Archive for the ‘Santa Fe’ Category

All Hail The Garden; Daddy And Them Pay A Visit

Tuesday, July 21st, 2015

So.  It’s been an interesting week here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.  My still delicate and tender veggie patch—this year containing mostly tomatoes, peppers and herbs—was, effectively, strip searched and deep cavity inspected by a hail storm that marched across town like Sherman stormed through Atlanta.

OK, except for the fire, raping and pillaging, I liken my damages by hail to Sherman’s March.  That would be the hail storm that Santa Fe, “Never has.”  Ask a Santa Fe native about the weather here and they’ll tell you, “It blah, blah, and blahs …but it never hails.  Heavy sleet, maybe, but never actual hail.”

Does too hail, did hail, and the fucking hail stripped my plants to their skin and beat them black-and-blue and broken in the process.

“Would you look at that!” the Squirt said to me as the three of us stood gazing through the rabbit fence surrounding my tomato patch.  “It looks like a scene from that prison movie we rented a couple weeks ago.”

With that, the adorable bundle of brown fur and unfettered wonderment chuckled.  “Take all your clothes off and bend over, fellas,” she chuckled some more.

“Bend over and spread them cheeks, girls,” I replied with a chuckle of my own. “Lets us see what sort a con-tri-band you’re a-tryin’ to smuggle in ta my jail.”

We surveyed the rest of the estate to find half our apples and pears either down for the count, or battered so badly they needed to be removed from their branches.  Everything except my little succulent garden was beat, and all to Hell.

“You replanting, boss man?  There’s no produce coming off this patch.”

I thought on the tiny dog’s question.  Thought some more.  “Maybe, but maybe not.  It’s already mid-July and I’m too busy to nurse young plants.  Besides, this climate change that isn’t real has screwed-up everything.  It’s liable to snow in September and kill the new tomatoes before they ripen.”

“But they say it never snows in September in Santa Fe,” she told me.

“Exactly,” the most precise response I had.

That’s when I noticed the goat dog over in the corner of the yard where the pear tree sits.  Yoda was gobbling the downed pears like he was in an eating contest.  Squirt said to me, she said, “Look at Joey Chestnut over there, Mooner.  Looks like we’ve got a new world record for pears eaten in the fifteen-pound weight class.  If he doesn’t puke those pears up before taking a shit, I’m catching a bus outta town, and you can clean up the mess.  Remember when he ate the five-pound bag of Cheetos?”

OK, before my ADD takes over this conversation and drives the Squirt’s bus into the ditch, I want to tell you something.  This is something about which I’ve long debated even mentioning, much less fully-disclosing, yet thinking of that issue reminds me to tell you that Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson is here with her sister and buddies for a short visit.  It isn’t that they wanted to visit me, but, and rather, this last weekend was our International Folk Art Festival time.  Same festival whereat last year I stumbled upon Ali McGraw and bumbled my way to fumble a chance for a date.

That International Festival.  “Hey, look ladies,” I asked Sammie and her court in an almost conspiratorial way. “Keep your eyes peeled for Ali McGraw.  If you see her, put in a good word for me and then call.  I can be there in twenty minutes.  I’m working on a new opening line and it’s ready for a debut.”

The four women gathered at my breakfast table, eating bacon, eggies and biscuits I prepared for them, and sipping mimosas mixed and poured by me, burst out laughing as if on cue at some fucking sit-com rehearsal.  One of them actually spit a mouthful of orange juice-thinned champagne in a spray.

Sammie’s sister choked back her guffaw enough to say to me, she said, “Really, Mooner.  Ali McGraw, Mooner,” yuk, yuk, yuk, wipe of tears from eyes, yuk and yuk some more.  “Sam told us you’d gotten more delusional since moving from Austin, but really.  Ali McGraw?”

I think I might actually be starting to enjoy my lack of close female companionship.  While the Squirt is female, and she does get all up in my ass for no real reason, the lack of sexual tensions keeps her bullshit at manageable levels.  Never need to worry about saying the wrong thing to my tiny puppy and having the backlash be me getting no poontang.

And that reminds me of something else.  How ‘bout that Pope Francois, huh?  How about that Popester?  Me, if I had dedicated my entire life to promoting two millennia’s worth of dogma created by generations of greedy, murderous bastards, and all justified by a story with so many holes that it makes Swiss cheese seem as dense as a gold brick, I don’t know if I’d be strong enough to be so concerned with the little people or even the environment as is La Pope’.  Me, I’d be pissed and want the rest of the entire fucking world to be just as miserable as I.

Me, I’d be like all those other Popes before our boy Frankie.  Me, I’d be a miserable old shithead spending as much time keeping my good Catholic masses chained to the cross and whipped by the ridiculous tenants used over the centuries to control their minds.  And their pocketbooks.

Going to make the Presidential politics quite interesting, this Pope is.  Of the announced candidates, O’Malley, Christie, little Jebbie Bushkins, Marco Ruby Slippers, and Ricky Sanitorium are all good Catholic boys.  Except for Bush, they were each born and reared Catholic, so they know they are responsible to follow the Pope’s teachings to the letter—that would be to the fucking letter, boys.  All of the Pope’s teachings, not just the ones you find to be politically expedient.  Bush converted so he could marry a good Catholic girl, so I’m giving him an excuse card to be an asshole and flip-flop on his Catholicism.  Any man out there knows, as my good buddy Squatlo likes to say, that, “Pussy makes you stupid!”  But not the rest of them—they need to be held to the letters of the Pope.

I can’t wait to see the flow charts showing who takes what stands both using their religion to take a position, and then defying that same religion to take another stand.  Two-faced, bigoted pig fuckers.  The rest of the religious-righties are just as squirrely with the words in their books of fables, but the Catholics are the only ones with a single leader with whom their God has installed a hotline of direct communication.

Then, and again, if that scenario is true and the Catholic God speaks directly to the Pope, then I have proof positive that there are at least two Gods—their Catholic fellow (Fellow, maybe) and my God.  Having said that, I’m reminded that my God paid me a visit over the weekend.  Not certain with any absoluteness which day as I spent the weekend partying with the girls, if you know what I mean, and assuming you know I mean no party sex included.

Must have been Saturday night because I don’t remember sitting outside late Sunday night in the rain.  I was sort of nodding off in the wicker rocking chair that sits on the portal and contemplating how I would introduce myself to Ali McGraw when my God arrived sitting at my feet in that silly cross-legged yoga pose.  God looked like Charlize Theron but spoke with Billy Bob Thornton’s voice—what I would have imagined to be a disconcerting combination, but I found it to be quite pleasant.

“Hey, God, how’s it hanging this fine summer eve?”

“Are you ever going to get a new pick-up line, dumass?” God asked me in BBT’s slow-cadenced drawl.  “And you need to forget about Ali McGraw and Sammie both.  Neither has the time or patience to deal with your issues.  I hear Bo Derrick is headed to town—maybe that could work out for you.”

“I’ve got a new pick-up line in a queue, Ma’am, and no thanks on the Ms. Ten offer, big Girl.  I heard her bitching as to how she hates her looks now that she’s “matured”.  I need a woman with both feet solidly planted on the ground and the guts to work her way through the early months with an ADHD-addled old fuckball.  Maybe you could help me land Laura Dern.  I think she’d be really interesting and her daddy is a handful, like me.  Hey, isn’t her mother Diane Ladd?  I’d date Diane Ladd, and hey—didn’t Billy Bob drop Laura Dern to marry Angelina?  That was a giant fucking mistake, if you ask me.  What do you think?”

God was gone.  Sometimes I wish my God were more like the Pope’s God—force a little action rather than simply counsel me.  I could use a little Divine intervention in my dating life.  Might could use a touch of reality as well.  But a man needs to have lofty goals, right?

So, fuck Walmart!

