Archive for the ‘WholeFoods’ Category

The Square Root of 10; Musical Mysteries

Thursday, June 6th, 2013


So. I got a call from a good buddy last week inviting me to listen to some music, said he had an extra ticket to see Lyle Lovett and Robert Earl Keen out to the Santa Fe Opera.

“Hell yes,” I told him, “when and how much for the ticket.”

“Sunday at 7 pm, and your money’s no good in my town.”

That’s my buddy Doug, a man with a big heart and a photographic memory. He’s a man who remembers every slight word-for-word yet holds never a one against you. Me, if I had a photographic memory, I’d be extracting retributions.

“Hey, Sister, remember that time you ate the blue Crayola and I had to color the princess’s eyes brown? Well, fuck you… Huh, what’s that? You were only two-years old? Who gives a shit, you were an asshole and I never forget anyfucking thing.”

I was expecting Robert Earl to open as a solo for Lyle and his big, sassy band and found myself disappointed when we took our seats to find the stage set with two chairs, two mike stands, two feedback speakers, and four beautiful guitars racked—two beside each chair.

Did you know that Robert Earl is taller than Lyle? Not me. I always knew he was tall, but thought Lyle was the taller. Not that it makes a shit. My disappointment at missing the horns and saxes and backup singers dissipated as soon as the two men sat—their longtime friendship visible in the comfort they took with sitting at each others side.

A weird thing happened for me at this concert. OK, stop. Background is everything when you try to interpret the words of a backwards-thinking writer, so let me provide you with a little info. Due to my having been genetically inflicted with the dreaded ADD and its big brother, ADHD, my musical comprehension is incredible—for maybe ten bars of every song I have ever heard.

I can provide you a few lines of melody and/or libretto for anything in the catalogs of such varied artists as Harry Connick to Frank Zappa to Amadeus fucking Mozart. I can hum a couple bars of anything I’ve ever heard yet can’t sing you the complete verses of even my most favorite songs. Hell, I even have difficulty with the Star Spangled Banner. After six decades, I still mix up “Home of the free” with “Land of the brave”.

But what I lack in musical comprehension I have been spaded with human and emotional association connected with any song and my own life. I can tell you all the details of my life surrounding any song ever to pass through my brain. Take “In the Jungle, the quiet Jungle” as an example.

I had this tiny crystal transistor radio bedside as a young adolescent. I lay in my bed one summer night—the summer I grew 11-inches between school terms, and every bone in my body ached with the pain of their expansion rates. My legs and feet hurt the most, and this one night I was thinking I could actually hear my bones creaking and splintering as they expanded and extended under my skin. Each night I pressed the zero end of a yardstick tight to my sphincter and measured the distance to my foot—you know, that spot where the smooth skin of your leg turns into the rough sandpaper of heel. I’d mark the measurement on a Big Chief Pad, then measure again in the morning.

Most nights the increase in seam length would be small—discernible, yet quite small. But this one night I actually grew a quarter-inch overnight. Anyway, I was lying there on the cool cotton sheets debating the virtues of masturbation and whether I wanted to get up and make a date with my personal bar of Ivory soap, or just lay there and hurt. I remember that I was thinking about adding steps to my nightly yardstick ritual and see how much my pecker was growing and whether I should measure softy or stiffy.

I had just voted “stiffy” when that silly song squeaked from the paper cone speaker on the radio.

“The lion sleeps tonight, weem-a-wacka, weem-a-wacka?” I asked myself in the darkened bedroom, “What, inthefuck, does that mean? That might be the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

However, I must now edit my teenage thoughts by saying that I had not yet discovered Iron Butterfly at that point. “…Inna gotta da vida, baby…” Really?

So, the memory/emotional responses I got from Lyle and Robert Earl were for/from my buddies Squatlo and BJ. I laughed for Bob at songs such as “She’s No Lady, She’s My Wife”, and I teared-up for Bill with Robert Earl’s family stories. Bill’s mom is really sick and Bob likes silly shit.

And that reminds me that this woman at the Whole Foods asked me a question the other day. She somehow knew that I’d been married ten times and she asked me, she said, “Which of the ten was the sexiest?”

After a lengthy discussion about how each was quite sexy and the many different ways so, she asked me again. “OK, but which was the sexiest?”

I then had a question of my own, that being, “Why do you ask, you blue-eyed sexpot? Are you angling for a spot of Mooner?” a question that did not quite draw a slap to my well-sunned face, but did garner a look that might have shriveled the pecker of a lesser man.

