Farm Report with a Dash of Fabio and Something Pink
Life on the ranch has been very slow over the last couple of months. After an enormous amount of work renovating the existing house and significantly cleaning up the land, we had to take a break. We’ve also been in a holding pattern with the county trying to get the permits for a barn. It’s stressful and unresolved so we have settled into limbo and do our best to persevere. Unfortunately we had to free Diesel Jesus into the wild for the summer. We could not keep him busy and he had work elsewhere so we nudged him out of the nest like a fledgling. I truly don’t know how he can function outside of our den of iniquity and testosterone…that’s why I’m confident he’ll be back when work picks up around here. I miss that crazy misfit!
Big Balls actually had a conversation with him on his last day. Sasquatch found enough words to formulate the sentence, “Thank you so much for treating me so well. Nobody has ever treated me so well before.” He must have rehearsed and used a dictionary. Big Balls shed a tear. I was baffled. It prompted a follow up call to Diesel Jesus’ beeper. (Yeah… He doesn’t have phone.) Big Balls was so touched that he offered to help Diesel Jesus through hypnosis (Remember, BB is a certified hypnotherapist) to help him blossom into at least partially social being. My feeling is that Diesel Jesus balked at the offer. He may want to keep locked up the angst and darkness that seeps from his being. I mean, if he actually is a serial killer, that session could go terribly wrong. I know I’d like to be a fly on the wall. I would also aggressively copyright the session and write the screenplay. Do you think M. Knight Shamalan or Clive Barker? My choice would be Rob Zombie.
So, this week is more of a freestyle on some funny shit that I’ve noticed or has happened recently. The last month I’ve gone back in time in my posts as very little has happened. I want to get back to the present in hopes of bubbling up from the quicksand-like grip that limbo has had me in. Let’s play – in no particular order!
Bird Racism: Big Balls and I are bird racists. I’m not proud. I’m also not apologetic. Blackbirds are dicks. They truly are the douchebags of the aviary world. They inspire deep violent fantasies that could become real after listening to their obnoxious squawking. Last year, I set out a bird feeder that attracts myriad beautiful birds that we enjoy along with the mountain view from the windows. We marvel at the impossibly vibrant wild birds, deep indigo blue jays and the many other colorful birds we can’t yet define by name. We love and feed the wild turkeys. I stand in pure reverence beneath the eagles and falcons hovering over the canyon searching for prey. We have a large and blossoming bottlebrush tree that flowers profusely attracting many hummingbirds all year. I love them all! Then the asshole blackbirds came and chased away most all of the cool birds and fly around like drunken Jersey Shore cast members squawking and stealing bird seed. There goes the neighborhood. Big Balls is inflamed to the degree of madness. There is even talk of firearms. Today he asked me if he should get a shotgun just for the blackbirds. Mind you, we once lived in South Central Los Angeles amongst severe gang violence where we would have been wise and justified to pack heat…It takes an obnoxious squawking blackbird to elicit this question? I am part shocked and amused as I answer, “Perhaps there are other solutions,” keeping in mind the public safety issue that having a gun anywhere near Big Balls would create. I deflect and suggest we get a starter bb gun in hopes of dissipating that notion. He is partially quelled though I know this issue will eventually come to a head. In the meantime I am thoroughly amused at his current tactic for ridding the blackbirds. It’s usually in the morning while swaddled in his bathrobe and slippers. He hears a squawk and shuffles out back with fists waving screaming, “go fuck yourselves – goddamnit get out of here” He’ll throw a rock – missing terribly. I laugh hysterically while drinking coffee. Just another day up on the hill.
Wild Turkey Smack Down: To build on the developing bird theme I bring to you the unfortunate event that may have broken my dog’s spirit. His recovery is in development. I was tending the bonsai garden a few days ago and heard a terrible shrill on the other side of the hill just out of sight. I saw baby birds flying in all directions not knowing why. Then, I saw my dickhead Boston terrier full on chasing a mother turkey up a dirt road as her babies flew to safety. He apparently attacked the nest. I watched the chase unfold in slow motion until the MOMENT when Momma turkey decisively morphed from prey to predator in an instant. It was fascinating. My dickhead terrier full sprinted momma turkey for a solid 50 yards and then she stopped turned around spread her wings and went into attack mode chasing my dog back down the dirt road. My dog has never experienced consequences so was not prepared for this. I catapulted from the serenity of the bonsais directly into the mix and ran toward the scene triangulating the attack while screaming at the Turkey to cease and desist. It was a scene from a bad Vietnam movie. Me running, enemies attacking, and my dickhead dog finally experiencing consequence. He has since developed a nervous tic and requires special handling. Big Balls is attempting hypnotherapy, with difficulty, through an interspecies language barrier. I’m considering a medicinal brownie dose; though I must be careful because he has a low tolerance. I know this from experience based on another unfortunate incident which I cannot share for fear that PETA might glitter bomb me in public or something far worse…like revoke my medicinal brownie license.