 

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Gassing Up For Summer; A Johnson Family History Lesson

Wednesday, June 17th, 2015

So.  It’s been four days since Gram showed up to my door unannounced, driven in a tow truck that also special delivered her crumpled-up red sports car, and with said crusty old bird towing a young college student by his pecker.  It’s been four days of fun times spent with the mangy dog that is my grandmother, and not so fun times of cleaning up after her.  As my grandmother’s presence often sets fire to my ADHD, I’ll make every effort to provide concise elucidations on the subjects addressed.

We fixed a BBQ together Sunday afternoon whereat the dogs and I were responsible for the meat and corn-on-the-cob, and Gram took charge of the potato salad and pinto beans.  Since Gram is, as she calls herself, “Tha best pinter beanies cookerator in all a Travis County and abouts,” she’s the chief bean chef whenever beans are on the menu.  Unless it’s green beans or soy beans.

“I ain’t fixin’ no eat ur mammy beaners, Mooner, ain’t eatin’ um neithers.  Fuckin’ Russian fart pellets iff’n ya ask me.  Doc Ashburn flinches ever time he sees me anymore,” she told me when I asked her to cook beans for the BBQ.

“If you’d chew your food better, Gram, you’d have much less gas, factual information the entire family wants you to know.”

While Gram did have that incident when she almost put out old Doc Ashburn’s eye during a rectal exam the one time after we ate at a sushi place, I’ve fed her edamame several times since without any gassy complaints.

Our boy Tommy was assigned to, “You be a watchin’ Mooner out there to tha grill, Mr. T, and you learn a thing er six.  Mooner mad cooks piggy meat.  Goat an’ chicken too.”

Tommy stayed with me long enough to drink half a beer and for me to get the grill hot before he headed back inside.  “Need a beer coozie, Mr. Johnson, be right back.”

The Squirt giggled as she watched Tommy’s back disappear through the back door.  “He must have been a virgin when Gram snared him, bwana Mooner.  He’s got nothing else on his mind.”

“Yes ma’am, little lady.  Boy better start pacing himself or Gram’s gonna kill him.  Which reminds me.  Do you know where the bottle of Nu Skin is?  I haven’t seen it since I was changing the light bulb in the dining room and cut that chunk of flesh off my arm.  Fucking curio cabinet.  Tommy’s liable to need some flesh repairs, if you know what I mean.  Rub a cucumber against a leather saddle long enough, cucumber’s likely to lose considerable skin.”

We both laughed, and headed inside to prepare the vegetables for dinner.

OK, having written this much of today’s nonsense, I’m struck by the sense that I have located yet another reason I make up words.  I now realize that, in addition to the many reasons I have enumerated before, I’m long trained by my grandmother to use literary license when congregating my verbages.  Conjugating adverbs as well.  Take, for example, her word “cookerator”.  Please carefully evaluate that word in the context provided by me, herein and above, and tell me she didn’t nail it.  Or as she might be prone to say, “I nailerated it, shithead.”

Did I ever tell you about the time Gram, Mother and I visited Mother’s family back to Virginia right after Daddy died?  My father died but a couple years after his own and a year before Mother’s mother was murdered. It was a few tough losses for us and we took Mother back East to see what family she had left not named Johnson.  It was while on that trip that Gram had her coming-out moment.  Mother was visiting an old buddy and left Gram and I to fend for ourselves.  We were discussing what to do when my Gram opened my eyes to her state of mind.

“I been a right good wife ta yer granddaddy, Mooner—never did have any poontanger with another man.  Married at almost fourteen, we was, an’ I never did even looksee at another man,” giggle, slap of hands to thighs, more giggling,”’ceptin’ fer tha one time when Willie danced with me over to tha Broken Spoke back to ’72,” giggle, pause, angelic smile.  “I’d a put Willie right on down to tha floor an’ made yer granddaddy watch, Mooner.  Willie Nelson is one sexy cowboy!”

Gram then told me that she had fifty years to make up, and I needed to get her laid.  As Maryland blue crabs from the Chesapeake Bay are one of my food weaknesses, I took her to this crab place on the bay near the Virginia/Maryland border.  “Henry’s” was its name and they served steamed crabs with bay seasoning, cold beer and fresh corn, and they had a country hoe down every Saturday night.

And why, inthefuck, is a country dance called a hoe down.  My best thoughts would be that the working folk put down their hoes to have a good time, but really?

Big place, Henry’s, and filled to the rafters with diners and dancers.  We ate a dozen crabs and many ears of corn and swilled beers for an hour or so.  The beers, Old Dominion of brand and icy cold served, filled our hands—me watching for a suitable lady, and my Gram looking at each man like she was searching for lice in my hair back to elementary school.

“What’s wrong, Gram?” I asked her.  “There’s fifty men hanging out with no dates.  One of them has got to fit your scheme of things.”

“Too fuckin’ old, sonny boy.  Got fifty year’s a sextin’ all stored up.  I don’t wanna kill my first un, now do I?”

She finally settled on a young man of maybe nineteen who was there with his parents and a pretty girl I assumed was his date.  That was the last actual fistfight I was in, except for that one time at the lesbian meeting for Sister and Anna the Amazon, and the only time served by me in a Virginia jail.  Nice people, Virginia cops.

Gram failed to land the young Virginia lover boy that night, but she did learn a valuable lesson.  “Need ta git me a man hookie, Mooner.  Sumthin’ ta cerebriate mysef from them young girls.”

After cogitating how to cerebrally differentiate herself in a young man’s mind, she settled on a bright red Ferrari, and Gram has hooked young boys with that car better than stink bait snags catfish on a treble hook.  Evidence young Tom, still a fixture in the spare bedroom here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.

Anyway, I went inside to replenish my cooler with beer while the dogs and I did the only cooking getting done, and Gram’s pinto beans were boiling over on the stove.  Hell’ova mess, let me tell you, and an absolute bitch to clean.  Fire-baked-on bean juice is like brown enamel on a stove top.  Took so long to clean it up, I worried that Gram and Tommy were dead in the guest room, and I burned the pig meat outside.

“Looks like we’re headed to Dr. Field Goods,” Squirt said with excited tail waggings.  “Remember that the goat dog likes the spicy Italian sausage, and I want a simple Margarita, pizza” she informed me.  “Oh, oh, oh, and get me some chicken liver pate, if you please, sir.”

The pizzas were great and the pate good enough to eat off of Michelle Bachmann’s Lilly white epidermis while listening to her make a stump speech.

Fuck Walmart!

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

Sunday, August 11th, 2013

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How fucking sick can one man be?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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All That Is Golden Is Not Gold; Fuck Walmart Anyway

Saturday, March 23rd, 2013

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Manana, y’all.

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The New Mexico Oil And Gas Association Are Chickenshit Asshole Pig Fuckers!

Sunday, March 10th, 2013

 

So. It is, indeed, another day in Paradise. There’s this miraculous snow falling in the dead-still air—tiny, fluffy flakes that appear to crystallize before my eyes. The flakes are so small and light that they look like miniature feathers see-sawing on their way to earth. I sat at my dining room table this am, with the newspaper spread before me in preparation for a Sunday’s dissection, cup of steaming Joe at my right hand and Chris Hayes’ MSNBC show on the tube.

But it was this marvelous snow—this itsy-bitsy micro snowfall that held my attention. Raptly. I had started to imagine Allie McGraw sprawled nekid, on her back, on Aunt Hilda’s African blanket that I had spread under the leafless cherry tree outside the window. I could see these little snowflakes lightly land and settle on Ms. McGraw’s nipples—pink and puckered from the chill. She had her eyes shut tight with pleasure, the huge smile on her face a testament to my adoration of the scene. Flakes had landed on her lips and melted into small droplets. The droplets began to gather and run down her cheeks.

Allie McGraw opened her eyes and tilted her head to look straight into me. Her lips parted and she carefully extended her tongue out and into a point.

“Hey shithead, snap out of it. We’re hungry!” I was jolted as if slapped with a wet smelt.

It was the Squirt. “Come on, asshole, it’s breakfast time.”