And here I now sit, asking myself that self same question, and have come to an answer. The sexiest of my ten ex wives is as of yet unknown to me. I will, however, ponder the solution and report herein my conclusions. I can say for certain that if your idea of sexy is a woman having an insatiable appetite, then I must go with Roshandra Washington-Johnson, the gun-toting Nubian warrior guarding the headquarters of the Austin City Council. If mystery is your clue to sexiness, then maybe it’s number seven. OK, stop, maybe mystery would be number four, the shortest-lived of the ten. Then, again, mystery is a word of mysterious definitions in its ownself, and the understanding of the very word “mysterious” provokes a myriad of interpretive adaptations.

Ugh. Mother will be here in four days. Buy my silly fucking book and you’ll understand more. Manana, y’all.

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Truffles, Divans and Peench-yer-balls-an-all; Dinner Party A Big Success

Saturday, March 17th, 2012


So. It’s now early Saturday morning and after the big dinner party for Lloyd and Mike. I only got a couple hours sleep because I’m still all hyped-up over Lloyd’s visit and spending time with Mike and him and the other invited guests. I’d not met Mike before and I want to say here and now that Lloyd made a good match. I very much like Mike—dry wit, hard stand against stupid and a big heart.

Oh, and Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson asked me to say handsome as well. “Mooner, you inappropriate red neck fuckball, I know you’ll be blogging about this party. I want you to do two things. First, you make sure you say how handsome and photogenic Mike is as well as how sweet. Second, if you dare say one word about me trying to lose a pound before summer…”

Let me start by telling you who was there. Lloyd and his husband, Mike, Spike, Mark and Charlsa, Bruce, Gram, Mother, Aunt Hilda (and, of course Dubbie-J), Mr. Dave, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, the P-cubed, Squirt, Yoda and me. SAC Ellen got called away to supervise some emergency and so now she still hasn’t met Lloyd and Mike. OK, or Spike or Bruce, Charlsa or Mark either. SAC Ellen is our newest addition and knows the fewest.

Since full disclosure is my middle name, I want to say that I think I might have had impure motivations driving my thoughts about this party. I haven’t seen Lloyd in many years before last night, too many years in fact, and I think I wanted to relive my youth and feel young again. As much as I wanted to be with him to regain that solid connection we held long ago, I wanted to use Lloyd to help me turn the clock back.

I know I should feel selfish about that, and I might—maybe a touch.

Guests started arriving about 5:00, which was perfect. I’d managed to make enough trips back to the store to get everything I needed for the dinner. One of the things I needed was fruit and veggie cleaner. I wash everything with the citrus-based cleaner, even stuff from my own garden. The wash was the first of thirty items on my grocery list Thursday morning, first of twenty-two Thursday afternoon, and was first of ten for my initial trip Friday morning.

My variety of ADD enables me to take a grocery list of thirty items to the store, where I’ll purchase forty-six items, and arrive back to the house with twenty-two items on my list. OK, let’s be honest here. My variety of ADD allows me to need one simple item from the store—let’s say fruit and veggie cleaner for an example—wherein I head to the Whole Foods up to the Arboretum specifically to purchase the cleaner. I don’t need anything but the cleaner, still I take time to write a grocery list of one item on a Postie Note, and stick the Postie in my shirt pocket.

Since this will be the fifth fucking visit to the store with veggie cleaner on my list, I remove the list from my pocket a dozen times to read and remind myself why I’m headed to the store the fifth time. I get to Whole Foods, park, and my phone rings. It’s BJ calling to check in with me. He’s been missing in action for awhile and he called to catch up and let me know what’s been happening.

When I hang up from the call, I started thinking how much my feelings and senses of BJ mirror those I have for Lloyd. Two, way different backgrounds, completely different men, one I’ve known most of my life and one I recently met. Yet I share the same close affections for both. Each. Maybe I share the same affections for each.

I get out of my car and walk into the store. I always enter at the door by produce and they always have a display of whatever is hot and in-season right as you enter. It was Texas Ruby Reds, and they were my favorite style of reds. I favor citrus that are smallish, well shaped, and that have smooth skins. I find that thin-skinned and smooth citrus will be juicer and taste more like the fruit than if they have thick, deeply dimpled exteriors. Thick skin equals dry, pulpy citrus.

If you’ll select a grapefruit with thin, smooth skin that has a shape more like a good sweet onion than a globe, you’ll be a happy camper. And avoid any citrus that has a bell-shaped protrusion at its stem end, and holy shit have we digressed ourselves into the recycling bin.