Big Balls and Fabio…a Non Sequitur: For no reason, other than pure hilarity, I inject an interesting bit of history that loosely adheres to the bird theme (Remember Fabio killing a bird with his chiseled jawbone on a rollercoaster…Damn you Fabio!) Big Balls and Fabio rolled deep in a motorcycle gang on the mean streets of LA in the 90’s. Damn right. Big Balls rocked a bad ass Yamaha V-max and Fabio had many toys from which to choose. Harlequin Romance fame, tan man breasts, margarine, and long thick hair get ya paid in LA. There were others in the gang. I don’t ask. Big Balls would not actually call it a gang; it was more a club, but in my comic brain…how could you not create a cartoon motorcycle gang led by Fabio trick riding in the streets of Hollywood? I still get mileage out of this mindscape silliness. That’s how they rolled. Big Balls rode right and real while the “gang” trick road the sunset strip popping wheelies and standing on seats. Fabio stuffed his hair and man breasts in his cycle suit and helmet for anonymity sake and they put on a show. I laugh at the idea! I also know it to be true as we would run into his Fabioness at the gym in LA. It birthed the single most ridiculous intellectual -yet not – interchange of my life thus far. Years after the gang days Big Balls approached Fabio in the gym to appeal to his philosophical side. He remembered something Fabio had told him back in ’94 that stuck; time to get deep with Fabio. I had finished a set of squat thrusts and stood behind Big Balls as he confided in Fabio,
“I want to thank you for sharing something that I have never forgotten, and rely upon as a metaphor for life to this day,” Big Balls continues to a vacant Fabio – in reference to tactical motorcycle riding, “You told me ‘Don’t look at what you don’t want to hit’ and to this day I use this wisdom as a guiding principle in my life.”
Big Balls was being sincere and philosophical as the metaphor truly is a wise and fitting as a modern day Zen Koan. I watched the reaction secretly hoping for a special moment…there wasn’t. The metaphor fell flat and Fabio’s response was devoid of nuance, philosophy, or even a modicum of basic intelligence. It was just a bunch of blah, blah, blah about street riding, and gear shifting, and mousse and hair gel and tanning. Big Balls and I smiled politely and then laughed out loud after he walked off shaking his hair on the way to the pec-dec. wow!
Google made me piss on myself: We live on 50 acres. Chores fill the day and it’s easy to get overwhelmed just looking out at overgrown grass, weeds, trees, poison oak, and old infrastructure. etc etc. I look for shortcuts and try to be as efficient as possible while managing my sanity. Severe ADD and chores are not a good match!! So I go to Google for a helping hand. We have deer. I love them but need to keep them out of certain areas of the property. Instead of building an expensive and time consuming fence, Google told me that human hair, urine, dog feces and blood spread around will keep dear away or at least at bay. Cool! Thanks Google, I can do that. So, I created a plan. Borrowing on the Airstream trailer days of no plumbing and Home Depot piss buckets, I decided to harvest urine for a couple days in a bucket. It was sweetly nostalgic and solved a problem at the same time. I made the not so brilliant decision to load the harvested urine in a pump up bug sprayer to fog the area in question. In my brain it was just practical.
That’s where my plan went south.
I loaded up the 2 gallon sprayer with 2 gallons of urine and headed out to the area. The wind was light and I was careful. I pumped the sprayer several times for good pressure, and began the spraying. For a while it worked brilliantly. I hit the high grass and trees with a fine mist with my arm fully extended. I NEVER ACCOUNTED FOR SHIFTING WIND. The wind kicked up as I sprayed north. The wind blew south. I effectively pissed on myself. I now admit through a deep fog of shame, and piss, that my plan was flawed. My entire body was covered with a fine mist of two parts Jethro pee to one part Big Balls pee. As I ran toward the shower, I had an uncomfortable thought that a unique subset of individuals residing in San Francisco would pay top dollar for such a dowsing. I am not one of them. I took a VERY LONG Silkwood shower while guzzling vodka. I still may need therapy.
Liberace and the Rock Star: Tomorrow is Memorial Day and we are headed to a Barbeque hosted by our friends who I affectionately refer to as “Liberace and the Rock Star.” I like them. They are as unlikely a pair as Big Balls and I…and equally generationally and culturally challenged. Big Balls is making Potato Salad as I write this. He just asked me where the dill weed is. My answer “I don’t know. Why don’t you look in the dill hole” and then I giggle out loud. He doesn’t know why I’m laughing. This is humor in our house!
So, We will show up tomorrow with amazing homemade potato salad to a fancy party at a huge house with Lib and Rock. The Rock Star and I will sit together, He’s exactly my age and we speak a similar language. He plays in a punk band, used to skateboard, and has knowledge of growing things that make me feel good. We will drink India Pale Ale and help each other figure out which is the right fork to use and when to put the silk napkin on our laps. If by chance Tomato Aspic is served, I will warn him that it is not Jello. He will thank me as I tell him how I know this and we will laugh. Likely show tunes will be the musical backdrop as Rock Star and I talk about Black Flag and the Dead Kennedys. Liberace will tell tales of the opera and his cultural glory days. Big Balls will find common ground and we will have interesting cross conversations bridging cultures and time. We will meet others and hopefully add to our friends list. It will be weird and fun.
It will not be like the Memorial Day party we went to two years ago; another all gay gala at a beautiful property overlooking the Sonoma wine country. Everything seemed fine as we gathered around the fire pit with drinks, cheese plates, and chit-chat. Then the host busted out a joint. This would normally meet my overwhelming approval if it were not for the very disturbing fact that it was PINK. I was not prepared for this. How could I be? As the joint made its way around the ring I had to make a decision. Do I hit or pass it like a hot potato. The stoner won over and I hit that thing then passed it over Big Balls as his eyes rolled in disgust. The shame killed my high and the whole night I couldn’t get the fetid taste of AIDS and semen out of my mouth. I also couldn’t come anywhere near the hot dogs or corn on the cob. I stuck to burgers and vodka the rest of the night trying to wash the shame out of my mouth. Major buzz kill.
It’s very clear that I will need much more therapy. Please send good mojo my way….and lithium.
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Filed under: Tuesdays with Gooley
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