Immediately after I was delivered to my front porch from UBH, I boarded my little Chariot and went to the Beer Store.
I did NOT fall off the wagon.
Then, Just for fun, I called in an air-strike to finish her off.
No more wagon!
Flash Forward to present day:
I am struggling.
The Rehab did not ‘rehabilitate’ me.
It just allowed me to ‘dry out’ for a week.
(I needed the break)
But now, I find me back in that same old familiar place.
Dodging the DT Monster.
Telling the two-and-a-half friends I have left:
“I am sorry.”
Perhaps I will die soon.
There is an Election Coming Up!
And I would not miss that for all the Rum In Jamaica.
But, I am having THAT TIME OF MY LIFE!
My life has taken a turn toward the bizarre.
Recent memory (of which I have not so much)
Recent memory teaches me my life may be falling apart.
I look at my prolific writing of late.
And I smile a ‘knowing‘ smile while regarding my folly.
I love my LIFE.
Will never give it up without kicking and screaming.
I love my life.
I am having FUN!
I want for NOTHING.
I am living the DREAM!
Below please discover some of the silliness I have recently posted on Face Book.
(If I cannot laugh at me…. Well, what’s the point?)
I laugh at me constantly.
Still Moving IN.
Should have taken half a day.
Taken almost three months now and still counting.
I am savoring it.
To be fair: There were some ‘detours’ along my way.
Denton, UBH comes immediately to mind…
Happy Saturday Y’all
My life is an open book.
I hold back nothing. Not sure why. I guess I am just past the point of giving a shit.
This is ‘Social Media’ I really do not know most of y’all, nor would care to. I ‘write’ stuff that is in my head—a scary place–for certain.
However, I love to write. Writing allows me to get deep down–explore what is going on in my head–what I am FEELING. It is usually lame, but….
I do try to add added value to my posts. Generally in the form of some esoteric video or song. (And, more often than not, an oldie)
Just to make your trip not worthless.
In my ‘Inbox’ This Afternoon:
‘Seeking Tinker, Tailor, Sailor, Spy’
Job Description: Sit in Shit-Hole Hotel Room. Write Stupid Shit All Day (and Night)
Spend way too much time on Social Media.
Watch U.S. of A. going to hell in a hand-basket (Preferably On CNN, but FOX News will do as well)
Applicant will be Sixty-Plus White Male.
No self-esteem required.
Must type 40 WPM
(Grammar is important. Spelling not so much)
Must drink 45 Ounces per hour.
Pay: ‘It won’t cost you a dime. Just send One Dollar, Postal Money Order along with your application.’
“Shit! Put me in Coach!”
Applied for Job.
I am struggling with this whole sobriety thing.
Not sure if it is going to work for me.
I do not want to go back to THAT PLACE
But, I may be Over My Head on this one.
I try to eat.
I try to sleep.
I try to keep up
With current events.
I try to watch old movies.
“I am properly fucked.”
So… I wake up and it’s sixty-one degrees in my ‘house’ right now.
(How do I know this? Because I have a fucking thermometer—that’s how!)
I turn my HVAC to heat and guess what?
The fucking smoke detector alarm (conveniently placed right over my HVAC unit) goes the fuck off, thus awakening both my neighbors and my ire!
What kind of idiot did this? Who engineered this?
I pulled the battery out of the damn smoke detector.
Yeah, I like to live on the edge.
This Shit Just Keeps Writing Itself:
I know you are just trying to scare up customers.
However, I am a writer and I am just trying to scare up readers.
I seriously doubt y’all are interested in my writing.
I only have some few, special friends.
Friends who read my shit.
I am fairly certain I cannot include you in this group.
Therefore, If you are not interested in my HG Stories, I will de-friend you. Comments are your ticket to paradise.
You have thirty minutes.
There is a very narrow window in my world.
Let us call it the “Sobriety Window.”
For lack of a term.
Sometimes, I thrust me out of that window.
Sometimes I just ignore it
Sometimes, I actually make it outside.
Into the Real World.
Then I panic!
Try to get back in.
The Window has already shut tight behind me.
I cannot get back in.
But eventually, I do.
Get back in.
And the whole shit – show begins anew.
(There is a serious post here, fixing to happen.
But not tonight— this one Will require some sobriety to write.)
And that narrow window opportunity….
This is RAW!
I may come back and edit later
(but probably not)
I am using my ‘Shotgun’ approach to writing these daze:
“Just Shoot! See if you can HIT anything.”
“Look at me! I can… BE…. Center Field!”
“Knock! Knock! Knock!” upon my door this morning.
“What did I fuck up?” Were the first thoughts in my head.
I opened the door.
Full-Sleeve’d Tatoo’d young HVAC Guy standing there.
“I’m here to clean your A/C.”
“Well, come on in. Sorry for the disarray; I am still moving in.” (After almost three months, I am still ‘moving in.’)
Together we cleared a pathway to my HVAC unit and had some chat.
Mostly ‘bout politics and the unsteady state of our union.
He was (seemed) engaged by my repartee. But I suppose he gets paid to not only service HVAC, but also to put up with the broken folk who live here in Lion’s Den, Commerce America.
He took my HVAC away and said he’d be back in ‘bout thirty minutes.
I said, “I’ll wait; got no pressing engagements this morning.”
Presently, he returned with my brand-new, cleaned up, sanitized for my protection, HVAC Unit.
