody should be saying something.”

Gram gave Mother a look that was only a notch below the Evil Eye. “When are you gonna forgit yer a assholie fuckball again? You say some a tha stupidest shit I ever heard.”

“Well,” Mother started to answer, “I, ah, well I think these are quite tasty pancakes, Mooner. What did you say you did differently?”

“I added buckwheat today is your answer, Mother. ‘Now,’ should answer you, Gram.”

Lucidity is a transient concept at best and totally homeless when combined with dementia.

Some of my blogger buddies jump started my thoughts and gave me the idea of how to keep up with Mother as her memory worsens and she starts to wonder off.

“Hey, everyone, I had an idea how to keep track of Mother when she starts wandering off the Reservation. I’mma take her over to Dr. Mays and get him to plant one of those ID/GPS chips in her neck like I got for the dogs. Then we can track her on Google when she goes missing.” Some of my ideas are classic genius.

“Oh, fuck alla that Oedipus shit, Mooner. Put one a them shockie collars on her and lectrify tha fences,” was Gram’s better idea. “Hell, give me a clicker fer tha collar an I’ll keep up with her.”

My mother gasped and clutched her throat at the spot where chip and collar would meet. “Why I never! You people are treating me like an animal. How dare you!”

The vet’s office scheduled us for next Tuesday at 10 am and the electrician will be out to juice up the fences Wednesday. Then I’m off to Santa Fe Friday. It’ll just be the dogs, the fucking cat and me this trip. I can’t be worrying about mother wandering off in a strange town while I’m working. It’s hard enough for me to focus my ADHD-addled brain without trying to keep up with her.

Which brings me back to Mitt Romney. Let me try to say this with an economy of words when I say, “Mitt Romney is not Presidential. He can’t park his own ego long enough to let the engine cool before he says something really stupid. Strong leaders are required to be diplomatic and you, Herr Schmidt Rommel, are not diplomatic in any fashion of the word.”

If you can believe recent polls, America could possibly elect this effete and totally snobbish asshole to our Presidency.

Holy… Fucking… Shit!

Ugh, and manana, y’all.

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Frack This, Motherfrackers; Bend Over For Some Driller’s Mud

Thursday, July 26th, 2012

 

So. Please allow me to begin today’s missive with a hearty “Thank You” to all the readers who offered their empathies to me over Mother’s memory losses. I want to thank all of you who thought empathic thoughts and I especially want to thank those of you who wrote me. Living with a loved one or a family member who suffers from any form of dementia is a mixed bag of tricks. One minute you’re angry at them and the next you’re sad for them, and the entire time you feel emotional losses that match each of their mental slippages.

The costs of administering care for the physical and mental health of dementia patients are astounding. Thank goodness I have always provided the best health insurance I have been able to afford for all my family and extendeds. I have no earthly idea how people without health insurance survive it from the financial perspectives. The cost of medications alone would bankrupt a small country.

But to quote the general masses of conservative right-wing shitballs currently running our country into the ground, “Who gives a shit about them poor folks? I don’t have time to worry about indigents, I got me some fracking to do.”

Motherfuckers are fracking the foundations of our entire society if you ask me. If you don’t ask me, fuck you too. They speak to their “conservatism” constantly yet they are using up our air and water and scarring the beauty out of everything. The truth is, the average conservative wants to conserve what he thinks is his own property and rights and he wants the rest of us to pay him for it. These assholes don’t care about the future, they only want theirs and want it right damn now!

Wake the fuck up, folks. Fracking for oil pumps millions of gallons of chemical swill through a little hole in the earth and forces it miles underground. The claim is that this toxic stew is “chambered”–locked in place with a cement casing along the length of the drilled hole. The claim continues by telling you that when they finish their work and pour cement inside to plug the drilled entry wound, Mother Earth will hold that chambered mess in place.

Right.

This is the same lie as men have used for a million years in their efforts to get some nookie from a naive young woman. That lie goes like this, “I’mma gonna put in everything but the head.”

Conservative assholes are using that same logic and lie to ruin our public school systems, our Medicare/Medicade systems, our public safety sectors and our infrastructure. Every important social system, the systems that have long distinguished America as the best country ever, are getting fracked into oblivion.

I’d like to frack back. I’d start by removing all not-for-profit benefits from religion. I’d run drill pipe deep into the treasuries of churches and first suck them dry and then fill ’em up with driller’s mud made from the earth of ground truth wetted with the tears of the religiously abused.