As appetizers, we had guacamole with blue corn chips, a potted goat cheese that I bought already prepared, and a big slab of this Gorgonzola cheese that I love. I lay these out on the small table in the kitchen and had chairs and stools for seating. Lloyd and Mike hadn’t yet arrived so we were all getting to know each other and jerking towards the door whenever we heard a noise that might be our guests of honor.

Since I’m still processing the party in my thick skull, let me touch on the things not emotional. When everybody was there and all the intros and kisses and hugs enjoyed, I finished dinner prep and cooking. Everyone wanted to help and I let each help a little with something. I have always found that dinner tastes better when the guests have some part in the prep. Why that is will be one of the themes on my Postie Note list for my Monday psycho therapy session with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson. That list has six items so far.

We had scalloped potatoes and a pork loin roast with sour cherry sauce as meat and starch. If I have a criticism of the meal it would be that some people don’t share my love of just-medium pork. Some folks want their pork cooked way well and I don’t think I had enough cooked way well done.

Then, we had chilled asparagus with prosciutto, parma cheese curls and aged balsamic. The aged vinegar is so thick you can chew it and it has the same sensibilities as truffles to me. Then, I made a simple lemon vinaigrette that I used to marinate some onions, then I wet some arrugula with that and put a fistful beside the asparagus on its plate. I like the sweet-sour relationship that adds to the salad side of things.

OK, stop. If you are squeamish or have delicate sensibilities, please skip the rest of this paragraph and move down to the next. I’ll place the potentially offensive parts inside brackets. Go, leave. Shew…… [Guys, whenever I taste a new ingredient that knocks my socks off, I always have the same thought. Like the first time I tasted truffle at this place in Washington DC where it was a central character in a plate of pasta. I eat my initial fork-swirled mouthful of homemade linguine with black truffle, and that musky, earthy flavor hit my brain, and I thought, “Holy shit would this taste great on pussy!” I have this same, precise thought every fucking time I first taste a new treat. Like with the balsamic and crème brulee. Oh, and caviar. Have you ever tasted caviar-slathered pussy? If you are a gay man or a woman, have you ever tasted a caviar-slathered pecker? Wait, a second thinking doesn’t pair peckers and fish eggs. But aged balsamic vinegar and peckers… Yum-yum!]

So all through dinner we’re talking a few old stories and telling each other about our lives—that light jousting dinner repartee enjoyed by people who like each other. It wasn’t until after dinner that we brought out the heavy guns of nostalgia.

“Hey, Lloydie,” Gram pipes up. “Tell ’em ’bout that one time ya got all fucked up with them divans and tha peench-yer-balls-an-all.”

Huh? , I’m thinking.

Everyone at the table, and I mean humans and dogs alike, look my way for a translation. Me, even I’m needing a moment’s cogitation for this one. I’m thinking to myself, I’m thinking, “divans and pinch-your-balls-and-all?”

Huh?, again.

“Oh, I got it,” I said after a few seconds. “Lloyd, Gram wants you to tell everybody about the time you had your wisdom teeth removed and you almost OD’d on the Darvon and phenobarbital the dentist gave you for the pain.”

Lloyd told that story. And we told more stories. For hours.

I just hit 1,400 fucking words so let me close this for now. In my head I had wanted to reclaim a little youth and I just might have done it. But I got something way more than that. Near the end of the night I realized that with all the dozens of stories told by everyone, not a single story was competitive—none of us tried to one-up another of us. Every story was either a memory of something endearing about one of the others, or it was a self-deprecating story of some major fuck-up.

What I got, my big present, was a night of human connections. Heart warming, soul mending connections. And now I’m leaking tears like a Jerry Springer guest.

I’ve lots more to tell you about this and I will. And holy shit! I forgot to make the lemon trifle recipe Mel sent me! Shit, shit and shit some more! Mel, Mel baby. I am so sorry.

Manana, yall.


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Whole Foods Arboretum’s Scott Is Honest Man; Back In Town And Rubbing Pork

Thursday, March 15th, 2012


So. I’m back from Dallas and happy to be so. Wait, I’m happy to so be. Fuck it, it’s good to be home. Dallas is OK, but it isn’t Eugene, Oregon and neither is it Austin.

