Lone Star Concerto

Beyond Excavations

2012-02-15T22:49:00.002-06:00

Many of my recent blog posts have been nothing more than excavations of my distant past: stories about college and Hollywood and old lovers......I even dredged up my old artwork - - just to fill void blog space.

There's a good reason for this. It's easier to resurrect the past than to face the present. Life for me lately has been so difficult, dreary, depressing, and desolate that I haven't the heart to inflict it upon an innocent blog and its hapless readers. Innocent?? Ha!!
The brooding Heathcliff Mode has taken up permanent residence within me.

I recently attempted to encourage a friend who is going through rough times by telling him that there is a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. I'm ashamed to admit that it's a lie. Once you're in the tunnel, there's no way out. I speak from experience.

On to other things less moribund. Or, perhaps, morbid?

Snow. In February. In West Texas. Unusual but not impossible. Three inches of the white stuff fell on Sunday, rendered ice-slicked roads on Monday, started melting on Tuesday.

Wednesday (today) offered a sudden surge of south winds, which consequently caused a major dust storm. Again. And again and again and.....the dust storms never end. And consequently I have severe congestion, a very severe headache, and intense sinus problems. Which consequently makes me lethargic, wanting to do nothing but sleep forever.
Dust after snow??? Only in Texas.......

My life? In general is perpetually filled with unpleasant things to do. Despite snow and cold weather, I'm still plagued by the Invasion of the Killer Weeds. They are everywhere - laughing, daring me to exterminate them.

My truck was running perfectly after I changed the spark plugs. It was too good to be true, so now it has started leaking oil. A Big Time leak. My driveway looks like the Exxon Valdez disaster. I'm too friggin' tired to crawl around on cold asphalt trying to fix it. So I've been using my car.

Should I tell about the problems with my kitchen sink? No, it would take too long. I'll merely say that I've been working on it the past three nights with very little success. The gunk from the drain got into a deep cut on my index finger and now it's infected. Jon the plumber won't be playing Rachmaninov any time soon.

To compound problems, I got lye on my hands - - which isn't exactly a park picnic. I know, the directions said to wear gloves - - but you can't comfortably wear gloves while plumbing. Who the hell do they think I am, June Cleaver?

Should I tell about my neighbors, whom I strongly suspect are selling drugs? The vehicles come and go non-stop, day and night, over & over & over in a frenzy of suspicious activity. This is extremely common in West Texas. I've seen it in every city. It's part of the culture, a good deal of the livelihood. It's a way of life.

One of the stray cats is in the habit of pissing on my window. Cute.

My realtor is a zombie. She's not among the living.

Want to hear about more problems? These are only minor fractions of an immense whole (what the hell is he trying to say?).
Let's put it this way: I haven't scratched the surface.

Thank God this once-dry Cowtown now sells booze. A six-pack now & then tends to smooth the lethally sharp edges and enables me to go on.

As always, this post is too damn long.
Thanks for reading.
And cheers to Brooklyn (it's a private thing).

Frost-Covered Valentines

2012-02-12T11:35:00.002-06:00

Nothing says "Happy Valentine's Day" like a couple of half-naked, creepy cherubs.

Let's face it. Valentine's Day is very similar to the concept of a wedding: women love it, men loathe it. There's no man in his right mind who would like any aspect of the Valentine experience. It was bad enough long ago, when men were compelled to buy candy, flowers, and a sappy Hallmark card. It's far worse nowadays - - since Valentine's Day has metamorphosed into a humongous gift-giving holiday. Candy is passe. Now it's a new car, a diamond necklace, a trip to Bora Bora.

You want a Faux Cowboy Valentine's Day? I'll give you a dollar discount greeting card from Walmart and a McDonald's Big Mac. With fries if you're lucky. And for dessert, damn good sex (don't panic. I only threw that in for shock value).

All right, Jon, if you hate Valentine's Day so much - why did you go through the trouble of decorating your blog with all the saccharine sweetheart girlie stuff?

I merely wanted to show you my soft, sweet, feminine side. You didn't know I had one, did you?

All right, wipe those smirks off your faces or I'm going to dispatch an evil Cupid to your house - - one who has plenty of little arrows with poisoned tips.

I'll admit the horrible truth: I'm a hopeless, helpless romantic at heart. I'm unbearably sentimental. I cry at the sight of beautiful sunsets and sad movies and romantic novels and performances of La Boheme. I cry when I get my monthly heating bill.

BUT.......here's the inevitable "but".....

I'm not a hopeless romantic solely on Valentine's Day. I'm that way every day of the year. So shoot me (with poisoned arrows, if necessary).

Have I ever been truly, deeply, wholeheartedly in love?

More times than I care to admit. 95% of those times were probably lust rather than love. It's easy to get the two confused.

Am I presently in love with anyone? Nobody but my own selfish self.

Let's get serious for a moment (and not a moment too soon). I have had some incredibly intense, passionate, and meaningful relationships in my torrid past. I have been more deeply in love than words could ever express. On the wings of true love, my spirit has soared beyond the realms of heaven (is that romantic enough for you?).

One gentle afterthought: the greatest love of my life died suddenly and prematurely last year. All I can say is that my heart died with this loss, but the treasured memories remain forever. It's one of my many personal stories that could fill a book.........

Okay - - here's the Great Big Question:

WHY did I title my blog post Frost-Covered Valentines???

Because it is presently snowing here in West Texas! We got three inches so far, which is a substantial amount for Texas in February.

An Artist I Ain't

2012-02-09T23:31:00.003-06:00

My three greatest passions have always been music, writing, and art (well, at least these are the three legal passions that I can mention).

Art is definitely the very least of my so-called "talents", but I enjoy it nevertheless. As a child, I was always drawing. I drew pictures of places I'd seen, caricatures of people I knew, sketches of daily incidents. Once when I was around five, my father was driving a car and the tire blew out. I drew several on-the-scene pictures of him changing the tire. Was I a weird kid, or what?

When I was ten we lived in Pomona, California. That's when I started painting with oils. Since my fussy father hated the mess, I was always forced to paint outdoors. One day an old man from the neighborhood came by and saw me painting. He took an interest in my efforts and subsequently gave me free art lessons. He and his wife took me under their wings (so to speak). Mr. Battenburg was a Dutchman, then in his eighties, who had studied in Paris with Monet. His first paintings were exhibited in 1906.

By the time I was eleven years old we'd moved to Anaheim, where I took art lessons with another teacher. Mr. Eliff was a fascinating person and a good artist, but he was also high-strung and had several nervous breakdowns (none of which were caused by me). When he was a small child, a demented stranger tried to murder him and he never fully recovered from the psychological trauma. He owned an art gallery and featured several of my oil paintings in his shop window. I sold my first painting at age twelve.

As I grew older - music, writing, and carousing became my main pursuits and art was put on a proverbial back burner. I took a few art history classes in college. I also took a drawing class taught by an illustrator from the Walt Disney Studio.

I eventually abandoned painting with oils mainly because it was indeed messy (dad was right.....). As a hobby, I began sketching with pen & ink. I don't know if this was exactly my artistic niche, but it was indeed a satisfying medium with which to work.

I used to have a huge box filled with my old pen & ink drawings but - in the process of moving several times - I have no clue where it is now. Undoubtedly buried under piles of junk in one of my storage sheds.

The only pen and inks that I presently have are three framed portraits of composers that I did when I was about nineteen years old. Unfortunately I drew them on some type of exotic nylon paper that has quickly yellowed with age.

I'm posting these portraits just for the hell of it - - certainly not because they are good.
The three composers are Mussorgsky, Scriabin, and Puccini.

Giacomo Puccini

Alexander Scriabin

Modest Mussorgsky

Heathcliff Revisited, or Blogus Interruptus

2012-02-06T23:35:00.002-06:00

Blogus Interruptus

I'm interrupting my regular blog for a moment in order to insert something irrelevant.

When I said I'm interrupting my regular blog, some of you people who loathe me and hate my blog started applauding. Don't deny it - - I heard you. All I can say is shame on yourselves!

The rest of you are still pondering what I meant when I said I'm going to insert something. Don't panic, I didn't mean anything sexual. I meant that I'm going to insert something into my blog which has no particular relevance with anything else and which probably doesn't belong here.

Are you confused?
If you think you're confused now, read my three previous blog posts and you'll really be confused.
I know some people who are still trying to recover from reading them and are still trying to arrive at conclusive interpretations:

1. We always suspected he was gay.
2. We always suspected he was certifiably
insane.
3. We always suspected he drank too much.

4. We always knew he was a better writer than
Hemmingway.

The people who have come to the fourth conclusion are very dear to my heart.

The people who believe one or all of the first three conclusions are - - well, - - maybe you're not quite as perceptive as you think you are, but perhaps you're more perceptive than you should be. Go figure.

