So. The Squirt won. I’m loading the dogs into the car and headed for Arizona. Phoenix, Arizona. Fucking Arizona. Not moving, just visiting–checking out the possibilities for an actual move. Fatherhood can be a bitch.
Archive for the ‘Squirt’ Category
So. I’ve awakened to a landscape plastered with snow. As all the fruit trees here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe were covered with blooms yesterday afternoon, we’ll likely have little fruit again this year. Hard freezes this weekend are certain to kick harvests right in the ass.
Another sucker punch by NOT Global Climate Change effectively screwed up the weather. What a fucking surprise.
I had a full day planned—a day filled with outdoor activities—which is now shot all to Hell, so I decided to take a leisurely approach to my day. I had missed reading yesterday’s newspaper, so the two pages of actual newsie information contained therein had escaped my view.
I miss the days when newspapers were kings of all information media. A Sunday paper that was a half-day read in past days is now a four-minute perusal, with breaks to sip coffee. I miss the times when having the byline “Associated Press” meant that the voracity of a story was a vetted, accurate depiction to be absorbed, and hopefully understood, without concern that it was a “planted” fake. Like the 147 FBI agents looking at Hilary Clinton’s emails.
Really? Even my Gram ferreted that lie. “Them fuckin’ Fibbers ain’t got that many agents smart enough to catch Hilry. Didn’t assignation more an a dozen when they killed JFK. Assides, who really gives a shit?”
So, I poured a dram of brandy into my coffee cup, stoked match to twisted paper end, sucked a full breath and opened the previous day’s paper. OK, maybe it was two drams, and upon first seeing the snow from my office window, I had chewed, and swallowed, three of the dried mushroom buttons I have hidden in the bottom of the cedar chest that sits as a dog half-way station from floor to the heights of our bed. The mushrooms are a variety from Malesia sent to me by Streaker Jones—the remains of maybe two pounds dried provided on his last visit—and they are nestled comfortably at the bottom of the cedar chest because Yoda is nicknamed “the goat dog” for actual reasons.
And why, inthefuck, isn’t it spelled “Malasia”? Nobody says, “Ma-leezia,” dammit, it’s said as, “Ma-laisya.” Asshole fuckface smelly-assed fascist grammar shitballs.
Having said all that, you could rightfully contend that this would be one of the few bloggie postings I have written while stoned. I always tell you of these occurrences and they truly are few. I don’t drive any motorized vehicle while impaired in any fashion—while I do enjoy being driven—ever since my arrest some thirty years ago. Scared me straight knowing I might have hurt someone. Think of it this way: ADHD + ADD + Stoned = Oh no!
I harbor the same restraints for KUI—Keyboarding Under the Influences—as I’m less likely to thoroughly edit my words before posting, an act leading to multiple consternations. Read consternations hereat in its synonym “bewilderments”. OK, maybe worries would be another. One of these days I’ll post some unedited musings for your enjoyment.
Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, psycho the-rapist to the stars and me, tells me that having been arrested for parking our Caterpillar 960 front end loader—its 12-yard light-weight bucket filled with turkey shit—on the front steps of the offices of Sewell and Petty Law Firm, was a sign for me to not imbibe and drive. I heeded that advice and thanked my stars that Texas didn’t have mushroom juice or pot on its Breathalyzer scales. Blowing 1.02’s-worth of Carta Blanca breath was enough to get me into a world of trouble, so I can only imagine how bad it might have been.
The loader was the big one from out to Mooner’s Compost Plant and the turkey manure was from this giant place over to near College Station that organically fattens its turkeys and lets them play outside for a few hours each day. While in Texas, I purchased all my turkeys from those guys. Birds were smaller overall since they got no growth enhancers, and I was especially impressed with the size and quality of their organs. Smaller, firmer and with better color, and even if it was psychosomatic, had far better taste.
Ever watch domesticated turkeys? As smart and shifty and wily and interesting as wild turkeys can be, the domesticated varietals are as opposites. Bred all the brains right out their skulls, we did. They seem to be totally paranoid, scared of their own shadows. Literally scared of their own shadows, looking over their over-plumped shoulders and jumping sideways.
Something about a turkey’s diet creates eye-watering odors. Even though turkey shit is one of the more pungent varieties of shit, it wasn’t my first choice. First choice was grease trap waste, but I’d have puked to death on the eleven-mile drive from the plant over to east Austin with 12-yards of that stuff. I can wear a Haz-Mat suit and still smell grease trap waste. Hell, typing “grease trap waste” stirs my gag reflexes.
But the turkey litter—they call turkey shit “litter” in the poultry industry—proved an effective tool as I managed to empty the entire building within maybe seven minutes. First officers arriving at the scene called the Sheriff right away. “Hey Woozie, its Mooner Johnson and you want to be here for this one.”
I shot the Sherriff a full moon and he tazed my bare ass.
Anyway, I opened the paper and read as I sipped from my cup. Sipping because it was too hot to drink, I didn’t spit a mouthful of brandy-laced coffee when I saw the headline, I merely sprayed a spritz similar to one of those tiny atomizer sample thingies at department store perfume counters.
I read the one paragraph story, reread to insure its actualities, and exclaimed, I shouted, “Hot damn!!!” and raced to my computer. I opened Googleate and typed in my query. I peered down the listings, found The Motley Fool, clicked there and found a headline that lifted my spirits to even new heights. There, on my computer screen, was proof positive that a grass roots consumer advocacy effort can be effective. I read, reread and read again.
“Hey, Squirty girl, come in here and looka this!” I shouted. “You’ve gotta see this, kiddo!”
The small brown puppy came running and jumped into my lap, read. “Holy shit, Mooner, you’ve won!”
“War’s not over yet, Sweetie Pie, but we’re winning some big ones.”
We celebrated what we read, as there, on my computer screen, was this:
“Walmart Is Falling Apart Before Our Eyes
Wal-Mart is no longer the popular retailer it once was and beneath the surface it’s starting to show the same cracks that brought Kmart and Sears to their knees. “
As an atheist, I didn’t thank God for this gift, I thanked you, the readers of the drivel posted herein. Thank you, thank you, and thanks some more. My plans to topple this giant of American retailing greed is working with all of your help! Not that our job is completed because fucking Walmart will not be a finished task until Alice Walton applies for food stamps. Now that we have them on the ropes, it’s time to apply evermore pressure. Speak loud and proud. Say it aloud with me. Say:
Fuck Wal-mart! Fuck Wal-mart! Fuck Wal-mart!
So. I’ve been absent from these pages for a couple weeks while involved with a personal matter too complicated to share here, and having said that, I should state that it is my concern for the sensibilities of another human that kept me quiet, not any concern for myself. As I have moved on from the unmentioned complications, I have some good and bad news to share.
As a salesperson, I have always known that you deliver bad news first—get that negative shit out the way so you can focus on the positive. However, as a human being, I wish to share the good first because l have been promising you I would inform as soon as I could, and then I’ll deal with the not-so-good news.
Friday was settlement day between Mini USA and me. Myself, mayhaps, but Mini and I settled our differences on my beloved little hotrod Countryman. While I absolutely loved my tiny car when it was running right, it, simply put, did not run right enough of the time. It would routinely misfire (my words) in what Mini mechanics call a “Hard Knock,” and several times did so in heavy traffic. Once it did so and I was almost rammed from behind by a too-close driver.
As too-close driving is a Santa Fe method of employed roadway matriculating, this near-stalling dealio was disconcerting. Watching a Lexus SUV rock forward in a tire-squealing nosedive at your rear bumper while doing 65 MPH can disconcert the best of us, and me as well. To make a long story short, in two years of ownership and more than two months inside their shop, Mini could not make the repairs necessary to fix my car. I became frustrated after being quite patient, and finally told them to either honor New Mexico’s Lemon Law—a law that requires them to choose to give me all my money back, or give me a new car of matching accoutrements—or, as I so eloquently said when I told them of my demand, I said to the Mini Reps, “Or fix my fucking car!”
OK, so as to not over simplify, I understand that everyone in business sometimes builds a bad seed product—that bastard electric toothbrush that scrubs your gums bloody rather than remove half-a-day’s food particles, the Roman Candle that sends flaming projectiles out from both ends of the stick, or that car that has an issue that you just can’t fix. So I never held Mini culpable as a builder of bad cars, just a typical car maker who made one bad Countryman. But my frustrations with not getting it right got to me. Mini built a bad car…
And sold it to me. Anyway, after ginning me through their corporate structure in an effort to make me give-in to their initial, totally unacceptable offers, they finally gave me a settlement I found acceptable. Not what I wanted, because as I said I loved my Mini. I wanted a replacement—one that worked as promised. They must have decided that I was not so desirable as a Mini owner and bought the car back. I agreed to not discuss the financial terms with anyone so I won’t.
As a replacement, I purchased a Subaru WRX hot rod that in my early days of ownership is found to be as much fun as the Mini, and maybe even a somewhat more. It’s a little bigger, a whole lot faster, and has the all-wheel drive needed for our snowy winters. I’ll let you know if my happiness remains.
Which brings up the not happy part of this entire thingy. I came home a week ago, and as usual the goat dog met me at the door jumping and circling and woofing his slit-throat bark. What didn’t happen, as usual, was that the Squirt was missing from my greeting. Her usual is to greet me with disdain, or pleasure, should I return with, or without, her requests.
“You forgot, didn’t you, shithead? You are such a numbskull!” or, “Fuck you, Mooner, I’ll have the goat dog shit on the couch next time,” would be a typical Squirt greeting. But this return trip she was nowhere to be found. After his greeting, Yoda woofed at me and raced to the back of the house, stopped and woofed over his shoulder at me, and took off again.
“Squirty girl, where are you?” I hollered to no reply. I walked farther to the back and raised my voice, “Squirt, answer me young lady and do it now!”
“Fuck you,” her weak reply. “I’m on the bed and I can’t get down.”
I found the adorable bundle of brown fur and spunk shaking at the foot of our bed, looking up at me with a scared look in her eyes. This was the same look she had when her tooter was so messed up that she couldn’t walk.
“I can’t walk, Mooner. It’s time to put me down. I won’t live like this.”
I freaked. “You, young lady, are headed to the emergency room.”