I had an interesting experience that made me aware of another potential danger of sink peeing. Longtime readers know that I invented peeing in sinks to save water. I was sitting around this one time when I was locked up over to the Shoal Creek Loony Bin—stoned not on one of Gram’s mushroom potions, but rather an unhealthy dose of Haldol—and I had an idea. I calculated that if all men pee in sinks, we can save trillions of gallons of water every year. Actually if we enforced sink peeing worldwide, we could reduce total water consumption enough to save the wales.

That might be a grandiose statement and a likewise impertinent analogy, but flushing a simple pee with just a handful of water is a serious water-saving practice. If you buy my silly fucking book by clicking over there ====}}} and linking to the Full Rising Mooner shit, you can read the entire story and explanation of those sink-peeing programs.

Anyway, I was in my hotel room up to Dilly-Dally-Ass where I had all my stuff spread out on the bathroom vanity, Not all my stuff, but my bathroom stuff. When I checked out the room, I noticed that there was only one big bath towel and walked into the room to call housekeeping to get another. It always takes me two towels to dry after a shower because I have a giant head with a full mop of hair.

After hanging up the phone it dawned on me that I’m now bald and one towel would likely suit me, but I didn’t call back to cancel the order. I needed to pee, so I walked back into the bathroom where I noticed the vanity was way taller than normal, and the sink bowl was molded almost eight inches from the front edge. Aren’t you tired of “cultured marble” vanities with molded sinks? That shit is so 1970’s.

I’m six-four and I literally had to stand way up onto my my tippy-toes to get the right angle on my pecker dangle into the molded sink. I was slightly off balance, so I was bracing myself with my hands against the mirror. I enjoy peeing with no handsees in much the same way I do riding a bike without hands on the handle bars.

I remember this one time back to grade school when Woozie Wozniac—now AKA Sheriff Wozniac—was riding his bike with no handsees and crashed into a parked car. He did the infamous “crotch on the crossbar” dealie and we all laughed.

I’m taking a pee with no handsees in a bathroom at the Embassy Suites up to Dallas, and there is a loud bang on my door followed by the words, “Housekeeping, I’ve got your towel, sir.”

Did I mention that I was in that part of a pee where you get all the muscles relaxed and the flow is at its fullest? I jumped at the knock and peed all over the bathroom, and myself.

“Just leave it outside the door, please.”

“Are you OK, sir?” It was a pleasant voice, an accented woman’s voice—maybe Russian.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

I heard the plop of the towel on the floor and her steps as she left. I won’t bore you with the details, but I managed to spray the mirror and vanity, the wall up to the CFI plug, all of my toiletries including my new toothbrush, my hands, shirtsleeves, underwear and shorts, and my right leg from thigh to sandled foot.

“Mother fucker,” was the net of my assessments. I’m not always verbose.

I got back in town late last night and stopped at SAC Ellen’s place. She wasn’t there and I called her cell to find she was waiting for me at the ranch. I drove there where I was met with a kitchen full of demanding women. “What cha serving fer dinner Friday, Mooner? I’d lik some a them taters with the grass stains, an maybe them grapefruit drinks ya make.”

“You are a winner, you old gas bag. Potatoes Au Gratin are on the menu and I’ve got the grapefruits to make you a cocktail.”

I kissed my sinewy grandmother on the top of her head. “Now look, you need to promise me you won’t try to start anything with any of the gay men at my party, OK?” My grandmother thinks that she can turn a gay man straight given enough time and lube.

“Oh don’t chu worry ’bout that a bit. Lloyd an Mike is like family. Asides, Friday I’m booked with Mr. Dave fer tha night.”

“Ah, Mooner honey, may I have a word with you?” My mother was asking to get me aside. May I have a word with you is Mother speak for, “May I speak with you in private?”

“Let me kiss SAC Ellen properly and we’ll talk.”

We kissed, I gave her amazing butt a little grope, and she whispered in my ear, “I brought my stun gun, big boy. I hope you’re not sleepy.” Then she nipped my ear and swatted me off to talk to Mother.

“Mooner, I’m concerned about something” my mother told me when we had walked into the other room. “I was talking to Leticia at church yesterday, and Mrs. Browningwell told me something quite disturbing.”

Leticia is Pastor Browningwell’s wife and a Grade-A, First Class pain in the ass. “What’s the problem?” I asked.

“Well, her husband just got back from Nashville at the Southern Baptist headquarters there. It’s a lovely campus there, with dogwoods and…”

I cut her off with, “Might you tell me what it is that’s concerning you, Mother? I’ve still got four women to speak to before I can get to my sexing, and I’m already impatient.”