I started to tell her that the seasonal change of time zones had come to interfere with her meal planning, but she cut me short. “And don’t even attempt that Daylight Savings crap again.”

I guess that cheap tricks are quickly learned by old dogs. “OK, little lady. Go get the goat dog and meet me in the kitchen.”

After I fed and bathroomed the dogs, I sat back to the table for the paper. There on the front page was an article about the New Mexico Oil and Gas Association. Turns out those sleazy ground and air polluting assholes have been intentionally breaking the law here to Santa Fe, and… OK, stop.

Does everyone know what the purpose is of every “Oil and Gas Association” in every state in America happens to be in 2013? To sell fracking as a safe and useful tool to fill our country’s future energy needs. They sell their weird science and job creation and charity and other bullshit, all the while knowing that they are killing our planet as they move from state to state with their grizzly machines of ruination.

And they break the law. They break laws accidentally and they break laws with the strongest of intentions. They break laws both great and small. They break laws with small and major consequences. They break the law and create $Billions in environmental damages with dozens of dead bodies in the wake, and they break small laws that indispose the lives of ordinary citizens trying to protect the livability and privacy of their homesteads. They create the Deep Water Horizon disaster and they create the disruption caused by their continued disobedience of the Codes of Santa Fe, New Mexico.

The New Mexico Oil and Gas Association are a bunch of chickenshit, asshole pig fuckers. What they have done is rent a home in a beautiful residential area very near to the State Capitol so that their lobbyists won’t break a sweat walking over to the offices of our elected officials. They wanted to be close to those they pander to and at, and they don’t care any more about breaking the law in Santa Fe than they do about spoiling the environment anywhere else.

As we all know, lobbyists are either lawyers, former Congressional members, former regulators or some of all three mixed together. But each Association has a lawyer who oversees things, and lawyers know that a business operation must operate from a location that is properly zoned for their uses. When the New Mexico Oil and Gas Association rented the home wherein they placed their business, they knew they would be operating outside the law. If not, they are both evil and stupid. They even filed for a “home occupancy” business license knowing that no person would be residing at the address.

So, they knew they were breaking the law, they falsified legal documents to obtain a business license, and they began plying their trade last year in the months before our State Legislature began their Session.

Upon noticing this breach of City Code, neighbors protested to the City and the City responded by revoking that business license and telling the New Mexico Oil and Gas Association to move their shit shop elsewhere. That also was last summer.

But in typical lawyer fashion, the New Mexico Oil and Gas Association has dragged their feet using every possible legal and illegal maneuver possible. And now—just weeks before the END of our Legislative Session—the New Mexico Oil and Gas Association says, and here I’ll quote Mr. Wally Drangmeister, Head Liar… er, I mean Spokesman for the New Mexico Oil and Gas Association.

The Association admits that it has continued to use the illegal office since the City notified them it was illegal. “We have worked on a plan to make it all work out… We are taking care of it. We will be out of here—if things work out—real quick.”

Oh really, Wally? You’ve already continued your knowingly illegal use of a residence for seven months and you plan to be out “real quick” if “things work out”?

What things need to be worked out, asshole? Is it to buy enough votes? Is it to make enough threats? Or might it simply be for this Legislative Session to expire and you no longer have need for this home?

In the article in today’s The New Mexican from which I’m quoting, Mr. Wally’s Oily World continued—and folks, you are absolutely going to love this shit—to say, “It’s one of those things… We are very active in the community, and we are sad to not be able to utilize this house. We are sad that it didn’t work out. But we are going to try to find somewhere else in Santa Fe and continue to work on behalf of our members and doing all that our industry does to support the State of New Mexico.”

Seems Wally and his crew are already targeting new neighborhoods to fuck over. Wally didn’t say, “We are sorry that we violated the law,” he’s instead, “…sad it didn’t work out…” for them. Wally didn’t ask what the New Mexico Oil and Gas Association can do to repay the neighborhood for fucking them over, he just promises to move out “real quick”, but even then only if “things work out”.

Work out for who, Wally? Work out for whom?

When I finished reading this article I was so pissed that I realized I had found my new protestation target. I had started to write down possible protest sign language. “Fuck the New Mexico Oil and Gas Association” seemed to be one side of each idea I had. I always print different slogans on each side of my protest signs.

OK, let me try to wrap this up. My granddaddy told me that the best way to judge integrity is not in the large things someone or something does, but rather, it’s in the small things where real integrity lie. “If you corner a man and he strikes back like a caged animal, that don’t make him a bad man, Mooner. But if that same man’ll smack his wife for getting dinner on the table late, or if he cuts your fence to let his pigs eat your corn and then tell you he don’t know how it happened… That there’s a man needs an ass kicking.”

The New Mexico Oil and Gas Association needs an ass kicking. Fuck the New Mexico Oil and Gas Association. Fuck every Oil and Gas Association everywhere in the World.

Manana, y’all.

 

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Cynthianne From Albuquerque Finally Puts Out; Is It Incest?

Wednesday, January 30th, 2013

 

So. Never let it be said that your shit doesn’t come around to kick you in your own butt. I asked Cynthianne to do a guest posting and she did. Here it is in its unaltered and uncensored states. OK, except that I changed the font size to 13 and double spacelated the entire dealio.

I will, however, precondition readers to several modifying facts: First, if I can’t drink Carta Blanca I don’t drink beer; Second, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson did attend the after and aforementioned meeting. As I’ve been in serious needs of sexing, I flew her in on the contexts of needing emergency therapies and mental adjustments. While those contexts are accurate in their essences, they were but smokescreens used, by me, in another feeble attempt (attempts) to bed my lovely ex-wife.

Anyway, and without further ado, I give you Cynthianne from Albuquerque:

 

 

Mooner Afflicted with More Unsuitable Relatives

 

Guest post from “Cousin” Cynthianne

 

 

The Roe v. Wade celebration at the capitol was fun, with birthday cake and speeches and signs and even an impromptu little parade down Old Santa Fe Trail. Sadly, Mooner didn’t make the rally, to his loss. It was probably the highest concentration of liberal cougars ever seen in Santa Fe, if not the whole state, and he missed them one and all. You snooze, you lose, Mooner.

 

We met, as Mooner stated, at a somewhat loud biker/cowboy bar in downtown Santa Fe. I brought Gloria as my bodyguard, and Mooner brought his psycho-therapist, who was convinced that the only hits on his blog were Ukrainian spammers, to check me out. A body can’t be too careful these days.

 

I was wondering at first if Mooner had sent a ringer; not only was this person drinking Margaritas instead of Carta Blanca, he was suspiciously coherent and articulate. I was feeling like the hookah-smoking caterpillar in Alice– “WHOOO are YOU?” But then he had a massive giggling fit at something his long-suffering therapist said, and nearly fell out of his seat. Yep, it was Mooner all right.

 

It was possibly at this point that Gloria decided she was oh so tired and we should leave.

 

Although Gloria might not agree, I thoroughly enjoyed the visit. I was also mildly intrigued by the superficial resemblance of our features, but laughed it off until I found out about Myrtle. OMG! Great Aunt Myrt who ran off to Texas with the itinerant peddler almost a century ago! Could it be?

 

After exhaustive investigations (“All signs point to yes,” sez the Magic 8-Ball), it appears that I may be a cousin from the long-lost Louisiana hillbilly branch of the Mooner clan. As if Mooner didn’t already have enough family problems.

 

Exciting no? Although for some reason, Mooner keeps muttering something about DNA testing…

Finis”

 

OK, I lied about the “unaltered states” part as I added the word “finis” and also the quotation marks to delineate Cynthianne’s prose from that of my own. As for that whole “we might be family” dealio, I’m uncertain as to what I might say. So I’ll say nothing. Except to say that Cynthianne would be a quite welcome addition to the manic menagerie I call The Family Johnson. Why she might wish that inclusionary addition to her heritage is a mystery.

“Nuff said. Manana, y’all.

