Archive for the ‘Hornitos tequila’ Category

The Joys fo Labor (Day)

Monday, September 6th, 2010

 

OK. I had planned to take today off from bloggerating, but my Gram’s sharp wit burst that balloon. We were to the dinner table last night, each talking about our plans for today, Labor Day. SAC Ellen and I are going to take sitz baths together; Streaker Jones and Dixie are headed to New Mexico to look at the drafts for the spring 2011 clothing lines for If You Can’t Smoke It, Wear It; Sister and Anna the Amazon are working over to the Gay and Lesbian film festival and they have some meetings for that; Gnat is going boating with her new beau; and Mother is going to be Mother, and find something to martyr about.

If a gambler gets busted, why isn’t a balloon bursted?

During the conversations over our Labor Day plans, Gram suspiciously avoided the subject. Each time we looked at her, she would avoid our eyes and put more food on her plate. Last night’s dinner was roasted chicken and fresh garden veggies- all grilled on my big outdoor kitchen, Mother’s homemade ciabatta bread, and a big bowl of frijoles rancheros. The Mexican cowboy-style beans were Gnat’s date’s contribution.

He’d brought enough of the tasty, spicy beans to feed two Johnson Family dinners, and by the end of the meal, they were all that was left. After maybe the eighth averted-eye serving Gram had dished to her platter, she blurted out, “Awright, fer shitsakes, I’ll tell ya what I plan ta be doin’. Otherways, I’ll blow tha house down from eatin’ all them beanies.”

“An don’t be getting yer feelers all rankleated on me, young man. Them’s tha best free-holies I had since that time me an tha late Mister Johnson was down to Venice Whaler.”

She jacked her shot of Hornitos tequila and slugged a long drag of Carta Blanca before continuing. Gram always drinks Hornitos shots with grilled chicken. Always has.

“All a this Labor Day bullshit is gittin my girlie parts ta thobbin. Mother was a beached baby an it took me four days ta git her pushed out.” She poured another shot, knocked it back and chased it with Carta Blanca.

“All us Johnsons got big heads. I ain’t walked right since.” Another shot, beer chaser and a ninth scoop of frijoles rancheros.

Now Mother can stop looking for a martyred cause, and she starts this series of deep, emotional sighs that mark the beginning of a crusade. She gets this look of emotional long suffering where her face elongates, her nose pinches along with her mouth, and her eyes resemble what I imagine a Russian woman’s eyes to be in a Tolstoy novel.

She looks like an aging blood hound who has lost his sense of smell. “How many more times will you torture me with this story, Gram? Isn’t you ruining my Mothers’ Day enough payback?”

Now Mother gets into full swing. “You’ve never forgiven me for being born, Gram. Maybe we’d all be better off if I hadn’t.”

Now me, I’m thinking neither Sister nor I would be better off without our mother’s birth. Anna is starting to feel the same way as she would lose both a husband, and a wife, if our mother was not to have been born.

Anna says, “Oh Mother, you know we are all glad you were born. Me, I would be especially sad.”

Of course Mother avoids this reassuring compliment and uses it to drive additional nails through flesh and into cross, a hallmark of any Mother martyr event.

“I don’t know why Gram hates me so bad for weighing 7 pounds when I was born. How could that be so bad?”

Now wait….. wait…….. wait. Here comes the payoff pitch.

“How can she have had it so bad with me, when Mooner was a ten pounds and came out butt first? I had the worst birth in medical history and my own mother has no sympathy.” With this, my mother gets up from the table and goes to the kitchen with her dirty dishes.

“Oh quit yer bitchin, Mother, an git me another beer while yer up.” Quick shot, short drag to empty the beer bottle, and then, “Asides. Who gives a shit iffn Mooner came out ass first? That’s what started him on his butt movies. First thing tha little shit done was flash that cute tushie at us.”

Now SAC Ellen enters the fray. “I always wondered when the seed was sowed that grew into the Mooner I love. You can take all the credit, Mother Johnson. You made him what he is today.”

Deep sigh, deeper sigh and the clink of a beer cap opened and hitting the granite counter top. “I don’t harbor any satisfaction in how Mooner turned out, Officer McClellan. My son is going to spend all eternity burning in hell because of what he says about the Baptist Church. And it’s all my fault.”

She walks back to the table, places Gram’s new beer on the coaster and says, “You’d think a boy that was Baptized twice would have turned out better.”

Then the conversation switched to a debate on the merits of Mooner. But I’m OK with all of that because my family can’t hurt my feelings anymore. I know they love me, and I love them. But I am digressing from what this posting is about.