“I’ll bite you, shithead, and I mean it. I won’t live a cripple. You’ll not be wiping my ass or my drool! Get me the bottle of pain pills and a beer. I’m putting an end to this.”
Instead, I grabbed a towel to wrap her and she did snap at me. She missed and she moaned when I lifted her. “It’s my back. I think I broke it.”
Again to make a long story short, her back isn’t broken but it is suffering the damages that Time takes on a Doxie body. Her long spine finally gave notice to cease her rambunctiousness, and she was in pain and what turned out to be temporary paralysis. Time and some meds have fixed the paralysis, but I’m now required to lift her up, and down, when she needs it. And I think she is taking advantage of me. She seems to need lifting way too often.
“You need to be more attentive, shithead. What if I forget and try to jump off my chair?” she said to me the other day. “Maybe you should hire a live-in nurse.”
“Don’t be taking advantage, Squirty girl, you’re close to the line on the Cost/Benefit scale.”
But me, I don’t give a shit. I’ll become her full-time nurse if need be. I was talking to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson about it in this morning’s phone therapy session and I broke all the way down. Cried like a baby and blabbered on, and on. “What will I do without her? Who will I talk to? Who will keep me on the straight and narrow? Who can ever replace her?”
“Good questions, one and all, Mooner. Maybe you need some extra sessions.”
“Maybe I need some sexing and maybe you could prescribe it for therapeutic purposes. I just changed the sheets and you can be on a noon flight that arrives here before five. I’ve got a bottle of your favorite chardonnay…”
“You need to worry about your real issues, dear man. Take care of that puppy and make her happy and comfortable. Or else!”
I just finished watching 101 Dalmatians and All Dogs Go To Heaven three times each. Next, I’m headed out to the butcher shop to get some big beef leg bones and then some vanilla ice cream, her favies, and now my eyes have watered up in the telling.
Why is this tiny dog so important to me? Why am I so terribly shaken with the thought of losing her? Why am I more concerned for the Squirt than for my mother, and why would I put this question in print? And why does it hurt more to have concerns for another’s health than it is my own? I didn’t suffer finding I have cancer like I am with my dog.
I know I’m crazy and that my priorities are totally fucked. Do others operate the same way? Have I asked enough silly questions for the day?
Ugh. Total and complete ugh.
Fuck Walmart for the Squirt.
So. It’s a wondrous and quite interesting weekend of reflections for me as my ADD is a-swirl with the multicolored whirls of the criminally insane. Like the twisted views from the small end of a kaleidoscope, my thoughts are the rainbow’s colors presented without filter or screen. And why, intherfuck, isn’t it spelled “wonderous”? It isn’t a “wondreful” day dammit, it’s wonderful, yet I’m required to see it as wondrous. I have enough trouble typing and editing my ADHD-addled thoughts without the need to spell correct every tenth word.
Like fourty. Who was the genius on that one? Ninety works, eighty, seventy as well. But does fourty work? Noooo, it’s “forty”. Like the origin of four tens comes from an early settlement in the American West that represents a person moving from Wyoming to a big city. Country boy goes to Saint Louis for fame and fortune and city folk find him “forty”.
“That Smithson fella is right forty. You can take the boy out of the Fort but not the fort out of the boy.”
Which reminds me. Asshole Michigan Governor seizes control of Flint, strips that once fine city of its culture and pride, poisons its citizens with toxic water, then begs Obama to pay the way out. This is so fucking ironic my skin is crawling.
For starters, where was Cloven Bundy when the Guvmint took over an entire town? Where were the armed “protectors of freedom” when actual peoples’ rights were consumed in a fit of right-wing power? Silly fucking separationists were likely sucking on cans of Red Bull, unfiltered ciggies and Uncle Sam’s tits.
For second helpings, what if the citizens of Flint had taken up arms and occupied their own town? Would the Governor have sat quietly on the sidelines?
For thirdies, thirdsies maybe, there was knowledge aforethought that the replacement water supply was poisoned. Who will be prosecuted, who will be held accountable for the gigantic costs in human suffering, long-term health care expenses, and cleaning up this mess? Does the simple goddamn fact that lead stays in the human system to do terrible damage not resonate with a man like Governor Ricky Snider? Somebody fill his kids with lead and see his reaction. And actions.
To fix this without prosecuting those responsible is just as reprehensible as bailing-out big banks and not sending those fucking Banksters to jail. Please Mr. President, don’t half-ass this dealio.
Which leads me to my fourthie, not herein called “forthie” whateverthefuck Spell Check says, and that after-the-third thing is the still continuing saga of my car bidness. I have reached an amicable agreement with the automaker and await final disposition. Should they fulfill this last promise I’ll allow them to make, I’m satisfied. More to follow.
And that but leaves the real reason I’m writing today. OK, maybe that should have been, “And that leaves but the real reason…” However, as I hate leaving butts hanging, and leaves are sometimes pretty, I find myself in the honored position as the responsible person for forcing a major social change to the good of common man.
I, with the help of all of you, have finally made an impact on one of the most insidious scourges to American society. My unflinching campaign to bring halt to the rampant growth of this menace has finally taken purchase. Your support for my cause has created a ground-swell of powerful messaging that has, at last, bore fruit. I can’t say it better than the headline I saw in the New York Times. It said:
“Walmart to close 269 stores worldwide.”
It came to me last night as I was going to sleep. I lay on my back—left hand scratching Yoda at my hip and right hand cupping (clutching maybe) my balls—and rethinking my day. As I finished ruminating I started thinking just how comforting it is to scratch my tiny white dog while holding my scrotum in preparation for sleep, and wondering was this another sign that I’m just not right. The Squirt was at my right side with her head resting on my chest, so I asked the brown puppy her opinion.
“Squirty girl, you awake?”
“What now, asshole. You still wanna debate whether Cruz or Trump is the bigger shithead?”
“No, I’m good on that one. I’m wondering if I’m crazy for holding my balls and scratching the goat dog to relax for sleep.”
“For shitsakes, Mooner. When a person is crazy, by definition all things they do are crazy. Shut up and go to sleep.”
Somehow Squirt’s logic is, like my balls, comforting. Acknowledging that I truly am crazy, I can stop worrying if I seem crazy for things. I can just accept lunacy for what it is and move on. Spend my time on more productive thinking.
Like new and more creative ways to: Fuck Walmart!
So. The first measurable snowfall hit Santa Fe’s streets last night and there is already a skiable base on some of our state’s resorts. All signs are pointing towards heavy, possibly record amounts of snow. This snow was fat and heavy flakes loaded with needed moisture.
However, as the Squirt refuses to even walk in snow, early this morning we had our now third annual argument thereabout. Tiny, brown puppy and I have repeated this fight since our first Santa Fe winter.
Me: “Jesus Christ, Squirt, do you have to shit on my welcome mat? It won’t wash out of those bristles.”
The Squirt: “Fuck you.”
Me: “Don’t you fuck-you me, young lady, you answer me and right now!”
The Squirt: “Fuck you some more.”
Me: “You are not going to melt from squatting in a little snow, for shitsakes. It isn’t even knee-deep. Look at Yoda…the goat dog loves the snow. Ever since I taught him how to pee write his name, he loves the snow.”
The Squirt: “It’s deep enough to drown my tooter, dickhead. You stick your pecker in six inches of snow long enough to empty your bladder and I’ll consider following suit.”
Ever submerged your pecker in a snowdrift long enough to drain a full bladder either on, or with, purpose? I’d accidently peed in the snow while nekid this one time back to junior high school, but that was, after all, an accident. I’d caught the measles and my Gram had dosed me with a mushroom potion she had labeled “German humps an’ German bumps be gone”.
For my part I’d semi-awakened from a drug-induced slumber and sleep-walked outside into Austin’s annual snow storm. Can’t remember if Gram’s hallucinogenic home remedy cured the German measles, but I’d fully-awakened with frozen extremities and a turtle-pecker hidden behind my sparse, pre-teen pubic hairs thickly-hung with yellow icicles.
Am I the only one, or is icicles spelled wrong? Whoeverinthefuck decided that one did a fine job of contracterating things, but it just looks wrong—not nearly enough letters for all the sounds. Like when some southerners say Mississippi. They say, “Mizsipi.” Or when Georgians say, “Marietta.” “Mayreta,” they’ll say with sugar juice dripping off their lips. If I was to say, “Mis-si-sip-pee,” like it’s properly said, and it was spelled, “Mizsipi,” it would be the same thing.
OK, stop. Maybe it’s the same thing, only backwards. Like my ADD-addled brains.
Main problem with peeing with your genitals packed inside a snow bank is that the freeze-chill from the initial submersion causes a freezing-up of both pecker and the bladder attached. Takes considerable aptitudes, and time as well, to get relaxed enough to pee, unless you’re sleep walking and don’t feel the cold. I found myself proud to have been able to do it this morning without self-inflicting frostbite.
As a compromise, I took the dogs shopping for personal doormats upon which they can do their bidness whilst we’ve got the heavy frost on our Lilies. Yoda chose a brown broom bristle mat that says, “Yes, Inspector, My Dog Bites.”
After I repeatedly refused to have my photo embossed on a slab of ridged, black rubber, the Squirt decided upon one with the sweet countenance of a yellow tabby kitty. “Second choice,” she said to my look.
Does make me wonder about Honor the cat. She’s been gone for almost two years now and there’s no word of her on the street. I’m also wondering about the state of my country. What in Hell is wrong with us? I don’t know and haven’t a clue as to how to figure it out.
So Fuck Walmart!
So. The last days of summer sizzled until noon Wednesday—a summer this year of many late sizzles—when a cold, wet frontal air mass moved through and shredded the peaceful complacencies hereabout. As Santa Fe is a city of flat roofs, a full twenty-four hours of wind-driven rain can put fear in the hearts of homeowners, and dollar signs in the eyes of roofers.
For my part I had one, hopefully small, leak that I, and here and again let me say, “I hope,” I remedied Saturday morn with a five-gallon bucket of plastic cement wall flashing compound, one-hundred-thirty-feet of plastic netting, seven Carta Blanca beers, two relatively fat doobies, and six hours of bitching from the dogs.
“Why,” you might ask, “did it take all that time and materials to patch one small leak?”