Anyway, here's what I want to insert:

Long ago, I think in December, 2010, I wrote a blog entry entitled Heathcliff Mode. It was nothing special at all. I was in a very glum mood (as usual). I compared my gloominess to that of Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights.

At that time, PBS was airing a new version of Wuthering Heights on Masterpiece Theater. Just for the hell of it, and with tongue firmly in cheek, I wrote an extremely dumb review of the PBS Wuthering Heights, comparing it unfavorably to the 1939 movie version which I love.
No big deal, right?

Well, for some completely unknown reason - for the past few months - I have been getting hundreds & hundreds of hits on my old Heathcliff Mode blog post from all over the world. I've even received numerous emails concerning it. It happens nearly every day.

I can't understand how all these strangers got access to this particular blog post or why they are so interested in it. It was one of the worst things I ever wrote, and I'm not exaggerating. I certainly don't care if people read my old blog entries - - but why only this and nothing else?

My biggest regret is that I didn't charge admission. I'd be rich.

Anyway, I'm amused, confused, and befuddled about Heathcliff Mode. Just thought I'd mention it.

Now, back to more important things. Stay tuned.

Note:
Here's my answer to a comment by Pudge450 in my previous blog post.
Yes, the only reason I'm still in Texas is because my house hasn't sold.
I'm not sure where I would like to move: possibly back to California, or Arizona.
Most likely to Tennesse where I have some relatives & friends. The main thing is that I want a change of scene.....

In the Shadow of an Epitaph

2012-02-04T13:21:00.002-06:00

An essay. A complete pile of crap. Delve into it only if you dare.

Writing.......keep writing, Jon. Keep writing so you can remember and reflect, confess and share, and.......convince yourself that, somehow, through all those turbulent times, you survived and are still alive.......

My words are nothing more than a feeble form of catharsis: thoughts, memories, fleeting fragments of emotions that gain strength and momentum, until they tumble like an avalanche haplessly around me and eventually bury me in the burden of accumulated years.......

Have I yet worn out my welcome with all those tedious remembrances of my past?
If so, then I should perhaps strive to wallow only in the present, where I continue to contrive dreams of an elaborate escape.
Write, keep writing.......for a congregation of words can sometimes become a potential unification, a private clarification of a broken self, an imitation of phantom keys that dare to unlock the resistance of unyielding doors.......

As usual, I'm saying an enormous amount of nothing, which is tainted with my own special affliction known as the irritating knack of verbosity. Perhaps an echo of the poet within me.
Is there a greater danger in writing sober than writing drunk? Both are potentially lethal.

Would I miss Texas if I ever left it?
Out of nowhere I'm pondering absolute foolishness, but it's a question that occasionally crosses my mind.

Texas is part of my life, of course, which has unfolded as a series of unpleasant chapters - but, then, the bulk of my entire life has consisted of unpleasant chapters - all in a wide variety of other places and incredible variations. Texas is merely a small fraction of a large, incomprehensible whole.

Would I miss Texas? No. No more than I would miss an undaunting succession of recurring nightmares. All of my greatest losses have occurred in Texas. I witnessed the extraction of my soul in Texas, and helplessly watched as it crept away and vanished beyond an uncertain horizon, leaving nothing more than a broken and empty shell.

I felt my heart harden in Texas and assume the impenetrable consistency of a rock, then crumble bit by bit, until nothing was left but dust. I saw my dreams, optimism, and hope evaporate in Texas, as the fresh promise of an early morning mist vanishes with the heat of the first rays of relentless sun.

I watched my parents die in Texas, both of them, in relatively quick succession. I heard the last desperate sounds of their earthly breath, felt the final parting of their weary souls, and in the horrible wake of this enormous finality, life as I once knew it was permanently wrenched from my body.

I saw youth flee from me, like an escaping lover, glancing back now and then only from a safe distance, emitting a hollow, taunting laugh in the knowledge that I will never be able to escape from the persistence of time.

I became an old man in Texas - not solely because of the inevitability of years - but rather because I was rudely and completely robbed of the freshness and vitality and wholeness of life as I once knew it.

There is, in West Texas, an undeniably haunted and surrealistic aura that permeates and debilitates anyone in its wake. It unwittingly brands you with its indelible mark, like cattle are branded in the fields. The mark can never be expunged and, consequently, can never be forgotten. There is a wildness here that can never be tamed- along with a crudeness, a rudeness, an unrelenting affliction called commonality that has no antidote and never demands one.

In California, in my golden youth, the wildness of my existence was solely generated from within. My soul was alive. My passion and exhuberance knew no bounds. I loved and created and learned and explored and lived with an insatiable fierceness that can now no longer be conceived even in the farthest realms of my imagination.

In Texas there is also a great wildness, but it comes from without. The wind, the dust, the cold, the heat, the drought, the emptiness, the hopelessness - - the immense, endless span of desolate earth, and the unimaginable depths of eternal sky. An inspiration of dreams are created here, but these are never destined to materialize.

It is unfair to solely blame Texas for the loss of my life and the expungance of my soul - - it was bound to happen anywhere.....but in Texas it happened with a vengeance.

I am no longer bitter. I no longer yearn. But I dare to dream. I dream because in the fabric of dreams there still lingers the lost illusion of hope.......

.......and in dreams I recreate the world I once knew - - the great music I once performed, the cherished lovers who once shared my soul, all those people dear to me whom I thought were lost.
In dreams I soar on the gilded wings of the passion and poetry and purity of existence that I once knew.......

And I keep in my heart an ancient Andalusian proverb that I learned long ago, the simple words of which echo now and then in the whisper of my memories......

Em medio de mis pesares
por vivr quise domirme
que el que vive como yo
cuando duekme es cuando vive

In the midst of my troubles
I wanted to go to sleep,
For one who lives like me,
When he dreams, he lives......

I would like to think that somewhere, these gentle remnants of words still linger in the shadow of an epitaph.........

Jon

Bad Company

2012-02-01T22:35:00.004-06:00

I want to write about another of the Hollywood "bad boys" (see my previous post).

I know I'm going to regret this when I sober up, but it was one of the more interesting chapters in my California past. As incredible as it's going to sound, I can assure you every word is true.
And, I can also assure you that I'll be deliberately leaving a lot out.......because I need to maintain a smidgen of dignity.......

No need to say how I met Phil. He was one of the most handsome guys in Hollywood. Blonde, blue-eyed, tall. I'm six-foot-one. He was taller than me. He could charm the pants off anyone. Don't even try to speculate. He was charismatic, reckless, and - - recently released from prison. On parol. For armed robbery and assault.
It is said that we are only as good as the company we keep. Don't believe it.

Phil had been raped and beaten in prison. It left deep psychological scars. He told me stories that I'd never repeat. He was tough and frighteningly psychotic, but he also had an intriguingly tender and vulnerable side. I won't elaborate.

Phil was a serious marijuana connoisseur. He smoked joints constantly. He had stashes hidden everywhere. I knew where he got it from, too. I'd like to be very specific, but I'll merely say that his supplier was a major-league baseball player on a California team. I met him.

I was with Phil the first time I ever smoked grass. We had driven down to Long Beach and sat on the sand watching the sunset. We smoked a few joints and I was amazed at how vivid and incredible the sunset became. This was around the time when the Queen Mary (the ship) was still a new acquisition in the Long Beach Harbor. We started throwing rocks at the ship. I always associate the memory of my first joint with sunsets, rocks, and the Queen Mary.

For some reason that I can't remember, Phil's driver's license had been revoked. We always used my car. Phil would hide his stash of grass in my car. Under the seats. In the trunk. At the time, I was too idiotic to realize the trouble I'd be in if I ever got caught.

I had a Guardian Angel watching over me in those reckless days of my youth. The angel has since committed suicide.

One of our favorite haunts was the Green Cafe on Santa Monica Boulevard. The cafe is no longer in existence, but at the time it was an incredibly popular hangout of the famous and the infamous. I saw Raquel Welch there, and Cher. Even porn stars went there. One afternoon Phil and I were having lunch and Linda Lovelace came in. She had recently caused a sensation with the movie Deep Throat. Nobody in the cafe recognized her, except the waiter. She just sat there - eating a salad and drinking iced tea - like a normal everyday person.

I'm going to bypass a helluva lot of other stories involving Phil (I don't want anyone to faint) and get to one of the most interesting. One night he surprised me by showing up driving a car. He told me it was a friend's car that he'd borrowed. I believed him.

So we're driving, smoking grass, drinking whiskey, heading toward Orange County. Somehow we wound up in the Orange Hills - winding roads, dangerous curves, pitch black, completely isolated. I want to tell everything about that particular night but it would be far too much to absorb - - I need to condense and keep some memories to myself. There are aspects of complete recklessness and wickedness that should never be whispered......