Labor Day is a unique celebration. Every human on the planet can justify their inclusion in a day that glorifies work. Work is good and workers are great!

Let’s all celebrate with a day off, a pat on our backs, and a cold Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

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Rethinking Memorial Day; Katlyn at VIVOS Gives Good Advice

Tuesday, June 1st, 2010

So, we were all celebrating Memorial Day, which in the USA is the day we pay homage to those brave men and women who risked their life for our country. I’ve got the big grill fired up and we have a goat, a full rack of beef ribs and a few dozen links of sausage smoking away. I use a blend of oak and hickory for most smoking but today I’m going to pop in a little bit of mesquite for the last half hour. It’s about noon and the day is heating up as I start this story.

All of the men got an early start- that would be Harry, from over to Sprouts, Streaker Jones, Woozie who would be Sheriff Wozniac, Gnat’s Special Agent in Charge who is her beau, chief Ruffled Feathers who is Streaker Jones’ uncle from New Mexico and an unnamed musician. We cracked the cold Carta Blanca beers at 7:15 am, Harry started pouring Hornitos shots maybe at 8:05 and Gram gave us a little pick-me-up at 9:00 sharp with a new BBQ potion she wanted us to test drive for her.

To her magic mushroom tea base she added liquid smoke, squid ink and some other stuff she wouldn’t name. When I asked her what else was in the little bottle she said, “Girl’s gotta have her a touch a mis-tree bout her, Mooner.” That’s how she put it.

When I asked her what she was going to name the new brew, she said to me, she says, “Cain’t decide. Gonna be Burn my meat an I’ll kill ya, or maybe it’ll be Smoke my meat not my grass.

I suggested Burned meat will smoke your ass, and she whacked me with the big wooden spoon in her hand and said, “Mooner, who told you to stick yur pointy snoot inna my bidness?”

Anyway, like I said, it was noon and the men folk were gently buzzed and enjoying the day off. Since we also had a touch of the munchies, I fast-grilled a few sausage links and cut them into big chunks. Placed them on a long oval platter with a mound of the cold-pickled veggies I like to make. Wait, it was a pile of chilled cold-pickled veggies. I make the pickled veggies without cooking them in the brine.

Think rings of onion, jalapeños sliced in quarters, cucumbers, carrot, celery, eggplant (yes eggplant and from our garden), radishes, and some other stuff. This batch was heavily dilled with dill plucked from our garden. Ask and I’ll give you my formula.

Beside the platter was our fresh picked cherry tomatoes, all Sweet 100’s, which I halved and marinaded with coarse sea salt and black pepper, basil from the garden and chunks of Maytag blue cheese. The marinade was lemon juice and this Greek olive oil I like.

So, we’re standing around and eating from the platter and bowl of food using toothpicks to spear bites. I’ve got a work counter built by the grills and the platter sits in the middle with the men standing around it. We each have a frosty bottle of Carta Blanca and they make those nifty water rings on the tile surface of the counter when we set them down. I always sit my beers down in spots to where the water rings resemble butt cheeks.

Streaker Jones says that’s me doing some brand marketing.

I like to stab a chunk of onion, meat, tomato and cheese onto a toothpick with my right hand and hold a spear of jalapeño in my left. Two-fisted eating is a manly endeavor and common practice at these events.

Then what Streaker Jones said next is the reason for the moral of this blog posting. He said to the group, “Fellas, don’t cha rekkin tha Germans anna Japanese anna Iraquis an even tha Taliban has gotta right ta have a Memorial Day?”

“What the fuck, Streaker Jones!” This in unison from the rest of us.

“Think about it an git back wi me,” Streaker Jones said to halt further discussions.

I started to say, “But…”, when he cut me off with, “Mooner, I said ta think furse.”

Which reminded me that last Friday we went to the VIVOS Mexican place over to RR 620 near US 183. I took SAC Ellen there for happy hour so we could sit outside and enjoy one more afternoon before it gets hot. She wears a bullet-proof vest and professional suit to work and it just gets too hot for her to sit out after the first of June right after work.

Our server was Katlyn who closely resembled the SACster except younger and with nifty tattoos. I love tattoos. Katlyn made numerous suggestions and we had a nice chat with her. We got Eastside margarita’s because they don’t serve Carta Blanca beer, an oversight which must be corrected. We got a small cup of queso- especially good here at VIVOS, and something called California Nachos. The nachos had avocado and alfalfa sprouts on them.