“Well,” the start of my reply to your perfectly legitimate question, “for starters I was already two beers and a small dose of my Gram’s mushroom potion she labeled ‘Summer’s Done Done So Put Yer Long Johnnies On Yer Skinny Ass’, and the morning had warmed to maybe fifty-five degrees.” As fifty-five degrees is just about my favorite working outside temperature, I felt motivated to get ‘er done.
Which said brings something to mind. I’ve long held a belief—a philosophy, maybe—that flies in the face of every motivational speaker ever to charge gigantic fees for teaching mostly silly shit at seminars featuring snappy catch phrases. As a businessman having fallen prey to several pitches from those snake oil sales shits, I feel that I possess both the experience and studied information to make at least a partially smart comment on the subject.
The first of those “motivators” I encountered was the one, the only, Zig Zigler. Ziggy was the original motivator of modern ilk and the tall, thin and affable man had a funny way to convey his snappy catch phrase.
Streaker Jones and I had purchased two tickets to one of the bowl games our beloved Longhorns played—my befuddled brain is thinking it was 1973, the year the fucking Nebraska Corn Cobbers beat us in the Cotton Bowl—and we decided that rather fly straight on back to Austin, we’d instead make a little pass at the Big Easy. We were seated in the first row behind First Class which I can specifically remember as Row Nine, and the fact that I can remember that info and not what I had for dinner last night is testament to something.
As soon as the seatbelt light went out, the man in the seat in front of mine on the aisle got up, and with the toothy-smiled, complacent face of an undertaker he stuck his hand out to grab mine and then placed a small wooden nickel into it. He turned his eyes to Streaker Jones with another wooden disc to plant, paused long enough for the complacent face to turn pale, then backed off, looked at me and said, face back to undertaker’s, he told me, “That’s to help you get around to it.”
As he moved his way to Row Ten, I looked at the wooden disc. “Round Tuit” was printed in block letters in as large a typeface as would fit the curvatures. “That’s pretty clever,” I told Streaker Jones. “Now I have no excuses because I got around to it.”
“He’s sellin’ sumthin’,” my best buddy told me. “Pitch is comin’ on his return trip.”
The pitch came, I managed to not swing at it, and maybe I can make my actual point before this deteriorates any further into ADHD babble. Here’s my point about these pitchpersons.
I don’t think anybody can “motivate” anyone else. I think that motivation can only come from within. If you Googlate the definition of motivation, you get:
“The general desire or willingness of someone to do something.
“keep staff up to date and maintain interest and motivation”
|synonyms:||enthusiasm, drive, ambition, initiative, determination, enterprise;”
Motivation is, by definition, internal. Some fuckbrain’s got no personal motivations, his train will definitely stay there to the station regardless of another’s actions. What I think you can do is “stimulate” another’s internal motivations, as stimulated is defines as:
“verb (used with object), stimulated, stimulating.
to rouse to action or effort, as by encouragement or pressure; spur on;incite:
to stimulate his interest in mathematics.
Physiology, Medicine/Medical. to excite (a nerve, gland, etc.) to its functional activity.
Having found, copied, pasted and spent a full half-hour fucking around with Word to get the two definitions placed, half-assedly, to the pages herein, I find myself wondering who might really give a shit what I think about snake oil sales folks.
As the Squirt is afraid of heights, and the goat dog might not be smart enough to not fall off the roof, the dogs stayed on the ground while I worked on my leak. Planning ahead, I made three trips up the ladder with first, my twelve-pack cooler of iced Carta Blancas, second, the five-gallon bucket of roofing patch, and third, tools for patching and smoking weed.
“You’re gonna get wasted and fall on your head, asshole. Then what are Yoda and I going to do? I know you willed us to Sister and Anna the Amazon and there’re nice and all, but if you’re dead in the backyard who’s gonna save us? There’s nobody to answer our pleas.”
She had a point, my tiny brown puppy had a point. “You have a point, Squirty girl. Maybe you should shut up and stop badgering me and allow me to focus on my work.”
What happened next was that the Squirt spoke about me to Yoda for three hours, and I got mellowed enough to bypass most of my ADD-addled brain malfunctions to concentrate on roofing, and I patched any spots that even suggested a roof failure. Patched a couple places twice, and managed to miss the entire Texas football game, a fact I realized when Mother called me at two-thirty to ask me where I was.
“Where are you, Mooner?” Mother’s first words to my “Hello”.
“On the roof and still in Santa Fe.”
“Well,” Mother told me, “Texas won,” and the dial tone hit my ear.
“Huh? What time is it?”
It was two-thirty-one. “Fuck a buffalo. Squirt, why didn’t you notify me. You were supposed to let me know when the game was starting. You are the timekeeper today.”
Squirt walked from flagstone to grass, squatted her adorable hind end to pee, and flipped over her shoulder, she asked, “Permission to speak, shithead?”
Anyway, I missed a Texas win, a rare thing these days, but did manage to fix my roof. Maybe a fair trade, maybe not. My team has a stretch of tough opponents coming and will need to win most games to get into a bowl.
Maybe this win will stimulate Texas football motivations.
Fuck Walmart in its weakened state!
So. I’m back from my secret meeting out to sunny California whereat I had a wonderful time, I’m back to home turf, which, in its veryownself is wonderful, and I’ve returned to my five-times-weekly, daily visits to The Great Radiator. As I have mixed emotions as to the volume of wonderfulness I feel, I’ve been required to make an evaluation. As I always do in circumstances such as these, I count on one of our Founding Fathers.
OK, for starters, is it Founding Fathers—all capitalized and shit—or should they be marginalized as founders in much the same way as modern day conservatives marginalize the true meanings of their brave Declarations and Bills and Constitutions. Likewise, did I properly communicate, herein above, that I go to visit The Great Radiator each Monday-Friday, weekly?
Me, I’ve long thought that if there had been a few Founding Mothers, America would have gotten its shit together way fucking sooner than now. Hell, set a six-pack of strong black women to writing the Bill of Rights, and our brand of republic would be the actual world standard, and not simply the delusional wishings of American assholes.
When looking at my current life in the perspectives of a Ben Franklin Decision-Making Matrix, I’m needing further B Frankie evaluations. For those readers not familiar with old Bennie’s decision-making matrix, it’s a three-step process he developed to make even the most difficult decisions more easily made. It’s one of those “outweigh” dealios, wherein a person makes a decision based upon a ledger, and which side of the ledger scores “higher”. Or “highest” should there be more than two possible solutions to your particular, studied dilemma.
As my current dilemma is whether it is truly wonderful to be back home, and I choose to think it either wonderful, or not, then I have a two outcome matrix. First, draw a line down the center of a page of paper and put “Plusses” atop one side, and “Minuses” atop the other. Second, place each positive aspect of your issue on the appropriate side, negative aspects to the other. When you have exhausted writing aspects, assign a value of significance to each—I use a one-to-100 valuation system—then add up the numbers for each side. The winner will have the largest resultant tabulated number.
If negatives outweigh the positives, shit-can the idea. Versa with your vices, move right on down the road.
OK, let’s stop the presses right here. Seems like, mayhaps, old Ben’s system is considerably more than a three-step program when you’re as fucked up as am I. First step would be to get a leaf of paper, then find a writing instrument, then clean a spot on your messy desk upon which to place said paper leaf. Then—as you pride yourself with the same proudnesses in drawing lines on already-lined paper as you do with the accuracies in your word-smithing—you look for the fucking ruler, an instrument last spotted that time you were creating a thong for the Squirt.
That’s the thong you made so that your adorable little puppy could view her cute tooter wrapped and pulled tight into a camel toe. I’m still taking shit from my psycho therapist for that one. Parenting can be a real bitch sometimes. Finding the balance of safety net between what’s OK, and what camel toes might have stepped over the line, eludes me.
Alludes me as well, suggesting that this parenting shit started out as difficult and has only grown as I have matured as said parent. Turns out that fathering two precocious puppies, as a quite mature and well-rounded adult man, is way harder than the raising of my actual kids. Then, again, I had considerable assistance from their mother, the said and same psycho therapist, aforementioned.
But this entire vaccination/inoculation scenario playing out in the national news has gotten me to thinking. Who, or what, is the arbiter of rules for raising kids. I mean, really, who inthefuck gets to say when a parent might have crossed the line? Who are you to tell me that putting in the effort to help satisfy my young charge’s curiosity as to the plumpness of her girl meat package was inappropriate? If you could have seen the smile on that little doggie’s face when I showed her the photos…
And, having said earlier that my current dilemma was but a two-sided matrix, I’m wondering if I might be one of those black-or-white, all-or-nothing, manipulative borderline assholes I personally find so offensive. Ugh. It isn’t that I don’t already have an overloaded plate of mental disorders. My dilemma is way more complex than a simple yea/nay thingie, as evidenced by the simple fact that my Ben Franklin Decision-Making Matrix scored 3,348 Plusses to 3,198 minuses, a winning margin of less than five percent. Had I added but a third matrix column, I’m certain that Plusses would have won in a runaway.
OK, would the third choice have made it a matrices, and I’m thinking that, since I do consider things not black or white, then I am not an offensive borderline personality(?/.) How, inthefuck, does one punctuate that last sentence?
But just for the record, it is wonderful to be back to La casita Johnson de Santa Fe. As the Squirt is the only person I told what I was out there to California to do, I can’t tell you about the excited conversation she and I had, as it relates to said return home, but I can tell you this. I did not leave them with the crazy dog lady, instead I had an in-home sitter.
Squirt’s in love, and Yoda drags a pair of the nice woman’s panties everywhere he goes. Me, I find it sad that there is no telling if the goat dog acquired them when clean or dirty, and sadder still that there is no doubt to whom those panties belong. It would be nice to need a debate over whether they were left by the sitter in my absence, or, while in my presence some other female removed a pair of panties here to the casita, and left them.
Which brings up another parental issue. How filthy dirty must those panties get before I take them away from Yoda and wash them? Might their having started dirty be a/the reason he is so enamored with them? Am I the only one thinking this is a serious parental issue? Was it the chicken, or the eggie?
Fuck it. I’m making an emotion-based decision, and I now declare that my shit is truly wonderful. And while I’m at it, Fuck Walmart too!