Anyway, I’m in a pretty good mood today because I’m getting the papers to finalize the purchase of our new hacienda over to Santa Fe. I’m headed over there end of next week to do some stuff to make it ready for occupancy, and I intended to take Mother with me. Not gonna happen. In a moment of lucidity, Mother informed me that Santa Fe is, and here I might give you an exact quote as she said Santa Fe is, “… filled with homo-sex-u-als and hedonistic heretics,” and further that, “You will promise me, Butcher Einstein Johnson, that you WILL NOT take me there, EVER.”

Have I ever told you that my born and given name is Butcher Einstein Johnson? To save us both time, go over there to my Bloggie Roller and buy my silly fucking book, Full RisingMooner. You’ll find the story therein.

Wait, let me attempt to undangle my mangled modifications. Therein, the story is to be found.

I explained carefully to my mother that she had just managed to summarize the whys of my home purchase in Santa Fe, what with all the gays and heathens I would feel more at home than here to home. Then I told her, I said to her, “And guess what—no such promise. I’m taking you over there the first minute you forget that you hate Santa Fe and me. You’ll be all happy and shit one day and you’ll snap to and remember that you’re a bigoted old shitball, and there you’ll be—stuck in a city full of me.”

She cried, I cried and apologized without taking it back, and then we had a debate on the Mittster’s tax returns and that whole Bain Capital dealie. Every time Mother would make a stupid-ass remark about the issues, I would simply say, “Santa Fe.”

She said, “We don’t need to see his tax returns because they are his private business,” and I said, “Santa Fe.”

“He said he wasn’t involved with Bain after 1999,” and I said, “Santa Fe.”

Then, she said, “Well, Mr. Romney is a Christian and Obama is a Muslim!” and I said, “You really are a bigoted old bag, Mother, and I’m packing your bags for a trip over to Santa Fe.”

Maybe I should feel badly for calling my mother a bigoted old bag. Maybe I should have tried living with women a few months before wedding them. That said, I attempt to have honest relationships with everyone I love, even the bigoted old bags.

Which reminds me. I had an epiphany, or whateverthefuck those things are, and I decided to build a Kiva oven in the back yard to the new house. That’s the Native American oven used for centuries to cook and especially to bake bread. Maybe it’s the one thirty-second’s worth of Native blood mixed in with the rest of my hemoglobin that epiphed me. But like Gram always says, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Build yer fuckin’ oven and make me a peetzer.”

Gram loves thin, crusty crusted pizza with fresh tomatoes, pork sausage, basil, garlic and what she calls “moots yer fella” cheese. Last time I made pizzas out back on the big grill, Gram came out of the kitchen with a giant stainless steel tray with all of the fixings. Her ropey, muscled arms were shaking with the effort required to carry the heavy tray and she tottered to set it on the work table at my side.

“Yer mother’s being a downright cranky bitch, Mooner. Don’t put no moots yer fella on her peetzer. If’fn she bitches, I’ll tell her she told me not to put no cheesies on it.” Gram giggled and added, “I’ll tell her she done forgot.”

I laughed and Gram snickered like a schoolgirl. She said, “Mother’s gittin’ battier than a fuckin’ fruitcake, sonny boy, an’ we’re gonna have us some fun with her.”

Anyway, now my ADHD has taken over Mission Control, and among other things, I’m wondering what the Native American population of New Mexico want to be called. I’m guessing that they would want to be called Navajo or Arapaho or like me, Blackfoot. You know, distinguish them by tribal connections as opposed as to a group. Like Native American.

Then again. That would really screw up my mess kit because I don’t have that good an eye. Then again, again, who really gives a shit? Manana, y’all.

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The Bright Side Of Dementia; A New Cure For Bigotry

Wednesday, July 25th, 2012

 

So. I’ve finally let Mother’s cat out of the bag and I cannot even begin to tell you how good it feels. To share with you Mother Johnson’s trip down Memory Loss Lane has freed me in ways I hadn’t realized. Most importantly is freedom from censure and censorship. I don’t like bridled truths because real truth is unbridled. If I’m going to talk about anything, I want to be able to talk about that anything’s anythings.

It’ll take a moment, but that made perfect sense.

See, when I started this stupid fucking bloggie dealio, I promised that I would be full disclosure on all things except the children I have with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson. I only made that promise to Sammie to save myself from a/an extended stay/stays over to the Loony Bin at Shoal Creek Mental Hospital. My lovely first ex-wife’s precise words were, “If you do anything to draw unwanted attention to our children, Mooner Einstein Johnson, I’ll lock your ass so deep into the bowels of The System you’ll never again see the light of day.”

I wonder how she learned to speak so properly and not dangle her modifiers or prepositions. I would have said, “… you’ll never see the light of day again.”