“Alfalfa sprouts,” I barked. “I’m not eating my nachos with a fucking hay bale on top.” And with that I downed my drink in one gulp.

I motioned Katlyn over and ordered another with two shots of Hornitos and told the SACster, “OK, I’ll eat your damned rabbit food. But now you’re the designated driver. No more drinks for you!”

I’m thinking, “Take that!” to myself. I liked the thought so I said to her, “Take that!”

I might have said it a touch loud.

SAC Ellen said to me, she says, “Mooner, after you lower your voice you think about why you feel the sprouts are a bad idea. But shut up about them because you can always take them off if you please.”

God I love a woman with clarity of thought.

I really had no good reason to be sprout prejudiced and I ended up picking some sprouts from SAC Ellen’s nachos to bolster the roughage on mine. The added flavor made the nachos taste clean and rich. And I almost forgot to mention VIVO’s salsa. It is unique and I think it is flavored with onion juice.

Their salsa is rich and sharp flavored. Oh yea, and their chips are top three in town.

Anyway, having recently been required to think before sticking my feet in my mouth over the nacho dealie, I was able to apply that lesson to Streaker Jones’ comment.

I guess what he was saying is this. The virtue of heroes lies in the eyes of their beholders. Or said another way, can a man be a terrorist to me and a hero to you? Did you also win exclusive rights to honorarium when you win a war? Is it our might or our viewpoint that makes us right? If I ask you to honor my heroes should I honor yours? Can I honor your fallen heroes without showing support for your cause? Are brave acts less brave if you fight for a bad cause?

Fuckballs.

This discussion put me in a terrible place because I truly believe that every man has the right to have his own values and to think whatever he chooses. And as long as he doesn’t infringe on others he can practice his preachings in safe harbor from me. But I think you lose your right to breathe clean air if you want to force others to think and act as you do.

And I really don’t like you if your forcing is based upon religious beliefs. See, that’s when I can’t distinguish a Muslim extremist, who wants to shoot me dead, from a Baptist asswipe Republican who wants to poison my brain with his religious Kool-Aid or kill doctors for performing elective surgeries.

My grandfather fought in WWI and Daddy was in WWII, the Korean War and some other stuff. Sam I. Am’s father was a WWII pilot and her mom was a WASP- one of those amazing women service pilots in WWII. My appreciation for all of them is not lessened because they didn’t die in service and I honored them yesterday as well.

You don’t need to be killed in a war to suffer a death in your heart from the fighting. Every person I have known who fought in a war saw no glory there. But every one saw the necessity to fight.

Now that I think this through, I also realize that many of my American heroes were fighting for their religious beliefs and not just for Freedom. They fought for God and Country. So, if I was to prejudice my thoughts against one religious-based hero I would need to adjust my support for those I was honoring yesterday.

Which reminds me. I am sure that somebody else has already thought of this, but I want to rename the Religious Right and call them the Religious Wrong. It scorches my butt when they represent themselves to be all for personal freedoms while they kill our true rights at every turn.

I need a beer.

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I Get That A Lot, or, When Your ADHD Is Not Obsessively Compulsed

Friday, May 21st, 2010

I was over to the Sprouts Farmers Market store this morning and Harry called me back to his office for a chat. I spend so much time there I am often mistaken for an employee. When I say that I spend so much time, I am speaking both from frequency and duration of the visits.

If we were evaluating me as a porn star based upon the frequency and duration of my Sprouts visits I’d be a star.

I go often- almost daily and sometimes more than once a day when I forget things from my list. Always armed with my Postie Notes list as I enter the store, my ADHD interferes with my list checking and digresses me into activities and purchases not on the list, at the expense of listed necessities.

Like yesterday when Gram insisted I get her 40 pounds of fresh ginger for some new potion she concocted and Sister asked me to get some of the fajita meat that was on special. When Sprouts puts something on special it is usually a big deal so Sister invited a bunch of her lesbian buddies out to the ranch for the Johnson Family Friday Night BBQ.

Gram’s new potion is to prevent gum disease and she calls it Ginger I’m Invitin Ya Ta Go Away. When I tried to tell her it’s gingivitis and not ginger-invite-us, she said to me, she said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. People need pink gums.”

OK, but 40 pounds of fresh ginger?

As I was choosing the zucchini that was on my Postie list yesterday, I started admiring the legs and eyes and bottom of this lady, none of which appeared on my Posties.