- I find myself retired, again, and for the second time not by choice, and once more, again. My first retirement was at the hands of Texas Governor Rick the Prick Perry, a small-minded asshole with giant eyes for political shenanigans. The compost company I built into a major player in the state was dependent upon the Texas Highway Department for much of our business. I’d developed ways to control erosion and grow serious vegetation in mostly sterile soils using compost-two important developments to TxDOT engineers—and TxDOT hungrily adopted the slightly more expensive, recycling methods for their significant improvements to roadway projects.
At the peak of the growth cycle of compost use by TxDOT, the Prickster stole $2 Billion from TxDOT coffers and used the funds to cover other State budgetary shortfalls caused by his mismanagement of my former home state’s budget. Net result- Texas highway project fundings were ravaged by the loss, and anything declared “optional” (read here compost) by the Governor’s lackeys was, likewise, declared off limits to purchase. The loss of that business forced me to make the tough decision to fire myself and save my salary.
One of the many reasons I dislike Little Pricky Perry.
This second enforced retirement is a horse of a quite different color. I hate to say “again”, but I fired myself, again, this time for different reasons but resulting in the same ending to my employment. I want to be angry, but the stoppage of me banging my head with a New Mexico adobe brick has led to a renewed sense of calm. And that reminds me of the scientific research study just announced that states, in part, that the hallucinogenic properties of magic mushrooms can produce healthy brain function and assist depressed and anxious people adapt to life’s conditions.
Well fucking duh!
I could have saved them all that frustrating critical thinking bullshit and the bother of experimenting down the critical path. Clear thinking logically is a skill lacked by many business people but thank goodness that scientists are required to do so before printing their conclusions. The mushroom conclusions, basically, state that mushroom juice broadens a person’s emotional ranges while putting a lid on ego, thereby crafting a civilized human who cares more for wellbeing than for personal, egomaniacal gains.
Again, well fucking duh! My family has been promoting the humanizing effects of mushroom juice for three generations. Hell, my Gram is personally responsible for most of the civility in Central Texas for the past sixty years. When she called last night to tell me about the study, she said to me, she said, “Looka here, Mooner. I’mma cash cow it in on this new dealio. I gotta batch a new potion I’mma callin’ “Who’s Yer Broad’s Mind A Risin’ Now?” I’m gonna be rich!”
She hung up to go check on her potion before I could ask her, “WTF is who is your broad mind’s rising now?” It came to me an hour later when the last batch of my Gram’s mushroom juice took hold on my own brain.
“She’s talking about broadening your horizons, Squirtie girl,” I announced to the adorable bundle of brown fur and sharp-tongued sweetness I call “Squirt”. “Sounds like Gram has finally got scientific support for the medical use of mushroom juice.”
The dogs and I were cooking hamburgers to celebrate the birthing of our nation, and Squirt was at my feet the entire time, waiting for me to spill something. I always spill something. Yoda was busily poking his snout at the double wrapping of rabbit wire fencing that envelopes the tiny garden here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. The tomatoes have just fruited, and the goat dog loves tomatoes.
“What are you going to do now, shithead? I can’t have you sitting around here all day pestering the bejesus out of me,” Squirt asked.
“I’m so worn out from working my ass off unappreciatedly that I’m vacationating for a while. Then I’m going to play more poker to replace the lost income and write more bloggie stories,” I answered. “Oh, and protest. I’m gonna start with those pig fuckers over to Hobby Lobby.”
I’m a decent poker player when I can control the ADHD-ravaged cauldron of swill I call my brain, and there’s a HL store less than a mile from here and I’ll be giving them a part of my mind. I need to develop snappy slogans for my two-sided anti Hobby Lobby sign. But my brain is too tired to come up with anything that works. I need help.
Anyway, Fuck Walmart and Hobby Lobby and the United States Supreme Court! Fuck those godless religious fanatics.
So. Here we all are sitting in the darkened rooms of our domiciles with no light, save, and except, the glow from our computer screens. I read where some 50 million-plus Americans sit at their computer screens late at night either reading news from blogs and Facebook, or watching porn.
If you’re reading the shit I write here to Loonyville, you’re managing the deft act of doing both—that is to be a reader of pornographic news. Take another sip of your evening cocktail in salutation to you, your veryownself, as you, dear reader, are special.
Me, I’m sitting in my darkened office because the Squirt feels ill, having consumed one too many cat turds from the sand pile out back, and consequently having puked a trail of cat turd bile from the top of my right slipper not quite tucked under the chair upon which I place my next-day’s clothes, across three rugs from bedroom-to-kitchen, and culminating in a waffle-sized pile on the kitchen floor where I stand at the sink. I discovered this trail of tears and smears upon my late arrival back to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe earlier tonight. I was quite tired and not in the least interested in cleaning eight piles of cat turd puke from floors and rugs.
Ever smelled dog-emitted cat turd puke?
Squirt asked me to sit quietly in the den and not bother her with any threats, as the tiny brown puppy so carefully explained to me, she said, “My stomach is still uneasy, shithead. Let me rest quietly or I drop a deposit on your pillow.”
Since I’m still up at 2 am, fearful of disturbing cat puke girl, I figured I’d write to you about something that has been on my mind. Maybe I should say, “Something that has been swirling in the toxic swill that is my rat-infested and ADHD-addled grey matter.” This thought has been pestering me for several months, ever since the jet streams caught my attentions. Then, again, many things catch my attentions and swirl around like a frog in a blender inside the cauldron I call my skull. However, this thought has managed to survive processing with little damage other than tattered sails.
As we all might know, the jet streams are the ribbons of super-charged wind travelling up to 250 mph at 6-7 miles above Earth’s crust. It is these waggling wind ribbons that make, and change, our weather patterns. In my simple mind, I see our planet’s rotation inside its atmosphere as the initial causal effect of the jet stream. And I see the variations of land and water temperatures—many of which are caused to change by these self-same jet streams—as causal forces in controlling the directional adjustments in the jet streams.
[Editor’s note: Yes, science assholes, we do know that the Sun’s activities can also effect jet stream movements. Howsoever, as this is a rant on global warming, and we earthlings have yet figured a way to ruin the sun, we’ve restrained ourselves in limit and causal scopes for the pages herein.]
The jet streams’ activities caught my varied attentions a few months back as I spent a drug-fueled evening gazing at the Weather Channel, and I’ve carefully studied them since. As I’m not a scientist and likewise lack the common sense to exhibit sound judgment, you might sense the temptation to ignore everything written past this point. Howsoever, and once more at that, please do so at your own risk.
I waited months before making the first jet streams-related prediction, and said first prediction was spot-on accurate. The evidence of this prediction’s efficacy is currently visible through the window from which I now view the outside world, as a massive thunderstorm currently rages-off its energy at the beautiful landscape of northern New Mexico, a storm I predicted three days ago when I likewise predicted yesterday’s storm, said prediction being part-and-parcel to a larger set over overall predictions made by me as the resulting recalibrations and adjustments to my senses of the Earth as it relates to future climactic conditions.
As is my method when encountering strange run-on sentences, I have carefully studied that last paragraph and found it to be more than an accurate depiction of my true thoughts, reason enough for you to tune me out without consideration to the simple fact that I have absolutely no credentials.
But having said all of that, I’m one-for-one in climate change predictions, and this first one was a dramatic win. The weather prognosticators had predicted Santa Fe would have a few thunderstorms and maybe a half-inch of rainfall this holiday weekend. As of my return to find cat puke plastered across the house earlier, we had gotten more than 2-inches here to La Casa. My guess is that this current storm has added a third-to-a-half-inch more, and it’s due to rain on manana.
Which reminds me. You’ve gotta love the Italians. My kind of problem solvers, the Italians.
“Hey, Luigi, listen up. I been thinking on this whole national debt dealie and I got us a solution. What they’re saying is our Gross National Product is a slipping so’os we got too much debt to pay based on the national income. Asshole fucking bankers are hitting us with higher interest rates, right? Fucking economy isn’t hitting on all cylinders yet because those same fucking bankers wrecked the entire fucking world back to the two-thousand-and-oughts. Fucking bankers.
“So, me and Carmine—you know Carmine, right, fat fuck runs the pasta joint over to the Coliseum there on Pope Johnny the First Boulevard—we was out for a good time the other night—Tuesday I’m thinking—an we ran into Roldolpho, bought purse and a bag of coke. Ever since he lost his leather goods store to the fucking bank, he’s been dealing coke and shit. Still selling them Gucci purses he gets from Lithuania or whereverthefuck it is, but now you buy a knockoff handbag for a hundred bucks, you get a change purse full a coke.”
“What you boys doing after this?” Rodolpho asks us. “My cousin, Michaelangelo, he lost the concession stand over to the Vatican to the fucking bankers and he’s renting-out his wife and her sister by the hour, poor sonofabitch.”
“So, Sophia—that’s Mikey’s sister-in-law, you know, skinny broad with bad teeth—she’s blowing me and I’m watching Carmine trying to get it up to bang Mikey’s wife—Carmine’s wife, Maria, she’s friends with Mikey’s wife, an he’s taking a couple minutes to digest things—and I get to thinking about the fucking bankers, an’ boom! I got this whole GNP problem all figured out.”
Gotta love those Italians. And fuck Walmart!
So. It seems that I have become one of those missing-in-action blog posters about whom my friends bitch—a once prolific writer of obnoxious drivel posting daily entries into cyberspace now posting monthly at best. Having just mistyped “cyberspace” as “cyber space”, I’ve been informed that cyber isn’t an actual word yet, and alas, cyberspace is.
OK, whatinthefuck is that all about? How can a nonexistent entity not exist yet have space? How can nothing occupy space? Other than in situations like Rick Perry or Sarah Palin’s brains, wherein skull vaults contain empty emptinesses.
Which reminds me. My across-the-street neighbor—a most interesting woman born in Holland and Americanized for the last forty years—invited us over to a dinner party last night. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson is in town for a visit, so when I say, “…invited us…,” I mean the brain doctor and first Mrs. Mooner Johnson joined me for the party, not the dogs. The dogs are pissed to be left at home alone when Agnes, said and same neighbor, has a party.
“Look, shithead,” the Squirt said, “Agnes has the most interesting friends, and the goat dog needs some socializing with a refined cultural element. Take us with.”