 

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Perfect Party Planning; Lessons In ADHD

Sunday, November 18th, 2012

 

So. It’s another beautiful day in New Mexico and I’ve just discovered that I have more work to do on La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. The floor tiles in the guest bathroom have started breaking in half, a situation of considerable consternation. The reason for my confusion is that the tile was laid by “professionals” over the summer and the reason for the failure is, quite simply said, operator error.

I was busy out back with the yard grading problems—moving truckloads of soil with Adrian and Pedro—when the tile was laid in the small bathroom. Since I hired professional tile guys to do the work, I didn’t pay any attention to their efforts. They laid the tile with glue and didn’t “bed” it in mud.

Asshole fucking amateur tile-laying Republican shitheads. I bet they voted for Romney.

In order to have the bathroom ready for the Thanksgiving crowd, Adrian and I will be working the weekend to rip out the old stuff and install newly-purchased tile. Tiles?

Which reminds me. All of a sudden I’m not a very popular man. For months I have been receiving dozens of supportive, flattering Emails every day and suddenly last week, the bottom dropped out. I’m not sure what I did to make Stephanie Cutter unhappy with me, but her sometimes twice-daily love letters just stopped ringing my Email’s doorbell. I really thought we had something going.

And that reminds me of something else. With all the asshole businessmen pulling bone headed stunts in the wake of the President’s reelection, I want to take a minute to speak my positions re: thereto. Thereof? Therein?

Heretofore, I want to speak my positions therein.

First of all, I have long had a personal embargo on Walmart, Chick Fil-A and this restaurant in Austin whose meals gave me food poisoning twice. I started my Walmart embargo due to their asshole personnel policies and strengthened it with the giant chain store’s long list of Chinese product offerings. Now they have allowed their greed to creep Xmas sales all the way into Thanksgiving day, a move that forces other dumbass retailers to do the same. I won’t shop Walmart. Ever, or for any reason.

OK, stop. Do you have an embargo “on” something or “at” that offensive thing?

As for the chicken sandwich shop, I stopped going there because I was in their hometown in Georgia this one time and met some gay people who were fired when they disclosed their homosexuality to management.

So, “Fuck you Smallmart and Chickenshit-Filled Assholes both!”

As for Pappa John’s Pizza, I have consumed exactly one bite of that ketchup-covered cardboard and one bite was enough for a lifetime. But I’ll now add a “Fuck You!” to that asshole and Applebees and Denny’s and all the rest of you. Stop using Obama’s win to excuse your being an asshole.

Be an asshole and own it. I can at least have a modicum of respect for an asshole with integrity.

Which provides another reminder. I wanted to buy some drapes for the dining room to provide privacy. The windows in the front room are giant and some folks don’t like getting ogled by passersby while eating. I will be changing the windows out next spring for better efficiency units, so I wanted simple, inexpensive drapes.

OK, stop again. Maybe I wanted curtains and not drapes.

Anyway, I do everything possible to buy American made goods and services and I especially don’t like to buy Chinese. I refuse to consume anything Chinese unless it’s my only choice and I really need it. I’ll gladly pay higher prices for stuff to support homegrown business and that reminds me to say that I don’t do Staples or Home Depot either.

And now I’ve lied to you because I consume Chinese food—love it and eat it by choice—and the lady up to the spa where I got a recent rubdown was Chinese, and me glad she was. Maybe I’m showing a prejudice, but I think Asian women—or at least Asian-looking women—give the best rubdowns on the planet.

I used to think it was Scandinavian women who were the best rub-downers back to when I was married to Ingrid. Ingrid owns Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium back to Austin and Ingrid has her some magic fingers. Since our divorce, and the subsequent separating of the clinical rubdown from the hard-core sexual aspects of my relationship with Ingrid, I’ve decided that Asian women are the best rubbers.

I spent the entire last week trying to find already sewn drapes NOT fucking made in China. The best I could do was over to the Bed Bath and Way-too-fucking-far Gone, where I found an assortment of drapes that were, as the tags said, “Hecho in China.”

Hecho in fucking China?

I’ve got an appointment with a seamstress Monday morning.

Which reminds me. I’m headed to a party in my honor tonight and I truly don’t know what to think. My lawyer buddy is introducing me to some local folks and I have some confusions therein. Sex is a not-so-recent memory and I’m hoping he and his lovely wife have arranged for some unattached women to be there for me to meet. I’m concerned that I’ll do something to fuck up their friendships. Not that I’d ruin a relationship on purpose, but I’m trolling for sex of an accidental or purposeful nature, either way.

Is it proper to take more than one woman home from a party given in your honor? If things move quickly in one of the new relationships, do we sex it up in the bathroom or should we take it outside. Would it be proper to sex one new acquaintance in the bathroom during the party and take another home after?

It’s been cold at night so maybe I should put some blankets in the car, and have you noticed that my ADHD has gotten better since I left Texas? The Squirt told me just this morning that she thinks I’m getting better since we moved to Santa Fe.

OK, that’s another lie. What my adorable little puppy actually said was, “Not getting laid helps your ADHD—gives you something to focus your crazy mind.”

Then she giggled at me and said, “Shiny objects!”

I said, “Bitch,” and then giggled with her. “Will you check the hairs in my nose for me? Classy women don’t go for men with boar bristles poking out their schnozzolas.”

Blankets and a Barry White CD. I wonder if they’ll invite a nice lady artist. Maybe I should go with a Puccini opera CD. Maybe I should get one of my Navajo blankets in case I meet a nice woman from a local tribe. Maybe I should learn a few pick-up lines in Navajo. Maybe I’m over-thinking this dealio.

Ugh. So much to do. Manana, y’all.

 

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Hosed Again; Moving Moments

Sunday, September 23rd, 2012

 

So. Here we all are in Santa Fe, New Mexico. We’re tired and sore and sick of wrapping paper and moving boxes, but we’ve not often been as happy to be tired and sore. As the Squirt put it last night when we were out to the portal having icy-cold Carta Blancas and a plate of finger foods, “Son of a bitch but this is some fine living, Bwana Mooner. This is some mighty fine living.”

She was right, of course, and a portal is a covered patio and the finger foods came from a selection of fresh veggies, handmade sausages and meats, and some pickles we grabbed from the Santa Fe Farmer’s Market. I picked up some fresh bread and other accouterments from the Whole Foods over to Cerrillos Road and we were set.

The weather was crisp and clean and the temperature fell from about 69 when we sat down just at dusk and was 62 when I checked it at 11:00 pm as we finally went inside. Then this morning it was 55 when I got up to go get the Sunday paper. I see from the sports section that Tennessee won yesterday, so I won’t need to listen to my buddy Squatlo piss and moan about that, and Kansas State whipped Oklahoma so I get the pleasure of hearing Sooner fans whine about that. A Daily Double.

My elder son and his special lady will arrive for a visit in a few hours—the first of family and friends to see the new casita. It’s still a work in progress but he wanted to help me with some of the update stuff, and help is what I need.

“You’re as clumsy as a borracho pintor Bosnio, Mooner. Everybody knows that you have to put the clamp on the hose first, dumbass,” Squirt advised me. “Look at that dumbshit, Yoda, he worked his ass off getting that hose into place and now he’s got to take it back off to put the clamp on it.”

I was squatted behind the clothes dryer—cramped and crowded in the tight space and likely looking like a drunk Bosnian painter—and the Squirt had her nose wedged between it and the washer next to it. Yoda the goat dog had jumped atop the dryer and was peering down at me like when Snoopy played vulture in the cartoon. The smell of stinky dog breath was a fetid cloud of halitosis as I was struggling to get the too-small vent hose snugged-over and clamped-to the out-of-round vent pipe in the wall. I was thirty minutes into the job and I already had two slices in my fingers from the sharp metal edge of the pipe and an ass full of frustrations.

“Have I told you that they eat dog meat tacos up to the Reservations near Taos? We’ll be heading that way this afternoon.”