He's driving, we're both drinking, smoking joints. He accelerates to alarming speeds, seeing how fast he can go. Even though I'm thoroughly stoned I can sense a semblance of genuine fear. We screech around curves, literally bounding through the darkness.

Suddenly, we miss a turn. The car spins wildly out of control, we hit a guard rail, fly over it, hurl down a hillside. The car crashes to a jolting stop.
I'll never know how we were still alive. We were bruised, bloodied, shaken, but miraculously in one piece.

How do I end this one with dignity? The car didn't belong to a friend, I later found out - - it was stolen. We walked (or limped) miles down the hill, hitchhiked back to the city. It was a long night.

Phil lived in constant fear of his parol officer (with damn good reason). He was always afraid of failing the drug tests. I eventually lost contact with him (after a few very dramatic scenes) and moved on. I later heard through a reliable source that he was back in prison.
This was all long ago when I was around 21.

These were excerpts from my typically average California days.
Now, my "average" day consists of going to WalMart and McDonalds. And feeding the feral cats. Go figure.....

Few photos exist of me during my wild

Hollywood days (thank God). Here's one of them.

Someone should have shot me for wearing that shirt!

More Hollywood Adventures, Drugs, Bad Boys

2012-01-31T19:26:00.004-06:00

I have nothing new to say except the same old complaints, so - with the encouragement of more than a few beers - I'm ready to delve into the adventures of my long-ago Hollywood days.

I'll do my best to present a sanitized version, although it won't be easy. My objective is not to shock, but rather to enlighten. I've had an interesting past and I occasionally get the unwholesome urge to confess.

I was never seriously into drugs. As a hypochondriac and a coward, I usually avoided them. I witnessed the destruction of numerous friends because of drugs and learned very bitter lessons from my observations. Admittedly, I occasionally indulged in some of the popular substances of the day - butyl nitrate, amyl nitrate, quaaludes, hashish, marijuana - but I never liked them. Alcohol was always my biggest vice - - and without it, the intensity of my Hollywood adventures would have been drastically diminished.

For the faint of heart, I can assure you that I haven't touched a drug in well over thirty years......

Drugs? I knew an alarming number of people who were into them. Bad boys? I knew many more than I care to admit.

Darren is the first who comes to mind. I met him when I was nineteen, still green,and still new to the Hollywood scene. He was actually a friend of a friend - and much older than myself. Darren was then in his forties (at least). He was the editor of a famous magazine and lived in an incredibly lavish house in the Hollywood Hills, with a staggering view of the city.

The only thing that Darren and I had in common was an intense love for Russian classical music. He had an extremely expensive Bechstein grand piano. He also had very rare old recordings of Russian piano music - Scriabin, Mussorgsky, Cui, Arensky, Medtner, Liadov. We listened to Russian music for hours. I also played the piano for hours, mostly Russian music, and especially Anton Rubinstein's Fourth Piano Concerto - which I was studying with a private teacher.

Darren smoked opium. His music salon was like a Chinese den of iniquity. I was unnerved to discover that Darren was also a male prostitute. He would turn "tricks" in his boudoir. We'd be listening to music. The phone would ring. A man would arrive at the door. Darren would escort him into a bedroom and have sex. At that time it shocked me. Later, I became unshockable - - in fact, it was I who often shocked others (don't attempt to read between lines).

Our friendship eventually cooled for two reasons:
I consistently spurned Darren's sexual advances. And he was jealous of me because - at the time - I was young and desirable. I didn't exactly know it, but I was.

You're wondering why the hell I'm writing all this crap down. Well, it's all completely true and - being drunk - I'm eager to purge myself of tidbits from my past.

John was an actor I lived with for awhile. He was an extremely flamboyant Hollywood character, who appeared in countless TV shows and movies. At that time I was merely an extra in Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. We had lunch with Peter Frampton, which was interesting - to say the least.

It was through John that I met an endless array of Hollywood characters. Much of it is now merely a memory of colorful blurs......

I distinctly remember the two vampire Lesbians. They lived on the very top floor of an old Art Deco apartment building and only emerged at night. They were both beautiful, had raven hair, black fingernails, black clothing. They were sensual and exotic.
Were they genuine vampires? Heck, I like to think so. Did they bite? I'll never tell......

John had a major drug problem, of which I was initially not fully aware. A "supplier" would come to his house every other day. I'd never seen a drug dealer before. It was both horrifying and fascinating. It was kind of like Avon calling, but with a sinister twist. The drugs often invoked John's dark side. He had an explosive temper and we often fought. That was my main inspiration for severing our "friendship".

Ironically, John (yup, that's his real name) is still living in Hollywood and is still a flamboyant personality. I don't know how he survived all these years.

These were minor scenes from my relatively "innocent" and green Hollywood years. I'd be hesitant to reveal the hardcore years - the times when I was wild and street-wise and decadent. I look back on those years with awe and wonder - - because they contrast so radically from my present tame & dull West Texas lifestyle.

I'd like to write more, because I haven't even scratched the surface, but perhaps this is enough for one sitting........

Stay tuned. As long as I have beer,I also have more upcoming confessions.

ill winds and nothing else

2012-01-27T01:06:00.000-06:00

If I had anything new to say, anything exciting, anything positive or optimistic, I would have written sooner.
My reluctance to write is inevitably a reflection of my sorry state of mind. This first month of the new year has so far brought me nothing but physical anguish and psychological angst.
Is "angst" passe? I doubt if it's ever used any more. I'm wallowing in mostly misery and abundant self-pity.

I'm exhausted, depressed, anxious, tense, stressed out. I have sporadic panic attacks and persistant PVC's (premature ventricular contractions). I keep expecting my heart to give out......

......and suddenly I'll awaken in the tender arms of consoling angels......or more likely in a searing pyre of flames and the sting of pitchforks......

There is only one way to describe my life as it presently is: rotten.
Rotten weather, rotten health, rotten neighbors, rotten realtor, rotten environment....ad infinitum.

And the wind......the relentless West Texas wind that obscures any semblance of reality and eradicates any smidgen of hope. The winds have been blowing all week, one suffocating duststorm after another, over and over in a hopeless cycle of dust and destruction. No snow. No rain. Only thick brown dust.

The sun valiantly appears at dawn in the promise of a blue sky, but by mid-morning the air becomes dusted, the sky turns amber, the sun dims into an eerie eclipse. By noon the sky is nothing more than a brown, smouldering shroud. The afternoon quickly fades into a sightless fog of filthy dust and an evil wail of demon voices. Blinding dirt, choking dust, the incessant screams of devastating winds.

A wild, West Texas ghost symphony that plays itself out on the endless echoes of the open plains.

I hear it in my sleep at night, it haunts my dreams and inspires my nightmares. It awakens me suddenly in the timid hours just before dawn. I sit up in bed in the midst of a cold, black room, listening to the outside havoc: banging shutters, rattling windows, snapping branches.

Inside, I hear the pounding of my heart, the ticking of the clock, the purring of the cat who is snuggled cozily by my side.

And then I lay back down and pull up the covers - trying to get warm, trying to ignore the threatening, taunting wail of the phantom wind. Trying to remember if I'm still alive or if I am merely the remnant of a lost ghost passing through the West Texas night.

Trying to say some semblance of a prayer that might help me get through another day.......

Music from Turandot

2012-01-22T00:20:00.000-06:00

Turandot, Revisited

2012-01-21T12:50:00.003-06:00

At the request of a friend, I've decided to post my piano rendition of Turandot again. I'm doing this more out of selfishness than because of the request. Turandot is my favorite opera and my piano arrangement of the music is one of my more admirable accomplishments.

It's admittedly impossible to condense an entire opera into a five-minute piano arrangement - but I extracted some of my favorite themes from the opera and tried to make the most of them. With apologies to Puccini, of course. If nothing else, my arrangement is extremely difficult.

Why do I love Turandot so much?
Puccini's sublime music always transcends me to the realms of heaven. Turandot is a lush, exotic opera which is set in the ancient Imperial Court of the Forbidden City, Peking. The entire opera takes place at night and the atmosphere is drenched in intoxicating moonlight. Need I say more?

Turandot is actually derived from a Persian word meaning "daughter of Turan". In the opera, Turandot is a beautiful Chinese princess with a heart of ice. The handsome Prince Calaf eventually frees her from the bondage of a loveless existence by correctly answering three mysterious riddles. There's a lot more to it, but I'm trying to be mercifully brief.

Giacomo Puccini (1858-1924) began composing Turandot in early 1921. Unfortunately, he died in 1924 before the opera was complete. Franco Alfano finished the final act of the opera, using notes that Puccini had left.

One of the greatest tragedies in operatic history is the fact that Puccini didn't live to finish Turandot. The music that he did leave, however, will endure forever.