She was right, Dr. Know It All, and I’m glad that I’ve kept my kids off limits to the blathering. I don’t have a need to disclose anything about my children because I don’t say anything about them. But when Mother asked me to secret her memory losses from you, I didn’t feel right about it. Not because the landlord of my initial Earthly home has become a bigoted old gas bag and I want to make fun of her in all ways possible, but rather from, again, the full disclosure perspectives.

How can I fully-disclose my life without fully disclosing it? How can I address my life with my mother and withhold her dementia?

It’s like the fucking Republican lawmakers back East to Washington in the D.C. Yesterday, the Congressional Budget Office—those stalwart non-partisan bookkeepers for the US Congress—announced that the Affordable Health Care Act, aka Obamacare, would actually SAVE about $84 billion. That’s right, folks, a bunch of accountants with no political ties or agenda have said that not only will all Americans be afforded top notch health care, that in the act of providing that care we will also save $Billions in debt!

Affordable health care for all Americans saves all Americans money. Me, I say, “Yippy-Skippy and a Hip-Hip-Hooray!!!”

The Republicans, however, responded with their typical fuzzy mathematics to make a misguided and decidedly stupid point. Ignoring facts and hiding realities, they continue to snark about this Bill. “It’ll cost $Trillions,” said Speaker of the House Johnny “Does My Skin Match My Cleveland Browns Cap Yet” Boehner.

How can these assholes sell that load of non-disclosed bullshit? Who, inthefuck, is buying it? And they say they are Christians, for shitsakes. Christians? Really?

They can’t even help their neighbors with health care and save the entire country billions of dollars because they hate our first black President so thoroughly. And don’t you even start to tell me that Obama’s skin color doesn’t matter to the likes of Cantor and Romney and Limbaugh and Beck. Do not even start!

I thought the fucking Dark Ages were over. I thought the days of persecuting people for their thoughts or who they are was history. Patricia, from over to Polygon Blog has asked if maybe we should bring back the Stocks. You remember the Stocks, right? It’s that dealie where an offending person would be seated with arms and legs sticking through holes in a wooden platform and made to sit for days.

Oh, and Patricia, darling, why can’t I comment using my name and URL? I don’t have any of that other shit to use as ID for a comment. I spent thirty minutes this am writing a thoughtful and clever response to your “Stocks” posting and then discovered that I can’t comment thereto.

Thereon, maybe? Wait, might it would be therewith? Am I dangling shit again? Whateverthefuck, I was really bothered, from the intrinsic perspectives, by hiding Mother’s fast creeping dementia. I was forced to not tell you when she was acting like a true Christian woman because the only times she acts it are those times when she forgets that she became a right-wing bigoted asshole.

And that is the foundation for what I want to say today. Why is it that when my mother forgets things, she forgets to be a bigot? Why is she forgetting to hate people just because they are gay or Muslim or liberal? Why is she forgetting that she thinks that abortion is a choice to be made by politicians? Does that mean that her bigotry was learned or taught and not truly her thoughts?

I have always wondered at Mother’s views on abortion. See, my mother didn’t want a third child when the third seed sprouted in her womb. I guess that Sister and me were burden enough. So she starved herself until she miscarried, what we might call a do-it-yourself abortion.

I could never understand how she can now oppose a safe medical procedure when she spent sixty days starving a fetus she had already carried almost three months. If abortions had been legal when she got preggers that third time would she have had a medical procedure instead?

The Squirt and I took her to her brain doctor yesterday afternoon for a checkup on her short term memory. It wasn’t good. Twice she asked me where we were going in the car on the way, and she likewise had to ask me twice if I minded taking her. Her doctor told us that she thinks Mother’s dementia is fast-paced and was inherited from her mother, my grandmother who was murdered. I told the doc that Grandma was sharp as a tack at a ripe old age and she told me it didn’t matter. “Your mother’s dementia looks genetic in nature. A family sort of thing.”

“Huh?” I asked. “You’re saying this is an inherited malady?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Johnson, and it likely doesn’t skip any generations.”

Fuck me running.

I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

 

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One Man’s Loss Is Another Man’s Mother; Lessons In The Key Of Remembering

Tuesday, July 24th, 2012

 

So. What a week. I have been working hard on all the many aspects of buying a home out of state and I have been dealing with my mother in ways not before with dealt. Not dealt with before? Having never before with being dealt, maybe.

OK, whatthefuck is it with the dangling participle dealie anyway? Wait, stop another minute because I’m not addressing danglies, but rather tag-on prepositions—another preposterous pompous and pretentious grammar rule. Why can’t I say, “… dealt with.” to end a sentence and simply be done with it? When leaving a preposition at the end of a sentence conveys the precise sentiments, why, inthefuck, must we restructure to create words that sound as if they came from a snooty-nosed seventh grade English teacher’s mouth?