Squirt laughed at me and the goat dog tried to eat the end off the dryer hose. We all climbed into the GTO to head over to the Ace Hardware store for a new hose and they were making a new batch of popcorn when we got there. Yoda went to stand station by the popcorn machine to capture anything that dropped and to practice his begging skills.

“Mr. Johnson, how are you sir?”

It was the head cashier. “Listen, you might want to leave Squirt in the car today, sir. We just waxed and polished the floors and I don’t want her to rub those wax finishing products into her cute little bottom.”

For those of you uninitiated here ’bouts, the Squirt had impacted anal glands and would drag her ass on the floor tiles all over the Ace Hardware. She was so fucking adorable with her hind legs pointed skyward and that grimace plastered on her face.

“Oh, Thanks, but don’t worry. We got her all fixed up before we moved.”

Here I lifted the miniature bundle of brown fur and wonderment and flipped her around to show the scars. “See, most of the swelling is gone and you will hardly be able to see her scars. I paid extra to get her cuts and sutures done cosmetically.”

“Uh, ah, I can tell,” was the only reply I got.

When we had made it to the dryer vent aisle, Squirt stopped and looked up at me. “That, you giant flaming asshole, was soooo embarrassing. If you do that to me again I’m going to shit in your favorite sneakers and have Yoda eat your car seats.”

Point taken. I guess I can be somewhat inappropriate at times. “OK, little lady, I’ll try to not do that again.”

Anyway, when the family arrives we’ll head out to the Santa Fe flea market and off to lunch in the mountains. Another day in paradise.

Manana, y’all.

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Packing Is Such Sweet Sorrow; A Moving Story

Monday, September 17th, 2012

 

So. I’ve been busy sorting and packing the things to take to Santa Fe. And thinking. I’ve never really moved except back to my college days when Streaker Jones and I rented a furnished house over near The University of Texas.

Precisely how do you decide what is important enough to move from one state to another—from one culture to one of a complete difference? What personal mementos are better placed in one home as the other?

How does a person divide their life’s possessions and histories into two separate piles?

Me—I have no fucking idea.

I have gone from thinking that I should move everything I own across state lines to giving everything away to the Salvation Army and starting over. I have keepsakes from three kids, ten marriages and six decades of life enjoyments and pains. I have a big house here to the ranch and every wall, nook and cranny is full and packed with my—and my family’s—shit.

I have an entire truckload of stuff from my own childhood. I have the cactus needles removed from from my body that time I fell into a mature prickly pear; I have the pair of old coveralls—rusty zipper still hanging from their crotch—from that time Mother zipped me up; I’ve even got the newspaper notice that appeared in the Metro Section from the first time I was ever arrested.

Which of those keepsakes is better kept in Santa Fe and which will age better in the higher humidity of Austin?

How does a man who loves to cook divide his kitchen gadgets into two separate yet equal allotments—one to stay in Texas and the second to travel to the Enchanted Land? Assuming that everything has some semblance of a soul, how do you decide which things get the same blessings as you yourself are to receive with your move, and which are to stay in the arch conservative political cesspool known as Texas? Will my favorite All Clad cookware have hurt feelings if I leave them behind and buy new there? Will the stockpot miss the saute’ pans if I separate them? Will they burn stuff on purpose if they are unhappy with my decisions?

Ugh.

When I asked my grandmother what she thinks, she told me, she said, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner. Take what ya want and leave tha rest. Now git yer ass out to tha grillie and cook them ribbies.”

I love that crazy old broad. When I asked her if there was anything I could do for her before I leave this time, she said, “Ya can fix me some a yer ribbies—ya know, them ones with tha sticky sauce.”

Sticky sauce would be a fiery-hot honey glaze that I apply after the ribs are cooked. I slather the sauce on and then move the meat over the hot coals. Most of the glaze slides off into the fire, and the resulting flare-ups from sugar on glowing coals crisps the remaining sugars onto the meat. The results are tender and juicy pork meat with a super-thin spicy crust.

As my Gram likes to say, “Makes ya wanna slap yer own damned self.”

Anyway, I’m really too busy to screw with writing and I’m likewise way behind schedule with the packing. Movers will arrive Tuesday morning to load and I need to get ready. So this will be the last posting until Thursday or Friday, and then I’ll be writing as a New Mexican.

Squirt told me yesterday, she said, “Maybe we should change my name to “Chorra”. Chorro is Spanish for Squirt.”

When I reminded her that chorro can have a negative connotation she told me she’d think about it. Then she told me that since luna was Spanish for moon that maybe we should call me Lunatic. She then laughed herself breathless and almost broke her leg patting herself on the back.

Manana de la manana de la 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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Wee Willy Koch Plays Cowboy; When Does A Horse Have Two Assholes?

Saturday, August 25th, 2012

So.  Here we all are on a fine Saturday morning in America.

America.  Land of the Free, Home of the Brave.  Right.  Free–if  you’re rich enough–to buy the US Supreme Court, the US and States’ Congresses, and enough pristine Colorado wilderness to build yourself a real-live old western town like our boy Koch.  But Brave?  My dictionary defines brave as, “Possessing courage and valor…,”  and has something to do with Honor.

How Brave is it to send the truly Brave among us to fight wars started by and based upon,  lies?  How Brave is it to use bald-faced lies to push your religious-based political agenda?  How Brave are you to lie to get ahead?

How fucking Brave are you when you grab your banana-clipped automatic weapons and shoot up women and kids in the name of white bigotry?  How Brave are Glen Beck and Savage and the other assholes when they wind up their Nazi toys to do their killing?  How Brave is it to hate based upon nothing more than a difference?

America.  For amber waves of grain; For purple mountains majesty.  Right.  Amber-stalked, dead corn and soy beans and amber-bleached animal carcasses spread across our drought-plagued infertile plains.  Amber is the color of the gold lining the pockets of the oilmen and financiers who profit from the greenhouse gasses that cause the extremes in weather that cause the droughts.

As for your majestic mountains…  Better not have coal or gold or uranium or another valuable commodity buried within its geo structure.

Which reminds me.  Tennessee’s state song is Rocky Top, or at least it seems to be.  Do you think those 100,000 plus Volunteers are thinking about the dozens of their rocky topped mountains that are getting dug into flattops by the coal industry as they sway and sing at Neyland Stadium?

America.  American Industrial Might.  Right.  Man walks into a bar in Detroit and says to the bartender, he says, “Say, barkeep, I’m a foreign journalist and I’ve just flown in to do a story on American Industrial Might.  Where would you suggest I start?”  Barkeep says, “China.”

America.  America, where all men are created equal.  Really?

Ugh.  I’m getting all pissed off with the state of things in my beloved country.  The story about that asshole William “Wild Bill Willie” Koch building his own old west town in the back yard of his Colorado home has hit me hard.  Go read just one of the stories and see if you don’t get pissed as well.  Motherfucker has enough money to pay for all that excess of greedy ego and he still wants to manipulate our political processes to gain more.

There is a group of Christian-based robber barons who want to take us back to the 1800’s, when labor unions were dreams and a man could buy any fucking thing he wanted.  That, dear friends, is why Wet Willie Koch is so fascinated with the Wild, Wild West.  He wants to buy the fastest gun in town and be the land baron.

I guess Wild Willie wants to play gunslinger and shoot up Dodge City.  Maybe that’s what it takes to get his pecker stiff at age 72.  Me, I hope his little adventure turns into a true life Westworld.  I can envision Yul Brenner’s The Gunslinger character staring him down, and…

Wasn’t Yul Brenner a scary fucking human being?  If he had been born anytime in history before 1850 he’d have been a military dictator.  If he were to give me that stare and say, “Eat that plate of cat shit, boy!” I’d be forced to reply, “Just one plate, sir?”

America’s infrastructure is crumbling–roads, bridges, dams and all the rest are in a terrible state of repair.  We manufacture less than we consume.  Our forever free and quality public education system is getting ruined by extremists.  We are losing the important personal freedoms gained by Americans starting with our Revolution to gain freedom from England, and from slavery, and the Suffragettes, and segregation and women’s reproductive rights.