If the above video doesn't work, you can watch it at the following link:Music from Turandot - YouTube

A Day in the Life of.....

2012-01-19T22:01:00.000-06:00

I have a lot to say but I'm not in the mood to be verbose or creative. This has been a particularly stressful week and I'm completely drained. Physically, I'm a wreck. Mentally, I'm nearly incompetent. Since I can hardly remember yesterday, I'll only write about today.

Winter has temporarily been pushed aside by an aggressive southern wind. It was nearly 80 degrees today. Warm enough to actually go out and comfortably do things. It was windy, but not nearly as bad as it's supposed to be tomorrow.

I used my truck again for the first time in two weeks. It had been sitting in my driveway, waiting to be worked on - but the weather (at that time) was so cold that I never had the courage to venture outside. Early this morning I changed the spark plugs and put in new wires. So far the truck is running perfectly. Amazing, since I'm by no means a mechanic.

After scraping up every penny I could find, I paid my property taxes today, which were due by the end of the month. I told the clerk it's such a crappy neighborhood that the city should be paying me to live there. She didn't share my sense of humor.

Actually, I live in the best part of the city. I'm on the elite east side. The west side is shanty town.

I bought an abundant supply of week killer at Walmart and reluctantly tackled my weeds. Ironically, there are different weeds every year. As fast as you kill one kind, another kind quickly springs up. Weeds are the only things around here that grow without encouragement.

I decided to splurge so I had lunch at McDonalds. The choices for fine dining in this town are so abundant that sometimes it boggles my mind: Dairy Queen, Pizza Hut, Juanita's Tacos. I was in the mood to tackle an Angus Burger.

Yea, I've heard all the horror stories about the source of Angus burgers.........how they're made from the testicles of mutant bulls in Guatemala. But I don't give a damn. Every once in awhile I crave forbidden meat........Let your imaginations run rampant.

While I was in Walmart, I forgot to buy an ink cartridge for my printer. I really hate being inkless but I suppose it's better than being penniless. Cartridges are so outrageously expensive that it would be far less painful to prick my finger and use blood.

There's nothing worse than posting a boring entry in a blog - but that's what this is and I'm not in the mood to change it.
Should I add a few photos to atone for my blandness?

This is the soup I made from the leftover turkey

I painted my bedroom a few days ago, but you can hardly tell

My cat snoozing

This is my cat reading my diary. I keep a handwritten journal. The cat jumped up on the bed and it looked exactly like she was reading it!

Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch......

2012-01-16T13:18:00.001-06:00

I'm taking a detour from Memory Lane. Thought I'd return to Cowcraptown and see how things are going. In a nutshell, things aren't going good, but it's nice to check in now & then.

Is today yet another holiday? Did anyone notice that, slowly but surely, every weekend is turning into a three-day holiday weekend? There are lately so many damn holidays that I can't keep up with them.
When I was a kid we had Christmas and New Years. And Easter. And Thanksgiving. That was it.

No, wait a minute! When I was a kid, Thanksgiving wasn't a holiday. The pilgrims hadn't grown their crops yet. (that was a pathetic attempt to insert humor into this bland blog. So why isn't anybody laughing?).

West Texas had snow again about a week ago but this time it didn't last. Melted within 24 hours. All the weeds are coming up already. In January. My front yard, my back yard, the whole damn property is filled with them. If I don't roll up my sleeves and tackle them now, by March they'll be taller than the pecan trees.

There were so many wild neighborhood parties this past weekend that I actually lost count. One across the street. One in the house beyond the field behind my house (don't get confused, I'm not done yet). And also in the two houses on either side of mine (all right, NOW you can get confused).
The pounding "music" went on until 3:00 a.m. - - and then resumed at 9:00 a.m. I guess they needed a few hours to buy more drugs and ingest them.

I won't even mention the ten or twelve kids that scream so loud all day near my windows that I have to wear ear plugs whenever I use the computer.

I will mention the storage shed.
You're not going to believe this one, but I'll lay it on you anyway. Take a deep breath and prepare yourselves.

The Mexican neighbors on the left side of my house (the ones who already have thirty people living there) recently put a HUGE storage shed in their back yard. It's so big that it overlooks my six-foot fence.
So what's wrong with that? you ask.

People are living in it!!!
I swear to God, a bunch of people moved in and they are living in the storage shed. To make matters worse, there are numerous windows on the side and they can all look directly into my yard - - which used to be completely private. I now have people staring at me whenever I go into my back yard.

I couldn't make this stuff up, folks. And it could ONLY happen in Texas. No rules, no regulations, no nothing. This is going to be a fantastic feature while I'm trying to sell my house!

As if this wasn't enough to contend with, I'm still having loads of problems with stray cats. The more I get rid of, the more appear. If it wasn't horrific, it would almost be funny. They sit in the bay window and watch me eat dinner. They sit on the kitchen window ledge and watch me wash the dishes. One of them has a nasty habit of scratching the windows with her claws over & over day and night. It sounds like fingernails on a blackboard 24 frickin' hours a day.

Thanks to the neighbors, the kids, & the cats, I completely freaked out yesterday. I had such a major panic attack that I actually thought I was going to die. I had to take valerium and lay down (with earplugs).

I have many other problems,too, but I'll spare you. This has been enough to absorb in one sitting.

Today? We're having another one of our infamous West Texas wind storms. I'm literally choking from the dust & dirt and it's far too windy to venture outside.

I can only hope that it blows the whole freaking neighborhood away.

Near-Fatal Attraction?

2012-01-14T14:51:00.002-06:00

My blog used to be so wonderfully predictable and satisfyingly boring. I'd write solely about my hate for West Texas, my mundane life, my deplorable surroundings: wind, dust, dirt, heat, unbearably rotten neighbors, droughts, scorpions, tumbleweeds, humongous dust storms. Did I mention wind and rotten neighbors?

So why, suddenly, for the past few posts, am I dragging my unwitting readers on painful trips down Memory Lane and telling them things that they have no right to know?
Simple. Because my past was much more interesting than my present. My youthful days unfolded like an irresistably sleazy novel. My present life is about as exciting as a wart on an armadillo's ass.
You didn't know armadillos had warts, did you?

When I wrote about Clara in my previous post (read it), it inevitably reminded me of Janice. I remember Clara with fondness. The Janice ordeal was quite another thing.

In retrospect, it seems that half my life in college was spent in practice rooms - either practicing my piano repertoire or rehearsing with other musicians. Whenever I practiced alone, it inevitably attracted attention. People would stop by just to hear me play and, although it was flattering, it could also be somewhat annoying. Several people were regular visitors, like Tyrone Power's niece (nope, I'm not jesting). Tyrone Power had long been dead, but he did have a niece who loved hearing my music. At that time she had a small baby at home who happened to contract pneumonia, so she was eventually compelled to drop out of college.

That's when Janice came along. Janice was in several of my music classes. She was a lousy pianist but a remarkably good singer. She seemed to swoon every time I played the piano and soon became a persistant visitor to my practice rooms.

At one of Janice's vocal recitals, the regular pianist didn't show up and I was called in to substitute at the last minute. I had never played the music before and was completely unprepared. Incredibly, the recital went off without a hitch - inspiring Janice to promote our collaboration to new levels. She seemed to follow me everywhere I went, gushing adoringly.

My fatal mistake, as I see it, was consenting to drive her to her tennis lesson. She took this innocent gesture as a signal of eternal bondage (so to speak).

I'm dragging this story out far too long. I should probably cut to the chase and say that I was soon in a tangle of sheets and a lot of hot water.

It was soon painfully obvious that I wasn't going to get rid of Janice easily. She sent me daily love letters, called me constantly, followed me like a proverbial shadow.

One fateful afternoon I was rehearsing with the orchestra for a performance of Handel's oratorio Sampson. I was the harpsichordist. Janice was singing in the chorus. Nearly everyone in the Music Department was there.

Suddenly- in the midst of a long recitative - the door crashes open. A dangerously angry man appears, a raving maniac. He had nothing to do with Handel but seemed intent on tearing the building apart like Sampson. I was shocked beyond redemption when he stalked towards me and loudly spewed his venom.

"Leave my wife alone, or I'll f- - -ing kill you!"

I don't remember exactly what else he said because I was kind of numb at the time, but the gist of his promises were that I was destined to become dead meat.

I had absolutely no clue that Janice was married. I suppose her husband's wrath had justification. I later learned that he was in the army and had been stationed in Georgia. He was now home on leave. Big surprise.

Needless to say, Janice's ardor for me quickly cooled. Gossip around campus was rampant. I received a few more death threats, but eventually - and mercifully, I might add - things got back to normal. Or about as normal as they'd ever get in my colorful life.