“No, little lady,” I told my tiny brown puppy. “Things will be too crowded and you’ll be under foot.”
“Fuck you, asshole. You’ll pay for this one.”
Am I the only parent who finds themselves revisiting the quality of their parenting skills at constant intervals? I raised three well adjusted, interesting, honest and productive kids as a much younger man, and yet, with the experience and maturity of an older man, the net results of my efforts to properly raise this miniature dog have resulted in the Squirt.
I was asking Dr. Sam earlier this morning, I asked, “Why is the Squirt so fucking headstrong, demanding and why does she stick to her principles like Gorilla Glue? She is the most exasperating person in my life.” I was taking advantage of my lovely ex wife’s visit by attempting to sneak a little free psycho therapy action into coffee time.
She answered, “For starters, buster, I just punched the clock and I’m now charging for out-of-town, weekend, holiday, emergency and crisis rates. Those rates are charged by-the-word at $25-per word. After I tell you that you have somehow managed to parent a formerly sweet young dog into a mirror image of yourself, know that if I stop now, you’re bill for this morning’s session has already cost you $1,775.00”
I thought for a moment. “Jesus Christ, Sammie, you’re charging me for prepositions and pricing contractions as two words! You are such a bitch.”
“And you, my dear ex husband, are a nut case. My free diagnosis of the day.”
Anyway, and before my ADHD drives this train into a gorge, we went to the party last night and had a ball. Everyone in attendance not named Mooner Johnson was an interesting and spiritual person and an actual artist producing incredible art, or an interesting, spiritual and renowned psycho therapist. The entire roomful of us thought Rick Perry is a brainless sack of shit, and when I said, “Fuck Walmart!” the room cheered.
Which reminds me. Dr. Sam I. Am is crazy about this private label Chardonnay wine from Costco. Since Costco is the polar opposite of Walmart—treating employees with respect and dignity while profiting still mightily—I was happy to visit Costco for a case of the wine when I was in the ABQ. I’ve agreed to help write and supervise the implementation of a five-year business plan for my buddy who owns the roofing company, and I’m in New Mexico’s largest city often.
Costco was crowded with holiday shoppers, and after bumping and bustling through the store to get the case of wine and industrial-sized buckets of red pepper flakes, smoked paprika, and olive oil, I went to check out. The shortest line had six overly-filled baskets waiting and I took my place at the rear. There were two, or more, persons with each basket, save-and-except the one immediately in front of mine. That immense and spilling-over cart was unattended. I looked for its keeper and finding none, moved it ahead of me as the line shortened. Nosy bastard that I am, I spent my time waiting in line searching the store around me and guessing who, and where, the cart user might be.
OK, I was also thinking about the five-year business plan, wondering what item from my Costco shopping list I had forgotten, trying—unsuccessfully—to not look at the ample bosom spilling from the holiday sweater on the lovely lady in the line next to me, and likely spurred by the ample bosom, was wondering if I was clever enough to talk the good doctor into joining me in an evening of sack time. For those of you interested in my sex life, the answer is, as it always is, “No, shithead, your ex wife is far too well adjusted to sex it up with the likes of you.”
I was now at the point where I had to either push the abandoned cart aside and start putting my own basket’s contents on the black rubber conveyor belt for pricing, or wait and piss-off the now seven carts-worth of shoppers behind me. Just as I had grabbed the cart’s handle with both hands to lift it aside, a short, plump Catholic woman walked up and said to me, “Oh, thank you, sir.” She started putting her items on the black rubber belt and added, she said, “And Merry Christmas.”
You might wonder how I knew she was Catholic, right? For starters, she had maybe seven crosses hanging from chains around her neck, I saw the edges of a wear-worn Bible poking from the giant purse she’d left in the basket, and pinned to the breast of her sweater was one of those little buttons that show a pair of tiny feet. With the personal experience and knowledge that that particular button is a favored demonstration of a violent Catholic strain of anti-abortion fervor, I pegged the lady as Catholic.
“Happy Holidays,” I responded, full of holiday cheer and proud that I hadn’t pushed the nice lady’s cart aside.
“Merry Christmas,” she said, and again.
Thinking she hadn’t heard my first response, I responded with a somewhat louder and quite more cheery, “Happy Holidays!”
Wait. Would I have spoken more cheery, or would it be more accurate to have said my louder voice was cheery more? As accuracy and crystal clear communications are my life’s goals, me, I’m going with Cheery more.
“Merry Christmas!” she said, and again, this time through gritted teeth and with not a small level of menace.
Oh, now I get it. This crazy bitch is worried that America is killing her sacred holiday.
“And a Happy Holidays to you and yours,” I said as delightfully as I could say it.
“I saaa-i-ud Merr-ry Christ-mas.” Christmas was said as two words with a heavy emphasis on “Christ”. Her eyes had turned feral, like in a horror movie when the Devil posses to scare you into pissing your pants.
“Happy Holidays,” brightly said by me, and merrily so. It has been many months since I have enjoyed the special pleasure it is to poke and prod Catholic Anti-abortion Protest lady into spitting at and slapping my ruggedly handsome face. I do miss those times and felt this the perfect chance to push another silly Catholic woman off her kibble.
“How dare you blaspheme my sweet Saviour’s birthday!” she snarled. “He!!!” shouted now, “is the only reason you have a holiday and I will not let you disgrace His name.”
I was winding up my favorite three words for an occasion such as that when the Costco clerk managed to pry the angry woman away.
“Fuck your Jesus.” I whispered my anti-Fuckhead Christian mantra to myself in true holiday spirit. I always emphasize the “your” part to distinguish the various Jesuses apart. Some Jesuses are loving and accepting while others must be total fuckbrains, and often the lines blur for me.
After a fantastic party and great time, Sammie and I walked back to Casita Johnson de Santa Fe and opened the door to a frightful sight. The entire living room was covered in the shredded remains of a week’s worth of newspapers. Two piles of dog shit had been deposited on the laces of my snow boots that sit by the door, and everything that formerly sat on top of the coffee table was strewn amidst the shredded paper.
“Happy fucking Holidays, Mooner.” It was the Squirt. She and Yoda were sitting on the rug that sits half in the dining room and half in the kitchen. They were wearing the jingle bell collars that are my Xmas decorations. “Fix us some eggnog and light the fire, Bwana. Lets get in the spirit.”
I love my puppies, New Mexico and good friends. Happy Holiday, y’all.
So. The dogs and I spent last Saturday night over to some friends house in Albuquerque so that we could watch the big Balloon Festival. They live high on a hill in Corrales that is maybe four miles from the Balloon Park. As the ABQ is perfectly located for hot air balloon flying—what with its daily “box wind” phenomenon—the largest city in New Mexico draws people worldwide to attend the annual Balloon Festival.
The box wind dealio is because of the mountains around ABQ and the fact that the wind blows every which a direction as you ascend to different heights. So, basically, you can fly in circles by moving to higher and lower elevations. In spite of the rough landings that broke legs, and the one balloon that hit high power lines and burst into flames, it was fun to watch.
Before we left Santa Fe Saturday afternoon, we winterized the GTO—parked and covered and got it ready for a few months’ nap. The grand old girl is heady fun when it’s warm, but Winter’s cold and slick roads are anything but fun. Which is what sparked me to write today.
The other car previously holding the second slot in the fleet here to La Casita de Santa Fe was a rather large Chevy SUV. Big enough to carry 4’X8′ sheets of plywood, the oversize SUV was a menace on my adoptive hometown’s narrow streets and skinny parking slots. It was likewise a little clumsy in the mountains in spite of its four-wheel drive system.
The big Chevy met its demise two weeks ago when we drove it to get veggies from the Farmers’ Market. We were later in the morning leaving than usual and all the prime parking spots were already filled. I finally found a target space on Guadalupe Street, but some asshole in an Audi had parked over the back line of my assigned spot. The driver had not only parked over the line, but had done so quite crookedly. As I cursed started to drive off, Squirt said to me, she said, “You can fit it in, Mooner, I’ll guide you.”
I unhooked the diminutive brown ball of piss and vinegar from her harness and she jumped from front seat to back, and then over to the rear deck. I watched in the mirror as she surveyed the situation, pacing front-to-back and mumbling to herself, as she laid her backup plans. “OK, shithead, pull up at an angle and start backing up. Slowly.”
I started backing, slowly, and after we traveled maybe ten feet I heard, “Hard left!” and I did, and then, “Straighten her out,” and I did again.
“Slowly, slowly… slowly” Squirt cautioned me as she guided me with her muzzle pressed to the rear window. Her tiny face was squished to the glass as she gauged the distances between curb and Audi bumper. “OK, cut it hard right! No, shithead, the other right!”
After maybe fifteen minutes, the two of us managed to wedge the rear tire of the Chevy tight against the curb, and our ass-end to the Audi in a way that made it impossible for the Audi to move without dragging against the back of my car by snagging his bumper against the sharp, truck-like edge of mine.
The Squirt had the goat dog take a pee on his driver’s side door, and we left the two cars to defend for themselves.
“You need to send that monstrosity back to Austin and get us a proper New Mexico winter car, Bwana Mooner. Yoda and I plan to spend way plenty time exploring this snow season, and we want a fun car for it.”
“What do you have in mind, little lady? I haven’t car shopped for years now and I don’t even know what’s available.”
She and Yoda conferred for a bit. “Well, I want a Porsche and that silly shit wants a horse. He said that would be the historically correct choice of transportation.”
I’ve been reading Santa Fe histories to the dogs to help them get a feel for our magical hometown. The original roads in town were built to be only two horses wide, an effort to make invasion a quite difficult task.
“No Porsche and no horses. Too expensive, too much trouble, and uncomfortable for three to boot.”
We were walking along the railroad tracks that meander from Santa Fe to the ABQ like an umbilical cord sprung from my new hometown’s belly button, the Rail Yard. Squirt stopped at one of the many benches where she and Yoda jumped up to perch. “Sit down, Mooner, and let’s get serious. This can’t be a knee-jerk decision. Cars cost a lot of money these days and you need to take your time. The goat dog and I have a wish list—all wheel drive, roomy, dependable, panoramic sun roof, stain resistant interior all around, and a really great sound system. You can’t just be buying the first thing that catches your eye.”