Women’s Rights.  There’s your oxymoron if Mitt Romney can steal enough votes to become President.  Do you realize that in more than thirty of our glorious states, if a woman who gets pregnant as the result of rape and decides to have the baby, she is REQUIRED by new laws to take that child to visit the rapist father while he’s in prison?  That’s right, a rapist get’s visitation rights to his little love child in the majority of our states, and the mother is required to produce the child to the prison gates.

Are… You… Fucking… Kidding me?

What has happened?  How did we get here?  Why is the Jesus of peace and love now used as a battering ram to oppress all differing views?

Which reminds me.  Last night I worked late with the stone masons to lay the flagstone walkways out back here to our Santa Fe casita.  I finished too tired to get cleaned up, so I just washed the red dust off my hands and face and headed to a fast food joint for a greasy dinner of fried fish and chips.  It was just a half hour before closing time and there were but two families seated in the otherwise empty dining room.  One family rose and left as I got my tray of food and the other–a family of Native Americans–were seated in a booth next to the table I chose for myself.

There was a mother-grandmother, and I’m thinking two of her sons and a granddaughter and grandson.  She was dressed classically in Navajo fashion and her grandson of maybe seven years called her “Shímásání”.   That’s how I knew them to be Navajo.  For some weird reason I know the Navajo word for Gram.

She spoke to her family only in her native tongue–quiet, hyphenated rhythmic speech with emphasis on almost every other syllable.  It made me tear up to hear her speak and the reverential treatment she received from her family.  I sat, enchanted, as my tears peppered the fried fish fillets like the sprinkling of malt vinegar I’d just applied. I felt a passion and respect for this woman and her history.  I started thinking about that asshole William Koch and wondered how long I’d need to practice to become a gunslinger so I could go face him down at high noon.

That’s when it hit me.

I haven’t had a psycho therapy session in over three weeks!

Manana, y’all.

 

 

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Howdy, Neighbor; Mitt Romney Is A Dumbass

Friday, August 24th, 2012

So.  Neighbors.  By definition, a neighbor is “one who is next to or very near”, and this morning I find myself contemplating the very essence of neighborhoodliness.  The stimuli hatching these swirling thoughts is, once again, the incredible science of Relativity.

You guys know Relativity, right?  That bastion of critical thinking that Rick Perry and the rest of the Right-wing extremists want to purge from our “Public” schools.  Ignorant fucks.

The foundation and background for my scientific thinkings is that I have lived my entire life calling a ranch outside Austin, Texas my home.  When I was born, our closest neighbors were over a mile away and the only way we knew they were there was if they called you on the phone, dropped by to say “Howdy”, or one of our cows wandered off to their place–the stimulus for a phone call.

Then again, they could detonate an atomic bomb over there–an act requiring critical thinking all the way around–and we’d have likely needed to read about it in the paper to know.  (An aside to readers.  This most recent critical thinking remark is chock full of entendre and complexities)  To provide clarity, I’ve lived my entire life with few neighbors spaced at great distances, relatively speaking.

The close-spaced neighbor yang to our ranch’s yin would be my new neighbors here to Santa Fe.  Our nifty little casita is in a subdivision–paved streets with sidewalks and stop signs and home lots of fewer square feet than my back patio in Austin.  In Austin I could fire a bazooka in any direction and not encounter a structure not owned by me.  Here there is a target-rich environment with houses and businesses spaced ten feet apart.

And each of those structures houses “neighbors”.

OK, stop.  This simple writing is about to be ADHD hijacked and turned into an epic wad of goat shit.  Fuck, and stop again.  Goat shit doesn’t wad, it’s pelletized.   Let me rephrase and tell you the we’re about to step into a pile of elephant shit if I can’t manage to find some focus.

Deep breath.  So, my new neighbors across the street invited me to his sister’s fiftieth birthday party.  Their house was built the year before mine in 1947 and it was her family home.  Originally a small 2 bedroom with one bath home, her parents raised ten children in the house that faces mine.  I have been on a tour and I can tell you that their home defines the word charm and the few additions to the original structure are form fitted.

And it has an aura about it–like you can feel the memories touch you from the walls.  When I first entered the kitchen–the largest room in the house–I got goosebumps.  My first inclination was to look over my shoulder for an Apache with a butcher knife ready to scalp the asshole with Texas license plates.  But I quickly realized the goosies were enchantments from a past.

I was told to go in through the garage anytime after I saw our street fill with cars.  I did just that and when I walked out from the garage onto the covered patio, I found it filled with two tablefulls of Senoras and Senoritas.  The each and every one looked at me in the same moment, and the Mrs. of the house ran across the patio to embrace me with a 5-foot one-inch hug to my six-feet plus frame.

“Who’s that?” was a chorus from twenty seated women.

“Oh, it’s our new vecino, Senor Johnson.  Su nombre es Mooner, como dejar caer sus pantalones.”

We all laughed–me the loudest–and my hostess blushed at my understanding of their native tongue.

One of the women, I guessed her to be late twenties and without wedding bands, said to me, she smiled a wicked smile when she said, “Is tonight a full moon or a dark one, Mr. Johnson?”

I didn’t get a chance to answer as I was whisked off to where the men sat at their tables.  I was seated, introduced, a Modelo beer was pressed into my fist and I was handed the plate of salsa and chips.  “Here, have some.  It’s not too hot.”

This came from the oldest of the men at the table and I could tell it was a challenge before the bowl of salsa even made it to the table under my nose.  I could see the hot Hatch chilis cut in large chunks with tomato, Jalapeno and onion.  And I could smell the fiery heat of the Habanero peppers that were the red and black dice in the bowl.  Since I grow Habanero, Jalapeno and bird chilis because I REALLY like hot stuff, this was a test I knew I could pass.

I also noticed that the bowl looked full and fresh as if it was yet to be dipped from.  I loaded a chip with a heaping pile of salsa, lifted it to my nose and said, “It smells kind of hot guys, is it really hot?”

“Oh, no, brother, it’s not too hot.”  We say brother instead of dude in Santa Fe and the not too hot comment was backed by a round of “No’s” and “Unh-uhs” and head shakes.

I popped it in my mouth and started chewing one of those salsas that has a three-pronged attack that is of the delayed action variety.  The first taste was of onion, tomato, Jalapeno and cilantro–a refreshing flavor.  Just as I was ready to swallow, the Hatch green chili hit the back of my tongue and throat.  When I swallowed, the Habanero struck like napalm at my lips and mouth.

Sweat pooped on my upper lip and forehead.  My nose started running and my eyes watered.

“Wow, guys,” I said.  “That is some tasty salsa.”  And I grabbed another chip and loaded up.

“Told you cabezas de nudillos, he was eating raw chilis with me just the other day.”  This from our host.

I loaded a third chip and passed the bowl back towards the man who had offered it to me.  He waved me off and said, “No thanks, I’m saving room for the hamburgers.”  Everyone laughed.

My host told me that his cousin Edna–the lovely young woman who had questioned me about the phase of my moon–was the salsa maker.  “Her salsa is her test for a husband, Senor Johnson.  She says she needs a man can take her heat.  Is your heart as strong as your tongue?”

Everybody laughed again and they poked and joked at me like I was a cousin myself.

Which reminds me.   Mitt Romney unveiled his fossil fuel-based energy program yesterday and said the stupid-most thing of this election cycle.  I’ll quote that dumbass here.

“We’re going to drill America to energy independence.”

Holy fucking shit!  We’re going to become independent by becoming dependent upon a limited commodity that ruins our environment?  Am I the only one that thinks that is the dumbest energy statement of the last ten years?  He’s going to drill it up the ass of all Americans to make his rich backers even richer.

Fuck Mitt Romney.

Anyway, what I wanted to say about neighbors and the Theory of Relativity is this.   In my entire life we have had my Austin neighbors over to our house for a party once every year.  I have always felt it neighborly to invite families who have been in our close proximity over for the Fourth of July BBQ.  But none of them has reciprocated in lo those many years.