I have a lot more stories about my early exploits in California which would make this one drastically pale in comparison. If I ever wrote them down, everyone would disown me.

Moral of this story?
Women, in one way or another, are always tied to extreme complications.
Is that why there are so many gay guys in Hollywood???

Remembering Venice

2012-01-13T07:14:00.002-06:00

Whether you care to admit it or not, the question has crossed your mind:
Is the Faux Cowboy straight, gay, or bi?

Reluctant to fracture illusions, and eager to remain a mystery, I'll never tell. Isn't it more fun to speculate and draw your own conclusions?
I will admit this:
I'm unnervingly open-minded. And I've been around the block more times than a '57 Chevy.

Have I ever considered Marriage? A few times......but I still remain blessedly single.

Today I happened to find some things in an old trunk that triggered a rich flood of memories. A German copy of Thomas Mann's Death in Venice. A packet of letters, postmarked from Venice. A tattered copy of Franz Liszt's Gondoliera, from Venezia e Napoli.

The last time I performed the Gondoliera, I was in college. Probably 23 years old. It is a sad, sentimental composition, depicting a lone gondola, drifting along the mesmerizing canals of Venice. I played it for Clara, on one of those long-ago lazy September afternoons in Southern California.

Clara's brother Anton was my classmate from college, a fellow pianist, and one of my very closest friends. He and Clara came from an extremely wealthy family and their father was very well-known.

Anton was obsessed with my piano compositions and promoted my musical talents every way possible, to the point that it often embarrassed me.

Example:
On one occasion, Anton, myself, and a few other friends attended a Beverly Hills luncheon for the famous American composer Elliot Carter. In a horrifying burst of enthusiasm and perhaps too much wine, Anton told Maestro Carter that my compositions were better than his. I nearly sunk under the table.

Knowing perhaps too much about my Hungarian heritage, Anton was in the habit of introducing me as "the Count". Despite my denials, many of his acquaintances thought I was a genuine Hungarian Count.

Anton's family was extremely fond of me. I was a very frequent guest at their home and also their beach house. The cultural atmosphere was immensely intriguing. Anton's father and I enjoyed long, animated discussions about literature and the arts. I would often give piano recitals for the entire family. Clara was usually present, but at first I didn't realize that she was there solely because of me.

Clara was then thirty-one years of age - about eight years older than myself. She was very pretty and looked far younger. I never thought for a moment that she had a serious interest in me. She was extremely sophisticated, had been educated in Switzerland, and fluently spoke four languages. I was a poverty-stricken, immature musician.

Clara was completely intrigued by my piano playing. At that time I was reading a lot of German literature. Encouraged by her father, I began reading the works of Thomas Mann in German. Clara and I read Death in Venice, out loud. Eventually we dated. Even considered going to Italy together.

Ironically, that autumn Clara and her parents spent a few weeks in Venice. I was invited but couldn't go because of numerous musical engagements. I received letters and postcards from Clara. I languished at the piano, playing Liszt's haunting Gondoliera.....

Clara's parents were staunch believers in marriage and more than eager to see their daughter settle down and have children. They thought I was a perfect candidate as a son-in-law. I had my doubts. I was merely a music student, unprepared to support a family, and - quite franky - far too immature and wild to ever consider settling down. One night, after a private dinner and a long drive down Pacific Coast Highway - Clara and I had a long talk during which I admitted I wasn't suited or prepared for marriage.

We remained friends but, shortly after this, Clara hurriedly and inexplicably did something drastic. She married her gay hairdresser! She told me of her plan. I did everything possible to dissuade her. It was completely irrational. Done on the rebound. I was actually invited to the wedding! Clara was having doubts and said she wanted me there "for moral support".

It was all too much. I couldn't force myself to attend the wedding sham. Instead I took a boat, got outrageously drunk, and sailed to Catalina where I stayed for five days.

Anton and I remained friends. Clara moved away to a different city with her husband.

Several months later I attended a ballet at the L.A. Music Center. During the intermission I happened to run into Clara and her husband! Clara was gracious, but it was one of the most awkward moments of my life. My only consolation was that Clara's husband was short and not in the least goodlooking.

I have some regrets about never having married Clara - or anyone else for that matter. Yet, for many more reasons than I'd ever care to delve into, I still prefer being single.

Thoughts of Venice, however, always bring back incredible memories of long-ago days.........

Note: Clara was her real name, but I changed her brother's name. He wasn't Anton. I didn't want to get too specific. There are a lot more interesting details to this story but I had to condense it.

In All Seriousness......

2012-01-08T04:26:00.000-06:00

A comment from Pacifica62 has inspired me to write this blog entry:

" I do not know your background, but it is so rich with music, literature, and art. Did someone see those talents within you and provide the opportunities for you to develop them or was it expected of you to study and learn reluctantly? You seem to excel in and enjoy all of them."

My faux cowboy image is certainly a charade. My true identity is so multi-faceted, so filled with enigmas and contradictions, that I've long given up on trying to analyze myself or catagorize my complexities. Assuming the persona of a faux cowboy seems the easiest thing to do.

I'm usually reluctant to bore people with my background, or to put unecessary feathers in my cap, but once in awhile I make exceptions. This will undoubtedly be very long and self-serving, so I'll apologize in advance.

My love of music, literature, and art is definitely inherent and was largely nurtured by my mother. She and I shared the same interests and talents. My Mom was a brilliant pianist and was my first piano teacher. She also enjoyed writing and painting and had an indefatigable interest in all the arts.
Despite the fact that my father was extremely violent and a devastating negative force in my life, he had a great love for good music and never denied my pursuit of the arts.

I was four-years-old in the first grade and attended Rutger's Prep in New Jersey, which was an exclusive private school. At that time good manners were instilled in students as well as a particular emphasis on reading. I had a life-long love of reading. Any semblance of manners, however, has long fallen by the wayside.

In California, at the age of ten, I had art lessons from an elderly neighbor - a Dutch man then in his eighties who had studied in Paris with Monet. At the age of twelve, some of my paintings were exhibited in a local art gallery. Despite my interest in art, it soon became nothing more than a hobby. I abandoned my brushes for music.

Southern California provided a wealth of musical opportunities. I studied piano, composition, and conducting in college. I also had the privilege of studying with numerous prominent private teachers, including Geza Wolfenstein - former conductor of the Belgrade Symphony Orchestra - and Thomas Talbert, who was a friend of Van Cliburn.

At age sixteen I won the Albert Rosen Award for one of my piano compositions. At twenty-two I performed a piano concerto with the Riverside Symphony. At twenty-four I was a student teacher at a college in Orange County and gave a recital at UCLA. I later performed as soloist and accompanist throughout California.

Despite these accomplishments, my private life - for many reasons - could only be described as a chaotic dichotomy of complexities. During those turbulent years I was alternately soaring on my laurels and wallowing in the depths of my own self-destruction. My extreme low self-esteem and endless problems concerning my father did much to accelerate my demise.

My Southern California years are a blur of intense contrasts. I was a professional musician. At various other times I was also a movie extra, chauffeur, cook, proof reader, security officer. I met a lot of famous people. I attended exclusive parties in Bevery Hills. During my downward spiral into the seedy side of existence, I hustled the streets of Hollywood, delved into unimaginable darkness, deliberately courted danger. My life unfolded like a tawdry novel. To this day I haven't revealed a fraction of my colorful past to anyone but a chosen few because - frankly - I doubt if anybody would believe it.

Much later, when I left California, I concentrated on my literary skills (such as they are) and became a freelance writer (I had been editor of my high school newspaper and always had a keen interest in writing). In the Ozarks I wrote for a newspaper and my articles and fiction were published widely in magazines and literary journals. The popularity of the computer and swift invasion of the Internet - I'm sorry to say - did much to destroy traditional journalism and the publishing industry. It's not easy to be a freelancer nowadays.

My intense dislike for Texas is undoubtedly biased, and is the direct result of two things:
I had an incredible amount of bad luck here and the Texas lifestyle is in complete contrast to my nature. My only reason for coming here was to be near my retired parents. My dad died six years ago. I took care of my mother for four years. She died two years ago. Since I presently live in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, my house won't sell and my chances of getting out of Texas alive are growing slimmer every day.

I am, in recent years, nothing more than a living corpse. My energy is sapped, my enthusiasm is gone. I'm only a pale shadow of what I used to be. All of my relatives and closest friends live far away. These past years have been extremely grueling and draining and I weathered them entirely alone. I lately feel much older than I am (I'll reluctantly admit that I'm over fifty. My relatives are laughing at that. They think I'm more likely near 100).

Life, as I once knew it, has withered away. Besides losing my parents, I've also lost numerous other people who were once an intricate part of my life. Recently, someone with whom I had an eight-year relationship has died.