He gathered his tools and his little ‘Go-Cart’ HVAC dolly and made his way to my Front Door.
I thanked him.
As I was holding the door open for him, Teresa, the House-Keeper was walking down the hall.
“What’s up Baby?” she exclaimed.
“Same ol’ same ol’ “ I said back. “And, Oh! Thank you so much for what you did for me while I was in Hospital.” (She had cleaned my hooch and taken out the trash while I was ‘On Sabbatical’ in Denton)
“No problem Baby. You need me, call me anytime.”
Then as I was about to close my front door, I noticed one of those “Do Not Disturb” door tags had been placed upon my door knob…
Seems word is out.
(This is a rather small community, as communities go and word travels fast)
Word is out:
“Do NOT Fuck with This Man.”
Leaf Lady was seriously raking leaves in the midst of a thirty-knot wind across the street from my house. Every time she managed to accumulate a pile the wind would sweep them away. (Leaf Lady looks almost exactly like ‘Granny’ from the Beverly Hillbillies–and probably about the same age)
“Goddamn Mother-Fuck!” she would scream as she shook her rake at the sky not unlike Scarlett-I’ll-never-be-hungry-again O’Hara.
Roberta and I drove upon this scene one Sunday morning.
Leaf Lady was no stranger to us, so we just ignored her and went about our business.
We parked in my ample driveway all the way forward so as to be closer to my back door.
We walked up to the steps and could still hear Leaf Lady screeching at the sky cussing about ‘People fucking up her yard!”
We made our way past my laundry cubicle and entered the kitchen. Our mission was to liberate some cookbooks of mine for ‘Roberta Purposes.’
I grabbed a stack of books from a shelf, placed them on the counter and asked, “Baby, will these do?”
“Oh, I NEED these,” she said, as she grabbed “Barbeque Bible” and “White Trash Cooking” from the stack.
As we were attempting to load up her Jag with these wonderful books, a station wagon came screeching into my driveway, stopping just short of ramming into ‘Berta’s Jag.
Out jumped Kenny K. Most likely drunk.
“Hey! What Y’all doin’?” He exclaimed as he made his unsteady way through my gate and up to the steps.
“Hiya Kenny” Roberta answered. “What brings you about this Sunday Morning?”
“I saw your Jag and thought I’d just drop in.”
“Well come on in; we’re having Mimosas.”
(Roberta had brought a jug of Mimosas, just in case our book expedition took too long)
Kenny said, “Great” and we all retired back to the kitchen to consume more Mimosas.
We consumed about three quarters of the jug when suddenly Kenny decided there was some other place he was supposed to be.
As Roberta and I were gathering up the prized cook books and schlepping them to the car, we heard a loud, very loud ‘screech.”
And then a louder ‘crash.’
I had just caught a fleeting glimpse of Kenny reversing at a high rate of speed into Leaf Lady’s yard and almost destroying her prized pecan sapling. Tree bark flying all over.
Shit got real at this point.
Kenny Immediately fled (seems he was under some kind of Court Injunction Fun-Shun—something ‘bout DUI—or something. Probation, I suppose. Anyhow, he fled the scene.)
So, this left me and Roberta to placate Leaf Lady and try to forestall her calling the Police.
Leaf Lady was, at this point livid. (As you may well imagine)
“That Mother-Fucker has killed my tree!”
(Gotta love Leaf Lady by now. I’d bet she was never in the Navy, but she should have been)
Roberta tried to calm her:
“Look, your tree is OK. Just some bark, barked off… It will be fine.”
“Bullshit!” Leaf Lady retorted.
Roberta pulled a fifty-dollar bill from her purse and handed it to Leaf Lady.
This calmed her some.
I did same and handed her another fifty (which I could not afford)
This calmed her further.
We just left her there, counting her good fortune.
This bought us (me and Roberta) enough time to return to my house and retrieve and load up the cookbooks into the Jag.
In her haste, Roberta threw the cook books into the floorboard of her Jag.
We boarded the Jag and sped away, listening to Leaf Lady screaming, “I want that Mother-Fucker in Jail!’
We sped away, laughing at the reminisce of Leaf Lady.
Drove the three blocks to Robert’s house.
She sped into the driveway as she had done about ten thousand times before.
And applied the brakes.
‘Cept they did not apply.
(The cookbooks had fucked her—blocking her brakes—no way)
We crashed through some metal garden furniture and then a half-high brick wall, destroying it.
The Jag was determined to keep on keeping on, but I threw her into drive and killed the engine.
Once the car had stopped its forward progress, ‘Berta jumped out and did her best impersonation of Leaf Lady:
She (Roberta) freaked the fuck out!
“Oh my Gawd! Oh My Gawd! Oh My GAWD!
I got out of the passenger side and assessed the ‘damage.’
Weren’t none. (Jags are the shit)
There was just a little bit of white paint on the hood of the Jag.
Of course the garden party furniture was destroyed, as was the brick half wall, but other than that, no nada.
I tried to point this out to Roberta.
She having none of it.
“Look what you have made me do!”
“Look at this!”
“Look at what? Precisely?”
“This wall is a mess! The garden furniture is a wreck!”
“Three or four Meskins can fix this in two hours. You have the money. Sort it out manana.”
Wrong answer, Marine.
I finally calmed her and we went into the house and got very, very drunk.
She recruited some Meskins next day.
And they made ever’thang alright.
As they do (hard-workers them) Love them.