She was right, you know. I can’t choose new cars with the same impulsive decision making process as I have with the wives. I keep cars for twenty years or longer.
We did our market shopping without too many distractions and returned to Guadalupe Street to find the Chevy SUV sitting on four flat tires and a full dozen Daisy’s Farm Fresh Free Range eggs dripping and sun-drying on the finish. I’m pretty sure they were Large, and I knew they were Daisy’s because of the color of the yolks. We buy a couple dozen of Daisy’s finest Large each trip to the market.
Anyway, the Audi was gone and I got pissed and after getting the car cleaned and tires inflated, we went car shopping. The three of us drove through every fucking car lot in town as we window shopped. The kids would “Oooo,” and “Ahhhh,” at all sorts of shit, and the Squirt was a running string of car commercials as we passed her favored models.
“What’s the matter, asshole, you haven’t stopped to see a single thing. What could possibly be wrong with the Acura MDX? It’s been totally redesigned and made for mankind! You don’t seem very excited about any of this.”
She was right. I just couldn’t get into it. “Let’s go down to the ABQ and get some hot dogs at Der Weinerschnitzel.” We love Der Schnitzel dogs, the three of us do.
So we did, and we exited at the wrong street and were forced to drive the access road to get back on the freeway. “Oh look, asshole, it’s the Mini store! Let’s check them out,” Squirt exclaimed.
So we did. Bought the first thing we saw—a Mini Countryman S All-4 with six speed manual transmission, no panoramic sunroof and a basic stereo system. It’s the ugliest thing you ever saw, and we love it.
Which reminds me. Has anybody thought to say that the reason the Affordable Health computer systems crashed from overuse is because the silly fucking Repubbies spent so much time promoting Obamacare? Planning for the best from a soft opening, Government computer systems planners felt that as many as 50,000 people would be logged on at any given time. Since all the systems were new, no real advertising program was planned and when you give the great American populace three months to do anything, the great bulk of us do it on the next-to-last day. Plan was, get the glitches worked out in early October, fix those glitches, and then be ready for the rush with a proven system.
But—thanks to those silly boys and girls who wish to take affordable health care away from the rest of us—the months of heavily vitriolic anti-Obamacare rhetoric spurred huge numbers of visitors to the site. More than 250,000 at a time, or five times as many as expected in the wildest dreams of the planners.
And guess what. When people take the time to look at the actual data, they like it. Even the bigoted and greedy, close-minded assholes like it. It’s like that old cereal commercial. “They like it!”
Thanks, shitheads, for selling a great product. Manana, y’all.
So. It’s been a Tennessee weekend for me here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. A new friend provided me with some brownies made by her cousin—rich brown delicacies cut into the size of large sugar cubes.
“Look, Mooner, don’t laugh at their size,” she told me as I giggled at the mocha nuggets in the triple-seal Zip-Lock baggie. “These are hash brownies, silly. One will mellow you out and a second will kick your ass.”
Friday night, after a long day at work, I ate one tiny brownie, fired up the grill and prepared a buffalo steak, potato, onions and scorching-hot peppers picked right from the vine. As things started to cook, I pulled a big handful of cherry tomatoes from their vines and scattered them around on the solid part of my grill. Grilling was a rather long process as I found myself especially interested in the sights and sounds and smells of our backyard.
“You’re fried, asshole.” It was the Squirt. I was on my hands and knees, sniffing at the herb section of our little garden.
“I’ve got a moral dilemma, my tiny pipsqueak of a poochie. Basil, oregano, sage, savory, mint or should it be a combination of them all?” I asked her.
“What in the world are you talking about? You don’t put mint on buffalo, shithead.”
She’s right, you know. Except I’m pretty sure it was a bison steak. I love mint on some occasions, but not on a cowboy grilled dinner. I snapped-off stems of basil and oregano and tossed them on a cooled fire. I like to finish things for a couple minutes on a cooler fire to allow the steak to get warm inside, but not cooked. I like the “moo” out of my beef, the “baa” out of my lamb and the…
What the fuck does a bison say? What do you cook out of a bison to cook it blood rare? Do they growl? Snort? Grunt, scream? I’m guessing some combination of bull snort and hippopotamus. Old McDonald didn’t have an “E-Eye-E-Eye-O” for bison or buffalo either one.
I didn’t like singing that song as a child. My ADHD would grab my attentions right about the “…had a farm…” part, and I’d be thinking of ways to pester little Susie Ashburn. My pesterings usually involved something to do with Susie’s long, braided pigtails. Buy my silly fucking book and read more on that subject. OK, those subjects.
After my cowboy grilled dinner, a chunk of cheesecake, two containers of Noosa brand honey yogurt, a half-bag of corn chips and another small cube of brownie, I sat on the couch and turned on the TV. The dogs settled into my lap and I flipped the tuner for maybe fifteen minutes before something dawned on me.
“I’m pretty stoned, kids.”
Have you guys tried Noosa brand yogurt? Spectacular!
I finally lighted on ESPN-U, the sports station’s fourth best choice of offerings. “Oh, look, guys, it’s Tennessee VS Arkansas. Let’s watch it for Squattie.”
My buddy, Bob, from over to Squatlo Rant, is a huge Tennessee fan. Regardless of their win/loss record, Bob is a die hard fan. “They’ll just get their asses kicked, Mooner,” Squirt told me, “let’s watch a movie instead.”
“I didn’t see anything that captured my attention, little lady. Let’s just do this for Bob.”
“Fuck Bob,” she said as she jumped to the floor. “Put a movie on the other TV and we’ll watch in there.
I did, they did, and I grabbed another brownie from the kitchen and went back to the game. Among the questions/comments I made—some quite loudly—as I watched the game were:
- Why is this video quality so poor?
- Those uniforms are so last decade.
- ESPN-U has really shitty graphics.
- Oh, would you look at that—Arkansas has another Stoerner at quarterback.
- This Stoerner kid looks just like his big brother except slower.
- Clint had more zip on his passes.
- Wow, look at the fog.
- OK, I need to read the sports section more carefully. Who inthefuck coaches Tennessee?
- This looks familiar.
- What would it hurt to have one more brownie?
I awoke Saturday am and realized that I had watched a rerun of the classic late nineties clash between Arkansas and Tennessee. Then I awoke this morning to discover that USC has fired the giant flaming asshole named Lane Kiffin. Fuckface Kiffin had coached Tennessee and screwed them royally before running off to USC a couple years back.
Anyway, happy Shutdown. Fuck all Republicans and Walmart too!
So. This morning I was sitting in the office here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe where my computer desk is situated to provide me the full view out the window. What I see on any day is first the sharp angle of the stucco corner of the master bedroom roof which is backdropped by the largest of our Ponderosa pine trees. Sharpen my eyes to mid distance and I can see the rooftops of homes and other buildings as the topography rises towards the mountains.
When I focus my sight to the distance, I have a clear view of the ski mountain—Santa Fe Ski Basin. On any day my view of the world as I write to you is nothing short of spectacular.
Today, however, my view was something beyond that. It was snowing again this morning, a light, fine crystalline ice crystal snow that was falling straight down in windless air. Since everything is already coated with the week’s fluffy snow, this looked like when I would shake off my shirt onto a white granite counter top that time I had a terrible case of dandruff—the tiny flakes just disappeared into the already-white landscape.
The neighborhood crows and ravens have decided to grace us today, likely because I set a big loaf of bread on the roof of the portal for them. For the life of me I can’t tell them apart—ravens and crows—but Google tells me that ravens are the larger of these two majestic birds. But whichever ones these are, I have fallen in love with them. At least I am in love with what they seem to be to me—calm, thoughtful, playful, smart, communal. They seem to take life as it comes without complaint while honoring each other’s existances.
While the starlings and sparrows and other birds squawk and twitter and fight over every scrap of food and territory, the bigger black birds share, and even seem to invite company. The first time I put bread out, a lone crow (raven?) flew in to look things over. He pecked at the bread’s hard crust, scrabbled it with his beak, then turned his head like birds do to peer a large orange eye at the bread. After maybe a half-minute of peering, he, “Caw-caw-cawed,” and stood there.
He just stood and turned his head in the circles that birds do, and he, “Caw-caw-cawed.”
Other crows and ravens began their fly ins and I soon had what I guess was a flock of them. Ten birds by my count, sharing the loaf of bread. It was a big loaf, a rustic Italian sour dough three-pounder that I had forgotten and allowed to go stale.
Any of the other birds that visit the yard would squabble and fight over every crumb, but these guys shared. There appeared to be some sort of pecking order but I had no sense of their priorities. Having watched them many times since, they seem to have a societal sharing structure based on need. Whichever bird’s needs are greater gets to peck first and most often. There is one bird—the largest and most weatherbeaten—who is usually the last to fly in for dinner. As soon as he lands and settles, the others make room for him to eat. I named him The Old Man.
They wait while The Old Man spears a first chunk and swallows, and let him get a second bite before they resume their dining. It happens that way every time. Every fucking time.
I say all of this to you because when I first sat down to write to you about my retained anger over last Friday’s massacre of school kids, I was looking out my office window at the aforementioned view, pissed at the world. I was staring over the sharp angle of the master bedroom wall, over the roof and into the snowy pine tree. There was motion from deep inside the pine’s snow-weighted mass, motion moving from the far side towards me.
I realized it was a big bird and I soon saw it was The Old Man. He was branch hopping from way up in the far side of the tree towards me. He flew out of sight for a minute and then returned to the same branch with a mouthful of bread. He perched for a moment on the largest branch closest to the house then flew the one wing flap distance to the master bedroom parapet—the tip of the angular wall now thrice-mentioned.
He gripped the stuccoed wall with huge clawed feet. I was surprised at the look of his claws and stared at them in what might have been awe. This angular wall is maybe ten feet from my window, and from that short distance the bird was a giant. I knew then that The Old Man is a raven.
He set the chunk of bread on the wall and “Cawed” at me. He looked straight at me from his wall perch, and “Cawed” at me again. My desk phone rang and its jangle broke the moment. The Old Man jumped to lift off in flight and I answered the phone.
It was Mother. “Hi, Mother, how are you?”
“I’m just sick to death over this gun control business, Mooner. Where are you?”