It seems that the only one left is a curious faux cowboy, an enigmatical character in an obscure West Texas town, who occasionally pours out his soul in a humble blog - merely to convince himself that he's still alive.

DISLIKES

2012-01-06T02:08:00.000-06:00

The other day a friend and I were discussing things that we dislike. That gave me the brilliant idea of posting a list on my blog. Hell, it should be easy - - since I dislike just about everything. My list is incomplete and in no particular order:

Shaving
There's a scene at the end of the old movie Humoresque where John Garfield complains "Why do I have to shave every day?"
I probably hate shaving more than anything. My beard is tough and requires a tediously repetitive daily process. Thank God I don't shave my chest.....

Children
Never had them, never wanted them. I don't care how cute your grandchildren are. Keep them home in your own yard. Preferably on a leash.

Child-Proof Caps
Why should I have to suffer because of someone else's little bastards? When I was a kid my parents told me "Don't touch that!" and I didn't touch it. They didn't need child-proof caps.

Tailgaters
Tail me closely and I'm gonna break as fast as I can. Your vehicle will be up my ass.

Weddings
A lot of crap and a waste of money. Women love weddings. Men hate them.

Marriage
Never knew a truly happy married couple in my entire life. The ones who claim they are, are lying. Why else would the divorce rate be so high? Single life is no picnic, but being tied to one person forever is more than I could ever tolerate (besides, who would want to be with me forever??).

Birthdays
Too damn many candles to deal with.....

Barking Dogs
If your unsupervised pooch keeps me awake, it will be very sorry.

Football
The most useless, inane activity ever invented. All football fans should be placed together on a remote island, with their own private 24-7 all-football-all-the-time TV channel.

Dentists
A trip to the dentist is the only thing that scares me more than marriage.

Dr. Oz
Just what we needed......another doctor who thinks he's Jesus.

"Reality" TV Shows
Need I say more?

Commercials
Could drive me to murder or suicide

Telemarketers
Ditto

Spanish-Speaking Stations
Those who don't live in West Texas won't understand what I'm talking about. It would be so refreshing to hear something in English once in awhile.

West Texas
I won't expound. I've been bitching about West Texas for years in my blog.

Telephones
Probably the most annoying, invasive things ever invented.

Dates
I'm not talking fruit from palmtrees. I'm talking preplanned boy/girl excursions. Never liked them (hey, maybe that's why I'm still single? maybe.....).

Getting Up Early
Don't bother me until noon. I'm a night owl, hopelessly nocturnal. Always have been. Something in my Hungarian blood. Vampirism?

Unexpected Visitors
Whether I'm awake or not, don't show up uninvited. I bite.

Appointments
Whenever I'm compelled to be at a certain place at a certain time I tend to get very nervous.

Invitations
Don't invite me, 'cause I won't go.

Computer Malfunctions
As if I didn't have enough frustration in my life......

Rap Music
First of all, it ain't music

Algebra
It's as useless as rap.

Lima Beans
Abhorrent

Sushi
If it's raw I won't eat it.

Stravinski
If it assaults the ears, it ain't music.

Encores
Only musicians will empathize with me.

Competitions
I don't like competitiveness. I don't like catagorizing people into winners and losers.

Moving
I've moved so many times in my life that the mere thought of moving again gives me the heebee jeebees (I've always wanted to use that term).

Spiders
Scare the hell out of me.

Scorpions
Scare the shit out of me.

Grocery Shopping
An extremely annoying, tedious necessity.

Star Trek
What's all the fuss about? Trekkers are geeks.

Harry Potter
What could be worse than Star Trek?

Chain Letters
If I don't send this to twenty people in ten minutes, Sewer Gremlins are gonna clog up my toilet and I'll be stricken with inoperable hemorrhoids forever.

Lactose Intolerance
Almost as bad as chain letters

Taxes
Worse than chain letters, hemorrhoids, or lactose intolerance

Taking Out the Trash
Yet another annoying necessity

Making Lists
Anyone who does this should be spanked, then shot

No Apology, and Photos!

2012-01-02T20:27:00.001-06:00

I hope my previous blog post wasn't too baffling or depressing. Then, again, I really don't care if it was.

How about some photos? I took a few pictures of the glorious sunset we had on New Year's Eve. Justice is not well-served. The sunset looked much more spectacular in real.

Know what the worst part is about the new year? Having to remove all the holiday crap that's decorating my blog! (Well, I finally removed most of it!)

New Year's Eve sunset from my back yard

Threshold

2012-01-02T01:03:00.000-06:00

And here we are: on the threshold of a new year. Pristine, unblemished, uncharted. Unlimited opportunities await us. Glorious songs yet unsung.....but in time the dreams fade, the freshness grows stale, the clear path before us becomes burdened with an impenetrable overgrowth of weeds, the unsung songs bellow into one painful cry of anguish. And life drags on - - as it always has and always will - - tedious, strained, difficult, ruthless, merciless. Nothing changes, despite all our hopes. Nothing.

The virgin birth of an innocent new year is quickly overshadowed by the enormous scars of all the previous corrupted years. No year is different, all are the same: pure at the onset, tainted at the end. A bitterly ironic parody of our lives.......The admirable and lofty sentiment of peace and happiness and goodwill is futile, useless.

New Year celebrations are for the young and the foolish. As one gets older, it becomes more and more difficult to eagerly anticipate another year. The best years have vanished, the best times are memories, youth is an unattainable distant dream, the flames of love have smouldered into ashes. There is no pleasure in the process of aging. The golden years - as one quickly learns - exist only in the fanciful imagination of an unseasoned poet who has never experienced them and never will.

New Year's Eve has always been a somber, sobering time for me - even when I was young. It's a time of introspection, reflection, reassessment. It's a time to ponder - to remember things that were and to imagine things that might be. New Year's Eve is the one night of the year when I never want to get drunk. I want to keep my mind clear enough to see things in perspective. Sometimes, however, the grim reality of reason is not pleasant to behold.

I fervently wish that I could be the person I once was: optimistic, exuberant, energetic, adventurous, loving, giving, caring. Unfortunately none of that person is left. I devoured every shred of conceivable existence and exhausted every tempting possibility until I was completely spent. With each passing year life dealt me more blows, more obstacles, more anguish, more below-the-belt kicks, until I was permanently down for the count - drained of everything that I ever was - left as a hollow remnant of the old, empty shell that I am.

These words will mean nothing to anyone other than myself. Words are merely my means of catharsis, my way of wallowing in self-pity. Words provide a temporary release from the tangled web of my inner existence. Words are my secret salvation......which is a sure sign of a certain temperance in my declining years.......

.......my salvation used to encompass an unbridled, wild recklessness - an invincible, unending existence of absorbing and creating, and later of torrid affairs and one-night stands, of dark and dangerous explorations, of tempting fate and teetering on the narrow edge of a beckoning extinction, of tasting toxic nectars devised by the unholiest of the underworld gods.......

......and now, I am merely a sliver of benign moonshadow, creeping across the parched and withered West Texas plains. A deep echo in the bowels of an empty canyon. An anonymous nonentity waivering hesitantly on the threshold of every year that has come and crushed me with the burden of existence.
Jon

New Year's Eve

2011-12-31T20:27:00.001-06:00

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die......

From one of my very favorite Tennyson poems.
Discover and savor it - it's well worth a read.
(In Memoriam, # 106)

Was up extremely early on this last day of the year, after a scant two hours of sleep (the neighborhood New Years parties started last night. Nobody around here knows what the hell day it is.....)

I ventured out at 8:00 a.m. to the local supermarket for a few supplies. I wandered up & down the near-empty aisles in a dream-like state, half-imagining that I was still home in bed. On the way back to the house I stopped by the lake. Nothing but shimmering water, the blinding glare of a newly risen sun, and an endless mass of clamoring Canadian geese. Their winter wish of mild Texas weather has finally been granted: this is a mild, balmy day - an enormous contrast to the snow last weekend. All the snow has melted.

A well-deserved nap early this afternoon (a sure sign of impending old age). A busy and basically pleasant day. It actually got up to 76 degrees but felt cooler because of the low humidity.

A spectacular sunset, Mother Nature's fitting tribute to the end of an old year. It's nearly 8:00 pm. as I write this. I plan to have a very late dinner by the fireplace. The wind is whipping up. A cold front is expected to blow in, appropriately, at midnight.

More to write, much later tonight........

(you didn't think I'd end New Year's Eve with these few words, did you?)

FIRE! BRIMSTONE!

I made a very nice, late-evening dinner. I lit the fireplace (lighted? Lit? Who knows? And who cares?). This was going to be a perfect, peaceful New Year's Eve dinner during which I could actually relax and savor the moment. Nothing was going to ruin it for me.

