Archive for the ‘TomCruise’ Category

Returning To Austin; How’s It Hanging?

Tuesday, July 10th, 2012


So. I admit I’m remiss and haven’t kept my promise to check in with you guys. I’ve been accross to New Mexico for ten days and just arrived back to the ranch in Austin. I feel like an asshole for not checking in with everyone, but I have some excuses. Not that excuses are worth a shit in any context, so maybe I’ll call my absence precisely what it was.

The effort required of me to communicate while gone was more than I was willing to pay. Therefor, and therein, I’m an asshole.

So I’ll apologize here and now and rather than excuse myself, as assholes typically do and I’ll give you the basic travel log of my last ten days. First, I have an old, funky laptop that refuses to connect to just any wireless connection. When you add my lack of tech skills to a balky computer, you get a frustrating mix of dropped connections and half-assed effort. During the first few days in Santa Fe, I spent hours hunched over in coffee shops trying to logon and write missives on both my, and your, places of business. Worthless efforts one, and all.

Squirt told me that if I didn’t buy a new laptop when we got home that she was going to, and here I’ll quote the pint-sized puppy, “… kick your Texas ass way up onto your shoulders.” She’s a cute little shitbird when she makes threats, and she did have a good point.

Second, our home hunt has been furious and successful. On Monday we saw 19 various homes and on Tuesday we viewed another ten. Home number sixteen on Monday was an amazing 1940′s adobe bungalow that we fell deeply in love with. We got it under contract Thursday, inspected it Saturday with all the experts and hope to have it closed by the end of July. More to come on the house if things work out.

Third, this was Squirt and Yoda’s first trip outside the Lone Star State, and New Mexico has, well, enchanted them. I’ll not start effusing about our newly adopted half-home and my pets’ love affairs therewith. However, having said that you need to know that last Thursday night was the first of the free weekly concerts held on the square in town, and we had a blast. Each summer the City provides free concerts on the square downtown and I can see myself making most of them.

We stood in a crowd of fewer than a thousand and watched Joe King Carrasco do one of the best live shows I’ve ever seen. Seriously. The pint-sized singer was a dynamo and even more energetic than when I first saw him in the 1980′s. He was off the stage and into the crowd on every song, and the crowd was remarkable. It was like a huge family reunion where only Uncle Stanly was too drunk to dance, and Mother’s third cousin from back East, Madalyn Morrison, Funky Chickened her house dress up to her waist to reveal a not altogether unattractive bare ass.

I was just a kid and Madalyn was doing the Jitterbug, but the memory of her dancing with this Navy man she brought to the party still sticks with me. She would have been mid-twenties back then and I was just arriving at that age that boys reach.

And let me say that I had no idea Joe King has such mad skills on a Stratacaster. Holy fucking shit. Squirt danced all night with a Bull Mastiff named Hulk, and Yoda danced with an assortment of women who each said, “Oh, isn’t he just the cutest thing.” I have to admit that the bug-eyed little shit has got some moves. Must be his Whippet blood.

Honor the fucking cat climbed a tree to get the best seat in the house and me, I danced with the entire crowd. Joe King’s music is infectious and you can’t help but boogie. I bounced and white-boy gyrated for a solid 90 minutes, and Friday morning I got out of bed with that comfortable all-body ache that happy exercise gives you. Like when you spend a whole night sexing with an energetic lover—starting on the granite counter top out to the kitchen, moving to the cedar bench outside by the fire pit and only then heading to the bed and its cool Egyptian cotton sheets—and awaken the next morning with your nose in the crack of her ass and a vibrator with run-down batteries glued to your thigh.

Maybe the vibrator was stuck to her. Can’t swear which it was.

Anyway, we toured the Santa Fe Opera and saw some local sights, Saturday the home inspection in the am and then off to hunt Peyote buttons for the fucking cat. We packed our bags and headed to Streaker Jones’ daddy’s birthplace—exact location not any of your fucking business—and hiked for a few hours to gather cactus fruit. We took our collected produce to Streaker Jones’ cousin’s place and he blessed the peyote and made some tea in the old style. Laughing Coyote is a medicine man in-training who traded for our remaining buttons, and we got some chunks of uncut gemstones and a gunny sack of pasole. Pasole is corn nuts before they are fried and a terrific food. I love them in salad with celery, onion, hot peppers and cider vinegar dressing. We drank our Peyote tea, cracked a few Carta Blanca beers and put the new Joe King CD into the player.

That was Saturday night. I awoke Monday at 11 am in suitable condition to drive us back to Austin and gathered the troops for the 11-hour drive. The Squirt was, predictably, at the foot of my sleeping bag and Yoda was likewise curled into my left armpit. I got the dogs up to pee and brush their teeth and went outside to pee myself. We slept in an old Air Stream trailer that’s parked under an ancient cottonwood tree at a spring-fed oasis. Coyote—he asked us to call him Coyote—requested that we, “Return our water to a good use,” so we all peed on the parched soil at the big tree’s waterline.

So, I’m standing, naked, with my eyes closed and trying to get that first swollen-bladder pee to start, when I heard the sound of a hundred Mourning Doves cooing on the dry, light summer breeze. The bird music soothed me and helped relax my urinary tract. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and started blindly pee writing in the powdery red dirt at my feet. The sounds of my water hitting the soil blended with the doves’ voices and, I must admit, created a symphony of Nature. As it was my first emptying of the day, it was somewhat dramatic and provided a two-minute track of splats and coos.

When I opened my eyes I looked around me to take in the wide spaces of southern New Mexico. Or was it Mexico? I took a deep breath of dry, desert-flowered air, blinked and then looked down at my pee writing. I stared at what I had written. Actually, I think I gaped.

“God is in Honor,” it read.

“Whatthefuck?” I asked the world. “Has anyone seen the fucking cat?”

I started to panic as the last memory of Honor I had was when she walked off to find God late Saturday night. Everyone seems to walk off to find God when first imbibing Peyote. I typically go looking for God every time I eat Peyote, but God has been visiting me so often lately that I didn’t feel the need this time.

“I’ll shoot that fucking cat if he kills my doves, Mooner. Better get him down.”

Coyote was looking up at the Cottonwood tree and pointing at Honor, who was hanging upside down on the branch beneath the flock of birds. “Oh, don’t worry, dude, that’s how she sleeps sometimes,” I told him. “She’ll get anchored with her claws and hang like a bat.”

Anyway, I didn’t seem to miss much news when I was gone save that Mitt Romney raised millions from the billionaires, the Episcopalians did right by same sex marriage, and Katie Holmes finally cashed her paycheck.

Maybe now Tommie C. and Johnny T. can de-closet themselves and get married in the Episcopal Church. It’s 2012, you two, so set yourselves free. Or has your silly church got you brainwashed?

Stupid question, Mooner. Manana, y’all.

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