Here we go again. “I’m in Santa Fe, Mother, just like the last hundred-and-thirty-nine times we’ve spoken. You know, like the six times yesterday?”
A pause, and I hear her make a sharp intake of breath. “How many times must I warn you about Santa Fe, son? All of those homo-sex-u-als will ruin your life. They have their ways, Mooner, and you aren’t the sharpest knife in the drawer you know.”
“Oh for shitsakes, Mother, whatinthefuck do you want?” I asked, maybe my words carrying a touch more sting than I meant. Maybe.
“Don’t you curse at your mother, Butcher Einstein Johnson. I can still bend you over the kitchen table, you little brat. What am I going to do about this gun control mess? Where are you—I need you to come here right now and fix this gun mess for me.”
“I’m still in Santa Fe. and what gun control mess are you talking about?” With Mother you’re not allowed to be quite certain of her references. She might be addressing Friday’s gun mess or maybe a time back in the Civil War, when Minnie balls weren’t the same well-aimed missiles as today’s precision killing machines. It pays to not assume.
“Pastor Browningwell told me that the President is going to take all our guns away and that we need to stand and fight. I need some bullets, Mooner, where are you?”
Huh? The old dingbat needs bullets?
“Why do you need bullets? Mother, you don’t have a gun, and as of a few seconds ago, I’m still in fucking Santa Fe.”
“I bought a gun yesterday to protect myself against the President and you need a gun too. You have just got to keep those homo-sex-u-als away, son. They can turn you in a minute.”
Sweet Jesus, if you ever had any power, will you please take me NOW!
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Mother? You don’t need a damned gun—you live in a secure building.”
Son… Of… A… Fucking… Bitch!!! My batty and demented mother bought a gun!
“Well, I don’t actually have the gun yet, they had sold out before I could get a reservation on the facility bus to take me over to the shop. But I want bullets for when my gun comes in and I WANT THEM RIGHT NOW!”
I thought she would bust a gut she was so mad. My first impulse was to test that idea and attempt to stir her up. Instead I said to her, I told her, “OK, settle down. I’ll be there Saturday morning and we’ll see about getting you some bullets. What kind of bullets do you need?” I asked.
I had to fucking ask.
“Oh, I don’t know, Mooner—seven-thousand-sixty-two?”
What? Did she mean 7.62?
“Do you mean seven-point-sixty-two? Moth-errrrr… Did you buy an assault rifle?”
She hung up on me. I tried calling her back but there was no answer. I then called American Express and canceled the transaction at On Target Gun Shop of San Antonio, hung up and called On Target where I gave what sounded like a pimply-faced teenager an earful of shit while telling him I’d canceled the payment. When I’d spent all my anger with the sales clerk, he did that exasperated sigh that teens do and said to me, he said, “No problemo, signorio, we got a waiting list.”
I slammed the phone down and redialed AMEX where I canceled Mother’s AMX card. Cancellations of Visa and her debit cards followed. I called Sister to tell her what was going on and asked her to go down to San Antonio and meet with the management of the facility where our mother now lives.
“Give them $500.00 in twenties, Sister, and instruct that Mother can have fifty bucks a day. We’ll discuss longterm arrangements when I get there.”
Then, it dawned on me that I had just canceled an AMEX charge for $1,986.52 that was payable to the On Target gun shop. I felt so angry I thought I’d bust a gut.
“Calm down, Bwana, cool your jets. You’re gonna bust a gut.” It was the Squirt who was dressed in the new sweater I got to wear under her parka. The diminutive brown puppy looked totally fucking adorable.
“They charged her almost two-thousand dollars for a five-hundred dollar gun, sweetie pie. My mother has lost her mind in more ways than one.”
“Ugh,” I added with a tired breath.
“Who gives a shit, Mooner, you got it fixed. Lets go to Trader Joe’s and get some cheap wine, a leg of lamb and those French caramels you like so much. You can get drunk and Yoda and I can fight over the lamb bone.”
Squirt nudged my leg with her cute little nose. “Come on shithead, you can fix the rest of this mess on Saturday.”
It’s now early evening and I’m two bottles of Trader Joe’s Coastal Merlot in the bag. The smell of roasting lamb has my mouth watering like the leaky water connection I just found in the wall behind the vanity in the hall bath. I love roasted lamb and I love my two dogs and I love living in Santa Fe.
And I want to love my mother. I truly do. But I’ve forgotten how or maybe I’ve forgotten what loving her feels like. It’s impossible to feel love for her now when feeling loved by her is a forgotten memory. Maybe I’ll get those feelings back when I visit her over the holidays.
Maybe not. And why am I starting to feel that crows and ravens have a more well adjusted society than we humans?
So. Here we all are on a fine Sunday morning—a Veteran’s Day morning and a morning for reflections on life. Here to Santa Fe, we got our first dusting of snow and now the air is crisp and clean and bright. The snow fell overnight, and when we first got out of bed I took the dogs to the back door to let them out. Doing our business is always the first order of business for each day and Sunday morning business is always a family affair.
When the three of us got to the back door to go outside, I said to the puppies, “OK, guys, let’s slip on your sweaters. It’s cold outside.”
The Squirt stuck her nose on the door glass and jerked her head back like a shot. “Fuck you, Buster Brown, I’m shitting on the carpet and going back to bed.”
The diminutive brown dog headed back to the bedroom and flipped over her shoulder, “Wake me up when the French toast is ready.”
My mother called me Buster Brown whenever I pissed her off in my childhood and she called me John Henry when I pleased her. I guess I should be glad I earned the nickname of Mooner back on the first day of school. Buster Brown would have been tough to live with.
Yoda and I dressed for the cold and went outside. This is the first snow the goat dog has ever experienced from the outside of a tiny wire cage. The first year of his life was lived inside the hog wire prison of a puppy mill over to Oklahoma, and most of our experiences together are firsts for him.
I wish he could talk to me like the Squirt. I can’t get anyone to tell me the specifics of who’s and wheres regarding that dog factory. Then again, I fear that Oklahoma jails are far less friendly places than my usual barred haunts.
He and I walked the back yard and marked our territory in the usual way. I think he actually giggled when he first peed into the pristine white snow. The ice crystals cracked and fizzled and steamed before turning yellow, and the little dog snickered like a boy. Which made me snicker too.
“Let’s write our names in the snow,” I said, and I wrote as much of mine as I had ink left to write.
Yoda looked down at what I’d melted into the white snow, looked up at my face and back at the snow again.
“OK, it says ‘Moo’, shitball. All I had left was enough to write a cow sound.”
We both giggled some more. “Now you,” I prodded.
The small white half-Chihuahua half-Whippet looked up at me like I’d asked him to define Pi. “You’re right. Here,” and I picked him up, “you pee and I’ll spell.”
Have I ever told you that Yoda’s name was Pi when I first adopted him? What kind of name is that? What character traits might a dog even have to resemble a Pi?
Stupid fucking dog name.
Anyway, I got some news from Texas as Gram and the P-cubed had Ralph drop them off down there to the ranch rather than back here. They drove out to New Jersey with a Hummer limo full of “supplies” for the hurricane victims and then headed home to Austin rather than back to Santa Fe.
“We’re a moving Mr. Dave over ta tha old folks’ homie down to San Antonio. Seems he’s been taken by tha same dramentia as yer fucking mother.”
“It’s dementia, Gram, but I get the picture. Anything I can do?”
“Nopers. Ralph’s gonna load up tha Humdinger an’ drop Mr. Dave off with yer mother. He’ll stop back here to tha ranch to load up some shit fer you afore headin’ back yer way. Wacha want?”
I gave Gram my list and told her I love her, and when I hung up I felt melancholy. To think that Mr. Dave has the same dementia as Mother unsettled me. Mr. Dave is a gentle man and a gentleman in every way. My mother is an angry and mean spirited woman, and is so in most ways. My hopes there are that the giant peckered old gentleman can fuck some good nature back into my mother.
Otherwise, I’ll get him his own apartment.
Anyway, French toast and bacon are the order of the day. The bacon is the last of my stash from Texas and one of the staples headed this way in Ralph’s Hummer limo. So is the maple syrup Streaker Jones brings back from Vermont. I need another few gallons.
I wonder if Mr. Dave’s dementia will make him forget he’s a good man. It hasn’t made my mother forget to be a shithead so maybe he’ll be OK.
Which reminds me. Did you guys hear that Mitt Romney cut off the credit cards of his campaign workers before he gave his concession speech? He made them pay for their own ways home from Boston on Tuesday night.
I wish every American would carefully think about that. Manana, y’all.
So. I’ve been busy grading the driveway and small front yard here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe getting things ready for gravel, Xeriscaping and a new set of front steps. I met two men, brothers, when I first got here and they have been helping me with all of my remodeling endeavors.
As a sufferer of the dreaded ADHD, I have the knowledge to understand the hows and whereofs to perform most any job around the house. Likewise, as a sufferer of the dreaded ADHD, I have the ability to fuck any job all the way to Hell, and back.
Take, for instance, using a pick ax. A simple task, pick axing—grasp ax near top end and middle, raise ax over head and apply downward force to direct pointy end at soil area desired to be loosened, lever ax handle to pry now-loosened material, raise ax to repeat.
The plumber finally finished repairs to my main water supply just before dinner last night. We had the remaining chicken and carrot soup that I made Sunday with the fresh, local produce I got from over to the Farmer’s Market down to the Rail Yard. Carrots and kale and onions and a big chicken.
This one vendor had a huge basket of various carrots—yellow, golden and purple—none of which looked like your typical chain grocery produce. The purple carrot I bought grew to look like that Wookie character from Star Wars. When I got my bag of stuff back to the casita, the dogs and I had a blast making jokes about the appearances of the various produce.
“That gold carrot looks like a giant double dog pecker,” Squirt laughed out. “How about you give us a few minutes alone. I’ve been feeling a little tense lately.”
I love that adorable little lump of brown fur and keen humors.
Which reminds me. I met an uncommitted voter yesterday. I’m not speaking about one of those assholes who say they’re uncommitted to get attention, I mean I met a woman who truly still has mixed feelings between Obama and Romney.