At first I don't notice the accumulating haze. The haze quickly gets hazier, then becomes a fog. I'm starting to gasp for breath. I feel very queasy, like I'm going to pass out. I'm getting a headache. Suddenly, the room, the entire house is swimming in a thick gray pea-soup fog.

And then it dawns on me. A magic light clicks on in my muddled head.

I forgot to open the flue in the fireplace!

I battle billows of toxic smoke to get to the hearth. I open the flue. I open the back door to let in fresh air. My cat gallops to the door, jumps on a nearby hassock and greedily gulps in precious oxygen. The door has now been open nearly an hour and she's still there.

The house still smells smokey but I managed to have my dinner by the fire. An oxygen mask would have helped. The food was delicious - despite a slight smokey undertaste.

So what did I eat? Fish filets, potato pancakes, deviled eggs, an eggroll, smoked oysters, cheese, and white wine.

It's not quite midnight yet. The best is yet to come - - if the smoke ever clears out........

After Xmas

2011-12-29T16:57:00.001-06:00

Christmas weekend passed like a snowbound dream, but the snow is now melting and the stark reality of West Texas is again rearing its ugly head. Gone are the icicles and snow-covered landscapes. All that remains are pleasant memories and piles of mud.

Now all we have to do is get through the New Year weekend and all this holiday crap will disolve into our own personal versions of normalcy.

I still didn't get around to changing the wires and spark plugs in my truck, so I've been using the car instead. I use the car so seldom that the other day when I emerged from WalMart, I spent ten frenzied minutes searching the parking lot for my truck. I'd completely forgotten about the car and didn't remember what it looked like. Was this a display of absent-mindedness or impending senility?

I admittedly have a lot of things on my mind and copious amounts of booze does nothing to expunge them. Aw, heck, I don't really drink that much - I just thought it looked dramatically delicious when I wrote it down........

I won't burden this blog or it's readers with ALL my problems. It would take too long to write and would be too painful to read. I'm in a rare merciful mood. Blame it on my holiday spirit.

Today was a typically normal day: chaotic & stressful. I didn't get much sleep due to the endless drug-induced mariachi parties that my neighbors insist on having. In West Texas, every night is New Year's Eve.

While trying to get ready in a hurry, I cut my throat while shaving. Not quite enough to be fatal, but enough to make me bleed like a disembowled pig for the good part of an hour. Since a torniquet around my neck would be unreasonable, I used half a box of Kleenex to slow the blood flow.

It was around this time that I dropped one of my contact lenses. These soft lenses have the consistency of Saran Wrap and are nearly invisible. With my nose to the bathroom floor, I scanned every square inch for the duration of ten minutes but never found the lens. I don't know where the hell it went. I hope I didn't swallow it. Fortunately, I have several more pairs of lenses because they are disposable.

I thought the local stores would be clear of Christmas shoppers, but I was wrong. Every clown in the county was out shopping today. Santa must have given them a surplus of food stamps and welfare checks. I had to push my way through insolent crowds. I had to hold my breath and hurry away every time someone coughed or sneezed. A fat Mexican man sneezed so vigorously in the canned goods aisle that he blew away an entire bin of naval oranges in the produce department.

Don't deduct favorable points just because I exaggerate now and then......blame it on my incredibly colorful imagination.

Here's an interesting aside:
Anyone who lives in West Texas cannot help noticing that the Mexicans never do anything alone. They are always in groups. They shop in groups of ten. They ride with fifteen people in their vehicles. They live with fifty people in their houses. They walk down the street a dozen at a time.

I'm not being a racist (for all you ultra-sensitive people). I'm being a realist. It's merely an apt observation.

Let's roll swiftly along and cut to the chase.

So when I got home, three of my one dozen eggs were broken. I don't know how the hell that happened. Luckily I still have some other ones in the fridge.

The final escapade of the day occurred when I couldn't get my ring off my finger. I wear several extremely interesting rings. One is a six-hundred-year-old Medieval ring from Italy. The other is a two-carat diamond ring I got in Los Angeles at least twenty years ago. The diamond ring will not come off. I soaped. I oiled. I waxed. It's gripping my finger like a boa constrictor.

I'm hoping that a robber with a hacksaw doesn't see it.

See you again on New Year's Eve.........

Christmas

2011-12-25T05:37:00.003-06:00

Here's photographic documentation of Christmas Eve at the Faux Cowboy's house and an accompanying verbal account.

First of all, I wanted to cook my turkey on Friday night. Got everything prepared, pre-heated the oven, then realized that I forgot to thaw the turkey. So, I thawed it for the next 24 hours and cooked it late on Christmas Eve. It turned out perfectly.

Snow on Christmas Eve! It snowed lightly on & off all day, and it snowed all night. White Christmas, indeed! It was picture book perfect. Or about as perfect as it can get in imperfect West Texas. Everything is covered in a facade of pristine white. Roads are slick with ice. The traffic is still going 75 MPH. The local locos are fearless. Or, more likely, brainless.

I had a very pleasant Christmas Eve. No major complications. No catastrophes. No pathos or drama. Unnervingly normal, considering the usual abnormality of my entire existence. Late in the evening I sat by the fire, with the cat in my lap - - feeling strangely antiquated and spent. I had a cup of coffee and a piece of sweetpotato pie. In a sudden surge of uncharacteristic spirituality, I turned on the TV and watched Midnight Mass from the Basilica. I'm not Catholic, but I love the pomp and visual sumptuousness. It's kind of like a papal version of Cirque du Soleil.

Anyway, I'm at peace for the moment and I'm savoring it - - mostly because I know it won't last. It is pre-dawn on Christmas morning as I write this. Perfectly still. No wind. The snow has finally stopped falling. The geese are clamoring and honking by the lake like an unrehearsed Christmas Carol presented by Mother Nature.

May your day be peaceful, warm with good cheer, and blessed.

Oh yea, here are my photos:
(if you click on them, they will enlarge)

MY BACK YARD ON CHRISTMAS EVE

A 130-YEAR-OLD PRAYER BOX FROM AN OLD MISSION.
I THINK IT LOOKS NICE WITH CANDLES AND PINE CONES

                                          I GOT A LOCAL TURKEY FROM LUBBOCK,
                                         WHICH WAS WRAPPED IN GOLD PAPER.
                                         IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN WRAPPED IN SOLID
                                         GOLD SINCE IT WAS SO DAMNED EXPENSIVE!

MY FIREPLACE ON CHRISTMAS EVE

MINIATURE XMAS TREE ON MY ANTIQUE DESK

TREE IN THE DARK

Waiting for the Storm

2011-12-23T15:58:00.003-06:00

Waiting - on a dreary, misty, frigid Friday afternoon. Waiting for the impending winter storm that is slowly creeping towards these high plains of West Texas. Snow is predicted for tonight, for Christmas Eve, possibly for Christmas Day. Dreams of a white Christmas become a reality.....

I'm prepared this time. My furnace works. I'm stocked with firewood and food. Even preparedness, however, doesn't alleviate the cold. This gloomy, desperate winter chill seems to come from within rather than from any outside elements. It is the coldness of dispair and depression. It is the coldness of my winter soul. Too many distant memories, too many lingering echoes of long-gone ghosts. A lifetime of endless snowdrifts that I have laboriously scoured again and again to reach the top - - only to find myself, at the end of my labors, entrapped in the enormous avalanche that has buried me. I'm too weary to dig myself out again.

Cut the dramatics, Jon. The holiday season has hurled you into a rut. Self-pity serves no purpose.

No, it doesn't. But it looks good when you write it down.

These past two years have been the very first time in my entire life that I am completely alone. All my closest friends, all my relatives, live far away. There are so many others who have died. Friends, family, lovers. It's an unnerving, impossibly empty feeling to know that so many of those closest to me are now gone. I thought that only happened to ancient people. I'm old, but I'm not that old. I look ten years younger than I am, but I sure as hell don't feel it. The carousing, the drinking, the intentional self-destruction, all those wild years in the fast lane are finally taking their toll.

So, what's my point?
I don't have one. I'm merely rambling. Killing time. Waiting for more snow.

Actually, there are times when I savor my solitudinous existence. I have time to think, to interact with myself, to enjoy my own company. Few people have this opportunity. They are so wrapped up in the affairs of others that they don't have time to find themselves.

My singleness isn't a fluke - - it was fully intended. I never wanted a family, certainly never wanted children. I've had more "serious" relationships than I'd care to admit. I've lived with significant others. But I'm a loner at heart. I have selfishly solo tendencies.

Why am I writing this crap? It has nothing to do with holidays or snow. I'm way off track. As usual.

It's early afternoon as I write this. I plan to cook a turkey later tonight. My Thanksgiving turkey that I never used. I plan to make a sweet potato pie. I plan to put up a few decorations for no other reason than the fact that I love colored lights. I'm actually looking forward to snow on Christmas Eve.