I’ve done many real estate sales and purchases in my lifetime, as part of my life and my business. Daddy told me early and often that real estate is the only asset worth owning other than your own business. Having spent that lifetime watching Wall Street and the assholes who run it, I have become a true follower of Daddy’s words. But I’ve never owned real estate in New Mexico, so I’ve needed to pay carefuller attention to this Santa Fe house dealio.

And “Paying Attention” is not my middle name.

Having said that, I reviewed the last of the documents and will be proudly owning our new place over there on Monday, July 30. And please allow me to say this:

“Hoo-fucking-yah, y’all!!!”

Then, on Friday of next week I’ll be headed over to start working on the house to get it ready to furnish in late September. The old place needs a few repairs and creature comforts to make it comfy for me and the menagerie of Johnsons calling it “Home, sweet second home”. I’ll take the dogs and the fucking cat on this trip and maybe I’ll have Mother in tow.

Yea, I know, I said maybe Mother will be along for the ride. Fuck me running.

My mother is the “not with having dealt issue” previously debated grammatically therewith herein. I’ve never before said anything about it here to the bloggie out of respect to Mother, but my batshit bigoted and right-wing conservative Christian asshole mother has dementia. According to her doctor it is, “Non-Alzheimer, non-specific organic dementia—what we used to call ‘losing it’ in the old days. And it’s progressing rapidly, Mr. Johnson.”

Said another way, Mother is getting to where she can’t remember shit. And I mean shit as in specific shit and likewise, shit in general. When it first started she made me promise that I wouldn’t write and tell you about it, so I didn’t. But it’s gotten so bad lately that I asked her if I could tell you guys what’s going on and she forgot how pissed she is at me and OK’d it.

This thingie started maybe five years ago when Mother’s usually sharp wit became less sharp and more pointed. As she began to forget things she seemed to become angry more often and with more edginess. Instead of simply snapping at you she would snap and then comment on you as a human. After that trend progressed for a couple years, she started snapping and commenting on her disapprovals of us without just cause.

In the last year or so, she has progressed to become the angry right-wing conservative Christian bigoted asshole I write about so often here—a trend that seems to be a contagion of sorts all across America. Makes me wonder if it’s dementia that is making so many formerly decent people into conservative assholes.

Anyway, ever the silver lining sort of guy, I’m seeing Mother’s memory losses as an opportunity. I was laying in bed last night and thinking about the dramatic U-turn Mother made with letting me discuss her “little problem with something”, as she calls it, and I had what might be a brilliant idea. I was thinking to myself, I thought, Maybe I can reprogram Mother’s memory and return her into a decent human being. You know, treat her mind like Herr Schmidt Rommel’s Etch-A-Sketch, and return her to decency.

So, we were at breakfast this morning and Mother had the expression plastered on her face that I now recognize as the look she gets when she’s lost cognizant connections with her memory. “Here, Mother,” I told her as I passed the biscuits to her, “I made these with your favorite recipe, just for you.”

She gave me the just-mentioned expression and followed it with one of confusion, then one of delight. “Oh thank you, son, you are such a thoughtful boy.”

I then handed her a fruit jar filled with deep purple goodness. “And I know how you love the blackberry jam Sister and Anna make, why don’t you slather some of that on to make it perfect.”

Mother popped a biscuit open with her fork, coated the top half with the seedy jam and took a huge bite. “Mmmmmm, that is a little taste of Heaven, Mooner.”

She chewed and swallowed the bite and washed it down with a sip of coffee and her facial expressions began a slow transformation from delight into abject hate. Her face turned red and her eyes bulged out. “I hate biscuits and I refuse to eat food prepared by homo-sex-u-als. You people are all alike,” and she stormed away from the table.

My Gram was watching this unfold from her perch across from Mother and on my right. “If’fn ya can git her ta eat liver an’ onions an’ vote Democratic, Mooner, I’mma nomilate ya to the Noel Peach Pride.”

“Hells bells, Gram, I don’t need a Nobel Prize. I’ll be happy if she’ll simply accept the fact that her daughter is gay and her son’s a liberal.”

But I lied. I’m now starting to think of Mother as my Eliza Doolittle, and I’m fixing to reprogram me a true progressive thinker. That’s why I might take her over to Santa Fe for a couple weeks. Get her away from her asshole conservative touchstones and get her to thinking straight. I’ve a lot to do but I can always find time for a little community service.

Manana, y’all.

 

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