So, I’m kind of googling at this nice lady’s long, tan and silky smooth legs and she says to me, she says, “You look just like that asshole Mooner Johnson. Has anyone ever told you that before?”

“Why yes, as a matter of fact they have- I get that a lot.” I am always quick with a clever retort.

And she added, “Well if I was you, I’d fix that problem. Have you considered cosmetic surgery?”

“Well,” I said to her, “I did have a little work done recently. Let me show you the results.” At which time I dropped my shorts to my sneakered ankles and waggled my butt in her direction.

Did I tell you guys about the stains on my skin I got from not bathing recently? Streaker Jones figured out this concoction that works but it stings so bad I can only do little patches at a time. Ingrid applies the liquid fixer a with fine paint brush and just for kicks, she’s writing something in fine lines on my butt areas to work into a show as she de-stains me. So far, she’s got “Eat At,” and nothing more.

Maybe that should be un-stains.

Streaker Jones’ stain remover does two things. First it clears my skin of the stain and restores my color to its pretty one-fourth Native American luster. Second, it bleaches my hair into these dense, almost white curls. Great contrast to my natural black-black butt hair.

So, I drop my shorts and waggle for this nice lady and she screams and pepper sprays my face.

“You inappropriate asshole!” the woman shouts. And then, “Somebody get the Manager.”

“I’m OK, I don’t need any help from the Manager,” I tell the gathering crowd. “I’m used to pepper juice except on my crotch. I’ll be OK.”

“No you won’t,” the now not so nice lady quipped. And with that said, she pepper sprayed my balls.

Have you ever been cutting fresh hot peppers and gotten a little of the capsaicin oil on some delicate skin? Capsaicin oil is what makes peppers hot and that is the ingredient in pepper sprays.

Wait, I’m digressing you while I tell you about digressions. All of this stuff was yesterday’s visit to Sprouts and this bloggie post is about today’s visit. Let me just wrap up yesterday’s discussions by saying that I was glad to not be driving Gram’s Ferrari because I always have a cooler of Carta Blanca beer iced-up in my pick-up.

I stuffed a six pack in my shorts to cool my balls as I headed home.

Anyway, I go often to Sprouts and I tend to dawdle while I’m there. I dawdle because my ADHD causes my mind to wander me into predicaments. I also dawdle because, as a defense mechanism to help control the AD part of my ADHD, I am a touch obsessive-compulsive. But only a touch.

One of my compulsions involves the choosing of things, like produce. First I must choose which varieties of produce I desire, like is tonight’s dinner side dish stuffed zucchini or shall I make green beans? When Sprouts has specials this can be perplexing.

The second compulsion over which I obsess is choosing the very best of my previously chosen variety. Like today, when I went back to get the fajita meat for Sister, ginger for Gram, and zucchini for stuffing to go with the fajitas.

When choosing squash which are special priced at Sprouts, you get two or three big displays to look through, each with many examples. This morning’s choices were maybe a few hundred in each of three displays. So I’m required to inspect maybe 800 squashes to obtain the dozen needed for tonight’s dinner.

Each person gets a half squash filled with my special stuffing except for Anna the Amazon. Anna is my ex-wife and Sister’s current spouse, also a wife. Anna likes my stuffed zucchini and eats a full squash worth.

So that explains the width and breadth part of my frequency/duration discussion from earlier.

Anyway, I’m choosing my squashes this morning when I hear my name over the speakers. “Mr. Johnson, will you please report to the Manager’s office?”

I’m still squeezing and smelling squash when I hear the speakers, “That would be you Mooner. Now!”

“I didn’t recognize your voice on the speaker Harry,” I told my buddy the Manager as I entered his office and took a chair.

Harry handed me the ever-present pint bottle of Hornitos tequila he keeps in his desk for my visits. “Here, have a pull of this. I need a drink.”

“Please don’t tell me that Regional Director McCoy is banning me from the store Harry. I’m running out of places to shop.”

“Stop crying Mooner. This is about me.”

Harry had a weird look on his face- like half happy and half facing a firing squad. “I took Patty to meet mama for dinner last night and now I’ve got a big problem.”

“Oh just give your mom a chance Harry. Patty’s a great Wiccan woman and your mom will come around,” I counseled. I can be a thoughtful counselor. “Maybe I can get the Pope to bless something for your mother.”

The Pope owes me a favor.

“That’s not the problem Mooner. They like each other and that has become a problem.”

Wait a second, I just remembered something. I need to go back to Sprouts to get three more squash- I was on number nine when Harry summoned me to his office.

Fuckballs. I’ll see you guys later.

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