Yet here in Santa Fe I’m invited to a neighbor’s sister’s fiftieth birthday party and family reunion within three weeks of my owning the house across the street from them.

Maybe it’s the close proximity that makes for more neighborly neighbors or maybe it’s that whole Land of Enchantment thingie.  But who really gives a shit so long as I can get him drinking Carta Blanca beer instead of Modelo.

Manana, y’all.

 

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Drink More Coffee Grandma; Lessons In Remodeling

Monday, August 20th, 2012

So.  It’s Monday morning and on today’s list of activities are:

1.  The plumber to replace the nearly collapsed tile sewer line.

2.  The HVAC/Electrician to finish rewiring and install the new furnace.

3.  The Carpenter to finish replacing half the master bath walls from the leaking shower tile enclosure.

4.  The Stone Masons to finish work on the retaining wall and flagstone patio and walkways.

Of those four items, the only work I had planned to do was the flagstone patio.  They have beautiful stone here and I love flagstone patios and walkways in a landscape.

The home I purchased was built in the 1940’s and before modern building codes.  It was right after the war and construction materials were still scarce here in the mountains.  When those scarcities were combined with the already deeply entrenched construction materials practice I have now labeled “Scavenger Materials Acquisition”, you’ll find some interesting things when you scratch the pretty patina of an old Santa Fe casita.

Like the coffee can heating ducts running deep in the crawl space.  Rusty Folgers and Maxwell House cans with both ends cut out and duct taped together.  That part of the crawl space was too shallow for either the inspector or me to travel when I did the inspection.  But my cave rat HVAC guy got back there when I had him here to start working on the electric wiring–a known replacement.  When he managed to wiggle himself over into the tight area of confined space, his laughter could be heard–was heard by me–through the pretty wood planked floors above.

“Yuk-yuk-yuk… Heee-haaa-yuk-yuk.  You won’t even believe what I found,” was an approximation of what I heard.

Then there was grunting and banging and clanging and then the sounds of him crawling back out and also the sounds of him dragging something.  I went to the front bedroom where the opening to the space is, and the first thing I saw was his sweaty,  dirt covered face poke out.  There was this huge shit-eating grin plastered on it.

“Wipe that fucking smile off your face, Brother.  I’ve learned that those smiles cost me money.”

Likewise, I’ve learned that here to Santa Fe we say “Brother” instead of ‘Dude”.

His grin widened enough to allow a cow patty to pass his lips and he said, he told me, “You, yuk-yuk-yuk, are NOT gonna believe this one.  Ha-ha-yuk, this one’s goin’ in my book, Brother.  Here.”

And here he passed me a rusty metal tube that turned into a rust, green, gray and red metal caterpillar of old coffee cans.  I pulled it out of the opening in four sections totaling maybe twenty feet in all.  “Fuck me running,” I said, and then I started laughing too.

“Looks like they had the whole family save coffee cans for a year for this one,” HVAC guy said.

Then there would be the actual foundation of the house.  The original structure sits upon a perimeter foundation and then piers and beams that form the aforementioned crawl space.  When you inspect the foundation, you will see several feet of rough-poured concrete, then several feet of stacked stones, then some poured concrete blocks called “prison blocks” (appropriately-named), then some more poured concrete and repeat.  It is as stable as if a continuous concrete pour, but maybe you can get my drift about Scavenger Materials Acquisition.

Whatever we can find to fit the gap in space and time.

Which reminds me of the 2012 Republican President-Vice President platform.  Except that the gaps are filled with scavenged lies and reality is an immaterial building product.  Hell, in today’s paper the Mallard Fillmore cartoon even retold the lie that claims President Obama said that small business owners didn’t build their own businesses.  That out-of-context fabrication is so fucking stupid to me that I still find it difficult to see why the righties keep at it.

I want to think that they are so desperate that this is all they have.  But my gut tells me that their base is so fucking bigoted and stupid that it plays straight with them.

Which brings up another point.  Whereinthefuck is the mainstream media on all of the lies and swip-swapping of Etch-A-Sketch moments by the R Boys?  Even AP news, likely the most dead-center of all mass media, reports Romney’s contradictory statements on consecutive days without comment.

While I think Walter Cronkite was a cranky old shitball, at least he would have asked what is up with this?  And of course Edward R. would have skewered all politicians for the state of their business.

Which reminds me of something else.  I had to climb on top of the house yesterday and I discovered that Honor the fucking cat has been using the gravel on the flat built-up roof as her litter box.  When I got down I started bitching and going on about the fucking cat to anyone who would listen.  I guess the Squirt had heard enough, so she said, my little puppy told me, “Hang on, Bwana Mooner.  Did you buy her any cat litter?”

“Uh, no,” my reply, “I didn’t even get her a cat box.”

Squirt giggled at me and said,”Scavenger Materials Acquisition, my ADHD-addled boss man.”

She was right and she is totally fucking adorable when she giggles.

Manana, y’all.

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Ace Hardware Encounter; A Crow Bar Of Different Feathers

Tuesday, August 14th, 2012

So.  Today is a stunning day here in the Enchanting Land.  I awoke at 4:30 am with a head full of  To-Dos, and since getting up and starting my day was less stressful than dealing with a head full of ADHD-fueled swill, I got up.  I took the dogs to the backyard for our first outdoor bathroom trip.  The air was crisp and cool and the night’s stars were close and bright.  There was an owl of some sort in the tallest of our three Ponderosa pines and it hooted a greeting at us.

I’m guessing that after almost two weeks it’s his greeting rather than a warning.

Yoda and I have been marking all the territory inside the tall adobe wall that surrounds our place, and all of it each day.  On this morning’s visit to the wall that borders the ally in back, my formerly-abused half Whippet sniffed and went on high alert.  And then he went totally apeshit.

“Fooph-fooph-fooph-fooph… Grrrrrrrrrrrlllll…. Fooph-fooph-fooph………….. Grrrrrlllllllllllll!!!”

The little puppy mill escapee, whose voice box was clipped with a pocket knife because he likes to bark, was taking exception at some odor coming off the wall.  He kept it up for a full minute and if his bark was more than fifteen decibels I’d have quieted him.  As it is I allow him to bark with a free will and spirit–my way of giving him his voice back.

Fucking puppy mill assholes.

I called the Squirt over to translate Yoda’s rantings and she told me, she said, “He says he smells stray cat and raccoon and he doesn’t think we should have any fucking raccoons here in town.  He seems to hate raccoons.”

Go figure.  I try to not hate anything, but raccoons are way down on my list of favorite animals.  They’re mean and nasty and tear shit up for sport. I brought the pellet rifle so maybe we’ll do us some raccoon hunting tonight.  My gun is a .22 cal. pump action and I can pump air into the chamber to a range from “Ouch” to “Please notify next of Raccoon Kin”.  Maybe we’ll try “Ouch, ouch that really hurts” for starters.

Which reminds me.  I went over to the Ace Hardware store yesterday and…  OK, stop. I go to the Ace Hardware every fucking day and several times each flip of the calendar.  I can’t ever seem to get everything I need for any project in one try.  ADHD is a terrible thing to waste.

So, yesterday I was over to the Ace to get a small, flat pry bar and when I got to the right isle there was a man standing in front of the pry bar display.  He was about 6′ 6″ tall, maybe 180 pounds, and he was dressed like a Down-Easter fisherman–yellow rubber rain slicker that was hooded with the hood up, black matching knee-high boots–and he had a burned-out cigar stump poking out the side of his mouth.  His hands were hanging limply out of at the ends of the slicker sleeves, and he was stock still save the crinkling of his rubber suit as he took deep, wheezing breaths.

I watched him for a few minutes, mesmerized.  Why in the hell was he dressed like this in Santa Fe, what the hell is he looking for, and, I’m wondering, what task requires this level of focus that needs a pry bar?