“Well, he was there getting some sensitivity training on today’s modern social issues, and…” she paused for effect. This pause is thematic with Mother and I never like whatever it is that follows.

“And, well, I may as well just come out and say it. Mooner, there are homo-sex-u-al people who actually act as recruiters. They trick and convince straight people to be… Well you know. I’m worried about Friday night.”


“What the hell are you talking about?” Really, the the fuck is this woman saying?

“Mooner, there are homo-sex-u-als who will try to make me one. Are any of Mike and Lloyd’s friends, you know, like Sister and Anna?”

I just stared at her as my blood started to boil and my amazement factor swelled. My mother just asked me if any gay women will be attending Friday’s dinner party because she is worried that one of them will try to turn her gay. Jesus fucking Christ.

“OK.,” I gathered my thoughts. “Since I haven’t asked for my guests’ sexual preferences, let me give you a tried and true method to prevent your contacting the homosexuality from any of my guests. Are you ready?” I paused for effect.

“Don’t lick any vaginas and don’t let any women lick yours. If you accidentally find yourself with your tongue in a vagina, as soon as you take your tongue out, remember to say, “Supercalafragilisticexpialadocious” three times. That will break the spell.”

My mother looked at me like I was the one who had lost their mind. “Why won’t anyone take me seriously around here?”

She stormed off leaving me making a mental list of the many answers to her last question.

Anyway, today, Thursday, I went shopping at Whole Foods at the Arboretum to get ciabatta bread for the party. They bake the best in town and I needed two loaves. Whenever I check out most anywhere, I ask my attendant if they read. I’m constantly marketing my stupid book, and the people who check you out in retail stores are somewhat required to listen to you.

Today, Scott was my man. He’s tall and fit and I’d say handsome too, and likely one of the more honest young men I have met lately. Scott is the first of hundreds of retail register operators who said, “Not really,” when I asked them if they like to read.

Further probing by me led to the fact that he does like to read, just not enough to buy my book. I’m fine with that. I’d far rather you say you won’t likely purchase my book that lie to my face to get rid of me. Then again, getting rid of me can be difficult and I can understand a person resorting to lies to do so. Wait. To so do.

Oopsie, 500 words already, and I need to rub my pork. OK, wait again. I want to put a dry rub on my big pork roast so it will marinate for tomorrow.

Manana, y’all.

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Bacon, BookPeople & WholeFoods; Mooner Gets Fed, Shelved And Disturbed

Friday, February 17th, 2012


So. This is a banner day for me, a day that will be memorable in various ways. I got me a little sexing early—a fact in and of itself banner-worthy these days—I met some interesting people, and I finally got my book stocked on the bookshelves of a local bookstore. Getting sexed isn’t usually quite so remarkable, but the Special Agent in Charge for The US Department of Homeland Security that I call “Sweetie Pie” has been so busy with “special assignments” that having her in Austin overnight is a remarkable event.

SAC Ellen has been on high alert status, what with all the bullshit going on with Iran, and I’m not even managing two-person sex on a weekly basis. But she was here last night and I’m the better for it. The interesting people I met were part-and-parcel to me getting accepted to go onto the shelves at Book People—Austin’s premier not-so-national-chain bookstore. Michael McCarthy, the Corporate Sales Manager for Book People, set a meet with me for noon today wherein I would execute a Consignment Agreement and pay the shelving fee required to get Full Rising Mooner legally stocked inside the store.

I say “legally stocked inside the store” because I have been standing out in their parking lot for several weeks, selling my book to passersby like counterfeit Rolex watches. “Wanna buy a book, little girl?” Actually I only direct-sell to proven 18-year olds and I do card if I have any question. But I live twenty miles from the store and the return on my investment of time and gas is too small to have kept it up much longer.

I’m a little pissed at the dogs because they managed to piss off SAC Ellen, so I left them home and took only Honor the fucking cat book storing with me. Yoda and the Squirt snuck into the bathroom last night while SAC Ellen was lounging in the tub and, apparently, napping in the hot, sudsy water. She was awakened with a start when both dogs jumped in the big tub with her. My sweetie pie pulled the Glock 9-MM Howitzer handgun that is her constant companion and came close to ending my dog problems.

“I could have shot them both, Mooner. Please tell them to stop sneaking up on me.”

I did, Squirt talked back at me and said that SAC Ellen has no sense of humor, Yoda thought that was funny and so I grounded them both. Ever a wise ass, my smart little female puppy talked my not so smart male puppy into shitting in my slippers. “Ground that, motherfucker,” she told me when I discovered the load in my lounging footwear.