I went over to the Ace Hardware store to get some stucco patch to repair a couple nicks I axed into the side of the house. Adrian—he’s the older of the two brothers previously mentioned and now almost a part of my family—is a greatly-skilled stucco repair artist. I parked my car next to a several years old Honda of pristine condition and wearing a bumper sticker plastered to it’s back window that said, “God didn’t teach me to hate.”
“God didn’t teach me to hate?” I said to myself, and I guess aloud, as I stood hands-on-hips to read the sticker several times over. “Whatinthefuck can that mean?” I said to myself, and again, I guess aloud.
“It isn’t polite to curse, young man, and it means precisely what it says.”
My chastiser was a pixie in gray body stockings, fur-topped leather boots, a full head of perfect white hair and an angelic face crowned with half a tube of ruby red lipstick. “I’m a cranky old woman, buster, and I don’t like men to curse around me. It’s disrespectful.”
“You’re right, Ma’am, and I truly apologize for the foulness of my words. But your bumper sticker has me flummoxed. What does it actually mean?”
“Well, in context, it means I’m troubled by the current political climate where it seems America is a two-faced country with the right hating the left. I hear all this religious talk from both sides filled with hateful words. I want it to stop,” she said with a calm that defied the fury I saw in her eyes.
As I was wearing a dusty “Fuck Mitt Romney” tee shirt, dirty jeans and muddy work boots she seemed to figure me out quickly. “So you are an Obama supporter. Why?”
Huh? “Well,” I started, “I guess we can start from the simple fact that Mitt Romney is a lying, sniveling shithead—er, ah, I mean he lies just for sport—and then finish with his political positions.”
I then enumerated my thoughts on social services, women’s rights and the rest for maybe thirty minutes.
“Interesting,” she told me. “I’m Catholic and I’m torn. My church is demanding I vote Republican for no more reason than the abortion issue and my heart tells me that’s not reason enough to vote against self interest. How about we discuss this again sometime when you aren’t so filthy-dirty. You look like you’d clean up nicely.”
I’ve never dated an older woman before and an older Catholic woman at that. I’m thinking I’ll take her up to Chimayo’ to this nifty restaurant up there. Maybe Ralph and the girls will be back from whereverinhell they are by Friday night and we can make it a group date. New Mexico isn’t a swing state but maybe we can swing Lucille’s vote the right direction for practice.
I was wondering if Lucille’s rug matches her white curtains. I wonder if Catholic ladies practice body hair controls. I wonder if it’s appropriate to take your straight razor and edible shave cream on a first Catholic date.
Adrian is Catholic, maybe he can give me some pointers. Manana, y’all.
So. OK, let’s get this shit out of the way so we can move on with life. If the debate was an acting contest, Mitt Romney “won” this week’s debate. He won it clearly and concisely. If attitude and aggression are your most preferred Presidential qualities, Mitt’s your boy.
But let me ask one question before we talk about fun stuff.
“What does it mean when the main reason you state for the President losing this debate is that he failed to aggressively shout down his opponent for telling egregiousness and stupid lies?”
When I hear that silly shit said by talking heads on both sides of politics, I’m forced to shake my head. The worse thing President Obama did was allow Mitt Romney to lie? Really? That’s like saying Sharon Tate lost her “life debate” with Charlie Manson’s crew.
OK, that might be a terrible analogy, but maybe I made a point.
Anyway, I’ve been having incredible dreams since occupying Santa Fe, and I want to share a few with you starting with last night’s.
A cold front blew through about 1:00 am and awoke me. I had been dreaming about walking nekid on the dunes of a desert when the icy wind blew in through the open window above our bed. I was lying on my side, with the Squirt all scrunched-up in the crook of my bent knees—tail running up through the crack of my ass—and Yoda the goat dog was on my neck like a muffler.
One minute in the dream I was panting and laboring across the intemperate sands in what must have been a hot dog breath and smelly-furred sweat, and the next minute I found myself back in high school—nekid in front of the blackboard attempting to explain the Pythagorean Theorem while removing a wad of toilet paper from my ass.
Once fully awakened by the chilly wind, I realized that it was dog tail packing my crack and that I had to pee something fierce. Since I don’t have a finished vanity and vanity sink in the master bath, I was forced to use the commode. Regular readers know this, but I prefer to pee in the sink so as to make efficiencies in both water savings and physical motions. I sat on the throne, leaned head in hands with elbows on knees, took a deep cleansing breath, and promptly fell back asleep.
Which reminds me. Why don’t most people believe me when I tell them that I pee in the sink? Any sink. My sink, public sinks.
I started dreaming as soon as I shut my eyes, and I found myself back in the days when I was married to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson. I was sitting in her waiting room, all dressed-up in a suit—the suit worn when she and I wed—and I had to pee. I walked over to the receptionist and asked her where I might find the closest sink. She said to me, she pointed at her desk and said, “It’s right there on my desk, Mr. Johnson. You’re more than welcome to use it.”
When I looked down, she pushed a large sink-shaped ashtray towards me. It was a white porcelain Kohler—model number QF-1572-A—and it was filled with some sort of absorbent the consistency of large-grained sand. Without hesitation, I flipped my necktie over my shoulder, unzipped my suit pants, tucked the tails of my white dress shirt in the waistband of my white cotton undies, maneuvered my pecker through the peeky-poo hole in those same undies, and peed into the gritty absorbent.
I guess the QF part on the ashtray model number was for “quiet flush”. Wait, maybe it was for “quick flush”. Fuck it, maybe Q is for the year 2012 and F is for February, the year and month it was made.
How’s that ADHD ass taste, everybody?
It was a lengthy pee, and after a moment the receptionist reached her hand down and touched—ever so gently—the thumb and forefinger of my peeing hand. She then took her finger and touched the peeing pecker.
I started to think about her actions and suddenly another woman’s hand entered the frame. This one had long, slender fingers with bright red-painted fingernails. She ran a manicured nail tip across my stuff and then another woman came along and reached for me. I looked up into the three women’s faces as they were crowded together to get hands on me. I saw Katy from over to the Lesbian Soup Site as the receptionist, Sarah Palin as the red-nailed woman and it was Dr. Sammie coming in last.
My psycho therapist, and first wife of ten, had a terrible scowl plastered all over her face. “Get your crazy ass into my office and right now, buster. It’s been almost a month since your last session and you are way out of control.”
I answered, “And it’s been longer than that since I had myself any third-party sex.”
“What do you mean third-party sex, Mooner?” she asked me. “I told you that multiple sex partners is bad for you.”
“Calm down, psycho babble babe, I mean a third party not me or my lonely pecker.”
That’s when I awoke, slumped on the pot and numb from the waist down, with my nighty-night erection ready to explode with pressure from my way-too fucking full bladder. I somehow managed to pee and then crawled back to bed with ten-thousand needles sticking my useless legs and ass.
“Where have you been, asshole?” the small brown puppy asked when I managed to pull myself back into bed. “I’m freezing my tushie off, and Yoda wants to snuggle with me. Have you smelled that shithead’s breath?”
“He smells like a goat’s butt, what do you expect?” I told Squirt.
My adorable puppy resettled herself, this time on groin and crotch as I lay on my back, and the goat dog snuggled into my arm pit. I guess my smelly pit has an appeal to a goat. I remember thinking, “Why did I dream Katy was interested in me, why was Sarah Palin in this dream and why, inthefuck, haven’t I gotten a sink installed in the master bathroom yet?”
Katy has recently become single and I have a history with lesbian women, and I am forced to admit that I would sex it up with Palin. Maybe that’s it. Then again, maybe Yoda isn’t the only man in our house who acts like a goat. And maybe I need a therapy session and some sex.
Ugh, once more. So much to do. Manana, y’all.
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.
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?
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.
So. I’m back in Austin and now back on the Beat. I arrived in my part time home city last Thursday afternoon and had planned to write to you that very evening. But plans being plans, that idea was fucked from sometime approaching Noon CDT, Eleven am Mountain time last week.
Things were going grandly on the trip back until we got to Post, Texas—a small town south of Lubbock and 2/3rds of the total drive from Santa Fe to Austin. “Pull the car over to that Dairy Queen, Bwana Mooner, I need to use the bathroom,” Squirt told me.
When I started to say that this was the tenth time she’s needed a break, I only got to the “This is the tenth…” part when she barked at me and said, “Pull the car over NOW!!!”
I did, unhooked her from the leather harness that makes her safe at any speed, and then watched her leap from the partially open GTO door. For the ninth of her ten pit stops, Squirt squatted in the yoga posture called “Dog Takes A Shit” where she gritted her teeth and strained until her already buggy eyes nearly popped out of her skull. I left the car myself to stand at her side.
“This has gone way past Baboon ass, little lady. Your anal glands have become a liability to your health,” I told her. “You need to think about getting them taken out.”
“Fuck you, asshole. Why don’t you get your ass operated on first—then come talk to me.”
When I reminded her that it has been but a short two years since I did just that, she got a defeated look all over her face. “You’re right. Call the vet. Or shoot me—your choice.”
I called and made an appointment for early Friday am to get her operation and then spent all Thursday night placing and holding ice packs to my adorable puppy’s swollen bottom while listening to her constant chatter as to her fears of going under the knife.
“What if he slips and cuts my sphincter muscles and makes me incontinent? Then what will you do?”
“I’ll clean up after you just like I’m doing now,” I told her. “Have you seen the stains you’re leaving on everything that touches your ass?”
Anyway, she had her operation Friday and I picked her up early Saturday morning. She was still goofy from the drugs and I’ve never seen her any funnier. “I think I’d like to have sex with Yoda,” she slurred to me in the car when I asked her what she wanted to do when I got her home. “He’s so fucking ugly he’s got to be good in bed.”
“That was a terribly sexist remark, my little bundle of fur, and quite inappropriate given the circumstances surrounding today’s American political debate,” I advised. “Women are under attack by the Republican Party and we all need to be sensitive to our remarks.”
“Fuck you. I need a drink.”
How more blessed can a man be that to have this dog as his best friend?
Anyway, once she came down from her drugs the Squirt has been a miserable patient. She wants to be held by me for all the twenty-fours. So I’ve been quite tied up and unable to type until now, and now I’ve managed to negotiate only a thirty-minute span of time to say as much as I can. Then I must return to the couch to cradle my sad, sick puppy in my lap.
A thirty minutes that I have just been informed has passed. Manana, y’all.
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.