After some time, he grunted.  I took the grunt as an entre so I asked him, I said, “Might I offer some assistance with your choice of pry bars, sir?  I have quite a lifetime with pry bars and I can be of some good for you?”

Gloucester fisherman guy grunted again and slowly turned his entire body to face me.  It sounded like thirty school kids in new tennis shoes walking on a clean marble floor as he twisted his tall, skinny frame to face me.  The yellow rubber hood framed ET’s face–giant, round and leathery, with huge blue-grey eyes that were focused a thousand yards beyond the present.  He remained silent.

“What task requires you to purchase a pry bar, sir?” I inquired.

He grunted once more, and said, “Crows,” and re-squeeked his way back to face the display.

Huh? Oh, he’s thinking “crow bar” and thinks he can pry the birds out of his barn.  “Sir, maybe you need another type of tool.  Have you tried getting a cat?  Crows hate cats.”

This got another grunt and a second, slower and noisier 180-degree turn.  “I have the spirit of a Crow Indian stuck in the wooden  baseboards of my home and he wants out.  His entreaties are keeping me awake at night.  What will I use to free his spirit and not abuse the spirit of the wood holding him hostage?”

A very good Santa Fe question. I selected a small, flat bar that had a thick rubberized coating and held it up to his face.  “See, this is thin enough to slip behind the baseboard trim but won’t gouge or dent the wood so long as you’re careful.”

I held the pry bar out to him to hold but he didn’t move to take it.  That’s when I also noticed that his eyes didn’t move or blink either.  He was blind.   I placed the bar into his hand and said,  “This one’s $9.80, sir.  Do you need anything else?”

He grunted once more, his official favorite word, said “No,” and walked off.

Me, I chose my little bar, paid and left.  When I got home I grabbed an icy-cold Carta Blanca and a lump of this medicinal pot in cream chocolate that a buddy gave me, and went to sit on my portal with the dogs.  Without invitation, Yoda sat down on my feet and stared at the spot where he caught the Raccoon scent and the Squirt sat in my lap and stared up at me with adoration in her eyes.

“You’re a good man for a loony fuckball, Bwana Mooner.  I love you, dude.”

“I love you too, little lady.”

Next time somebody asks me why New Mexico is called the Land of Enchantment I’ll tell them this story.  If they can’t figure it out, I’ll encourage them to move to Texas.  Or Tennessee.

Manana, y’all.

 

 

 

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Hello From Santa Fe, or, What’s Worse Than Setting Up House.

Saturday, August 11th, 2012

So.  Here we are in Santa Fe, our newly adopted half-home.  I’m here to set up utilities–the computer internet just now working a week after our arrival–and it and all else hasn’t gone according to my plans.

According to my plans.  Now there is one of those strings of words that is so totally fucking worthless that it should be banned by the grammar police.

Anyway, the dogs and I have been hard at work working and supervising the work of others in our attempts to get our new place livable.  We’ve been camping out inside and sometimes outside with the Squirt and Yoda sprawled beside me on the air mattress.  The fucking cat is something else in the altogether.  Honor has been perched high in the big Ponderosa pine in our backyard for the entire week we’ve been here.  I know she has come down for food and water because I’ve been refilling her bowls.  But save the times she growls at neighbors’ cats to let them know there’s a new kitty on Espinacitas Street, she’s kept to herself.

While temps have been unseasonably warm, the humidity is low and not problematic for me.  The guys helping me bitch about the heat and humidity and have no problem blaming Global Warming.  The one Apache helping with my plumbing blames, and here I’ll quote him by saying, he said to me, “You fucking white assholes done ruined the whole world.  Go back to Europe.”

I must say I think he’s right, but I already purchased property here and I’m a quite small part Native American.  The rest of you white right-wing conservative Christian assholes can follow his wishes.  Please.

Speaking of the aforementioned white assholes, I just heard that Herr Schmidt Rommel has named Representitive “Let’s Kill All Social Services” Ryan as his running mate.  Ryan proposes a Federal budget that would bankrupt half the states with its cuts to state support, and he’s Herr Schmidt’s choice.  Classic.

Then again it’s likely that the Tea Baggers forced the cheesehead down his throat with threats to fight Romney’s nomination in Tampa.  That’s my take anyway.

 

OK, I need to go get some rebar and wire and silt fabric so we can get started working.  I’ll try to get back to these pages soon.  Manana, y’all.

 

 

 

 

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Last Day Until Santa Fe; Mooner Johnson- Poetry In Motion

Thursday, August 2nd, 2012

 

So. You might think that the recent Texas Republican US Senate primary results would have my rankles so mangled that it would be all I could speak to. Hell, you might even think that I would be so rankled that those politics would be all to which I would speak.

But alas and dangling prepositions be damned, the fact that Texas Repubbies chose a Sarah Palin endorsed Tea Party Chinese jobs-supporting lawyer hack over Governor Prick Perry’s endorsed Lt. Pretty Boy David Dewhurst has barely registered on my ADHD-addled mental gyroscope. Texas politics is getting even more radically right-wing stupid and it has barely registered on my radar.

You might also think that I’m so pissed that asshole Christians flocked to show their solidarity with Chik-Fucka-Buckets that I stopped by at the lunch hour yesterday and flashed my ass at them. OK, you’d be right on that one. And, “Yes, Virginia, those handsome and quite manly hairy butt cheeks were mine on display as you waited in the long line to order your hormonally-enhanced soggy fried sandwich.”

I didn’t even know that those assholes had a rally planed or I would have made a sign to accompany my ass flashing. One side would have said, “Fuck Chik-Fucka-Buckets,” and the reverse might have been, “Everyone in this line is a bigoted asshole!”

Not very creative but as I say, I didn’t give it any thought in the altogether at all.

Nope, I’m riding a high these days—the high of dry mountain air and Enchantment. I’m loading the car today and leaving early in the am for Santa Fe! Two weeks this time while I get the new casita ready for Johnson family occupancy. I’m taking the dogs and the fucking cat this trip and we’ll be camping out of sorts. I have an air mattress and some canvas chairs for furniture and enough kitchen stuff to make simple meals.

Squirt told me that Yoda has already asked if he’ll be able to, “Mark all of our territory,” in the two short weeks of this stay. We started marking the three thousand acres here to the ranch a couple months ago and still aren’t done.

“Don’t worry, little guy,” I told him. “You can cover the new place once a day if you wish.”

Tears welled in the small puppy’s eyes as he thought of a manageable territory. Dogs like to have limits and parameters in their behavior patterns, just like kids.

I’m finding that the closer I am to New Mexico the less I care about Texas and it’s slippery slide towards right-wing Hell. I’m even starting to like my buddy Squatlo’s idea about encircling the entire state with a fifty-foot razor wire fence and then just dumping all of our country’s “right thinkers” inside. Let them call it The United State of Bigotry for all my give-a-shit. Knowing that Theo is moving to Austin has helped cement the building blocks of this idea.

But again to quote my Gram, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Yer gonna be off over there to tha Land of Enhancements an’ I’mma be stuck here with yer fuckin’ mother. Now fetch me another beer an’ quit yer bitchy achin’”

That was last night as we sat on the flagstone patio watching smoke curl skyward from the BBQ pit. “It’s Land of Enchantment, Gram, and do you know how much I love you?”

My randy old grandmother cocked her head my way, smiled a wicked grin and replied, “Don’t you go getting’ all sedimental on me, boy. Now fetch me that beer an’ git them ribbies off’n tha fire. I’m hungry ’nuff ta eat a goat.”

I kissed the top of her head and she swatted me half-assedly. The ribbies were tasty and Mother was lucid during dinner and spreading the good cheer that Chick-Fucka-Buckets had record sales yesterday. Mother thinks that America has finally reached moral high ground.

My take is that America has achieved record levels of insanity and has reverted to its level of civilization found in the early 1800’s. At least in some states, like Texas.

But I frankly don’t give a flying fuck, my dear. I’m off to Santa Fe.

Manana, y’all. (Maybe)

 

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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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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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