I didn’t know that “snuck” isn’t a word, did you? I guess I was supposed to say that the dogs “sneaked” into the bathroom up there. But who gives a shit, I mean really? Snuck feels better in my mouth than sneaked.

I loaded Honor into the GTO along with her little Hello Kitty backpack to make the trip into town to meet at Book People. I keep the pack loaded with cat snacks, her Hello Kitty water bottle and a Governor Rick Perry rag doll filled with catnip.

Not much gives me the same tingle as watching the fucking cat shred a Rick Perry doll.

Since I hate being late for anything and I’m always early for everything, we got to the store at 11:15 am for my noon meeting. I was hungry, so I decided to spend the time eating. We drove north up Lamar from Book People and spotted an interesting sign to the right on 10th Street. The sign said, and in a quite simple eloquence seldom seen on modern signage, it said, “BACON!”

“Oh look, Honor—pig meat!” I whipped the GTO right and made the tight, curled driveway that hugged the little building. There were few cars in the small lot, so I found a safe spot for my prized goat. We aficionados call the old Pontiac GTO’s goats.

“Stay here and shred Pricky Perry, sweetie,” I told the fucking cat. “I want to see some serious damage when I get back to the car.” I pitched her the Perry doll and she immediately went to work towards fulfilling my wishes. She always starts on his crotch because that’s how Squirt taught her.

I walked inside the building and was in heaven. I had stumbled into a place where every menu had pig meat on it, and the sweet smell of bacon made my heart sing, my mouth water and my loins stir.

What is it about bacon that it sometimes gives me a woodie? I might should talk to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson about that one. Maybe my psycho therapist can shed some light on my pork meat attachments.

I was distracted by the mother and daughter in line in front of me as they ordered, and the loin stirrings eased into a stomach grumble. The mother ordered a bacon wedgie—your basic Cobb-style salad with extra bacon—and the offspring bacon waffles. I was next and decided upon a classic BLT, an order that received full approval from Emma, the appealing young woman behind the counter.

I got fries as a side, and since Emma had a tattoo I decided to give her one of my books. I love tattoos on a woman, and Emma had some tatts and reminded me of my Aunt Hilda. Quick smile that reaches from eyes to mouth and all the way to the heart, a sweet countenance and I could tell, tough as nails when need be. She made the required promise to do a book report when finished with

Full Rising Mooner, and I ate the best BLT sandwich in Austin, Texas with a huge mound of the second best French fries in town. Only mine are better fries than were those, and only because I have a potato frying secret (duck fat) that I refuse to share with anyone.

I am hereby giving the eatery, BACON!, my hearty endorsement. Should I be giving my “hardy” endorsement as well?

I took the small bit of bacon I’d set aside to give to Honor went out to the car. The Rick Perry doll looked like it had been passed over by a lawn mower, and there was little bits of fabric and catnip on every surface inside my GTO. As for the fucking cat, she was so stoned on the kitty khronic that she was languishing on her back making love to the car’s Hurst Four-Speed Shifter. She was purring loud enough to make my keys rattle when I put them into the ignition and I can now say that I know what love looks like on a cat’s face.

After cleaning the car I barely got to my appointment on time. Michael was a very nice man and quite supportive of my efforts as a writer. He said he is going to read my book (we’ll see) and handled the paperwork with aplomb. I’m certain that Michael’s name will be mentioned on these pages in the future.

I needed some fresh veggies, so I walked to the Whole Foods flagship store across the street from Book People, grabbed an artichoke, turnip greens and a tapioca pudding, and went to check out. The pudding wasn’t on my list, but I’m a sucker for good pudding and tapioca from Whole Foods is a favorite.

My checker-outer person was Hannah—a dark-haired beauty whose eyes melted my heart in the first second mine were caught in them. I forced my glaze away to avert a scene and noticed a nifty tattoo winking at me from beneath the sleeve of Hannah’s shirt. “Are those roses, Hannah?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s a hot air balloon and those are flowers on its side.”

OK, let’s stop the presses. I think I might be a sex addict. At least I know that I think like one. I don’t ever act out like a sex addict… Maybe I do. I mean when SAC Ellen is in town I’m like the cat with a head full of catnip, but Ellen’s my steady and not a random partner. I find every woman to be a unique creature yet I seem to find something sexy in every woman I meet. I’m thinking I should be bothered by that.

But I’m not, so fuck it. It’s Carta Blanca beer time somewhere, so I’ll see you manana, y’all.

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