It's presently 24 degrees, dropping drastically later tonight. Don't let anyone tell you that it doesn't get cold in Texas.

A note:
I love to read the comments you leave on my blog and I appreciate every one. Well, all except the death threats.
I even like those who read and don't comment. I know you're there.....

Something Like a Christmas Card

2011-12-20T16:44:00.000-06:00

This is a musical Christmas card from me to you. My own piano arrangements of some Christmas songs taken from an old rehearsal tape.

I know that after I sober up I'm going to regret doing this (smile), but I just wanted to show you that I'm in the holiday spirit. Or some kind of spirit, anyway.

The best way to enjoy my music is to put copious amounts of rum into your eggnog and drink several glasses very quickly. I'll look a helluva lot better to you and my music will sound spectacular.

Cheers to all, happy holidays......and keep reading my blog because I'm gonna post more stuff before Christmas. Jon

White Christmas

2011-12-20T16:39:00.000-06:00

The Christmas Song

2011-12-20T16:38:00.000-06:00

Cat Capers, Christmas Chaos, Constant Crap

2011-12-19T18:06:00.002-06:00

I hate to write about depressing things during the holiday season, but lately my life is one Big Bummer. This is the time of year when we're supposed to be happy and gay......well, at least joyful.......

Last summer I was innundated with stray cats & ferals. I utilized Animal Control. I gave some away. I got rid of eight cats and was left with only three friendly strays. A big relief.

Somehow, in the middle of the night when I was sleeping, the Cat Fairy paid me a visit and left more. I now have at least eight cats again and my nerves (or what's left of them) are shattered. Every time I try to feed the three friendly strays, a hoard of ferals inevitably appears, chases the strays away, and eats all the food.

Congregating cats stare at me in the kitchen window and the bay window in the family room. They never leave. I'm constantly watched by feline eyes. They meow continuously, begging for food. They mob me when I go outside. I'm so nervous that I dread getting up in the morning. I'm presently spending more money on cat food than people food and it pisses me off.

This morning, I'm trying to carry cat food and water out the back door. As I'm emerging from the door, I get mobbed as usual - but this time I lose all equilibrium and trip over the surging supply of felines. I fall flat on my face on the cement patio - water and Meow Mix spilling everywhere.

In a fury of frustration I yell so loud that windows shattered in Abilene and there is a small earthquake in Pecos. It hardly scared the cats.

I'm going to put a Hungarian curse on that witch of an old lady who used to live next door, because she's the one who always fed them - and then she moved and abandoned them.

I won't write about my illegal immigrant neighbors (all sixty of them) who still have loud parties every night until dawn. I won't mention my new neighbors (who now live next door in the old lady's house) who have several hostile bulldogs that they turn loose constantly. I tried to go in my own driveway yesterday and was chased by a friggin' bulldog.

I'm presently doing work on my pickup truck. Yesterday I cleaned the engine, put in a new air filter and oil filter. I was just going to change the spark plugs & wires when the bulldog paid me a visit. I can't do the spark plugs tomorrow because it's supposed to snow.

Santa, I want a snowplow and a shotgun.....

I decided to go grocery shopping this morning. Since my truck is incapacitated, I used one of my good cars. Naturally there was rain and sleet and the roads were paved with thick mud. I pulled out of the driveway with a beautiful sparkling clean car. I returned with a mud-covered relic.

I won't mention that the supermarket was so crowded I had to park two blocks away and walk in a gale-like wind.
People packed elbow-to-elbow, ass-to-ass. I felt like I was in a can of Vienna sausages. No Christmas spirit here - - only the strong possibility of contracting diseases and probably lice.

What do you want for Christmas, Jon? Tell Santa.....

I wanna live in my own private, secret, secluded version of Utopia, Santa. With no stray cats, no loose dogs, no children whatsoever, no illegals, no 65 MPH winds, no mud, no dust,.....no Christmas. Is that asking for too much?

HUMONGOUS HUMBUG

2011-12-16T16:52:00.001-06:00

You are forewarned:
This is going to be one of my rants, which I'm sure some people will find offensive. It's not my intention to deliberately offend, only to voice my humble opinion. If you embrace the holiday season and choose to keep Christ in Christmas, I applaud you.
Take a deep breath - - here we go!

Is anyone as disgusted with the holidays as I am? The stores have been stocked with Christmas items since mid-October. The onslaught of holiday commercials on TV is so blatantly obtrusive and offensive that it's impossible to absorb their content - - they only serve to induce nausea and make our heads spin. The holiday programs and holiday specials are virtually non-stop (although the touchy subject of Christmas itself is purposefully avoided). It's completely fine to make loads of money off of Christmas - - just don't mention the name. We wouldn't want to offend anyone by aknowledging the existence of Christ, would we?

To firmly establish the fact that it's the holiday season, the Lifetime Channel has once again dragged out all 5,000 of their holiday made-for-TV movies - - the majority of which use the same actors and the same plots over & over with minuscule variations.

What are you doing watching the "Lifetime" channel, Jon? Isn't that for women?

Aw, blame it on my feminine side. You didn't know I had one, did you? (*choke, gasp, sputter, guffaw*).
Hey, I watch the women's channel just so I can figure out exactly what makes them tick.
So far, I have no clue.....

Anyway, let's get back to my intended subject.

Christmas is supposed to be a religious holiday (or celebration) but - - let's face the raw facts - - it's as pagan as hell. It certainly has very few roots in Christianity. And - during the holiday season - how many of us really think about Jesus or keep him in our hearts?

Long pause.......search your souls and think about it......

Any effort to do a little historical research will reveal the fact that the 25th of December isn't the birthday of Jesus. He was most likely born in the autumn of the year. Heck, Palestine has a mild climate but December nights are pretty damn chilly. Too chilly for shepherds to be abiding in fields.

Okay, Jon. We don't care exactly when Jesus was born. We just want to utilize this time of the year to remember him.

Jesus, according to all accounts, was an extremely humble man who disliked ostentation. When the people were buying and selling in the temple at Jerusalem, Jesus was so incensed that he overturned the tables. How much more incensed do you think he'd be at seeing the greed-induced frenzied insanity of the Christmas season today?

Buying gifts that we can't afford and don't really want to give......receiving gifts that we often don't want......making asses out of ourselves by over-decorating and over-indulging.....exhausting every resource by hosting elaborate dinners and parties......lying to kids about Santa Claus.......

Kids are admittedly more world-savvy today than when I was a child. I was extremely naive and gullible. When I was five, my parents told me that Santa Claus didn't exist. If they didn't, I'd still be a believer - - only my requests would have changed.

"Dear Santa - I want two hookers, three cases of Jim Beam,......oh, yea, and a working water heater......"

If you've dared to read this far, you might as well know that I'm not totally opposed to the holiday season. And I'm all for keeping Christ in Christmas, if that's what you choose to do. I don't buy gifts and I don't send out cards. I savor the sentimentality of the season, the ambiance of the holiday - - not for any particular reason other than it's beautiful.

I love nostalgia. I love the snow, the fresh pines, colored lights, good food, the festivity of it all. I like the fact that people make fools out of themselves and do things that they would never consider doing at other times of the year. Heck, I'm a child at heart.

I'm admittedly not a complete Scrooge, although I'm a staunch advocate of his famous words....

"Keep Christmas in your own way and let me keep it in mine."

Temperamental Truck, Therapeutic Piano

2011-12-15T02:14:00.001-06:00

Do I feel a year older? Naw, not at all. I actually feel about ten years older. Maybe twenty. Here it is mid-December. My birthday has passed. The holidays are upon us. The year is crashing to a close before I had ever realized it started. Time zooms by.

The past few days have been dreary, damp, misty, cold. A perfect accompaniment to my gloomy mood. Yesterday I reluctantly went out, knowing full well that my old pickup truck is extremely temperamental on wet days. It behaves like Maria Callas before a performance of Tosca (don't try to excavate too deeply. Grim operatic humor was intended here).

Anyway, I went to the local supermarket. It was extremely crowded (this is the only large supermarket for fifty miles, so everyone comes here to shop). When I emerged from the store with my stuff, it was raining and bitterly cold. All I wanted was to get home quickly.

I'm sure you've already guessed where I'm going with this.

My truck wouldn't start. I was fully expecting this but foolishly hoping for a miracle. Miracles don't reside anywhere near the faux cowboy. I've been under a black cloud as long as I can remember.

I'm thankful that it's freezing cold only because my frozen food won't thaw quickly. I spend ample time under the hood - caressing, coercing, cajoling - trying everything possible to appease my temperamental set of weary wheels.

Loooong story short, the truck finally yielded to my tactics and reluctantly started. I got home after two hours of intense aggravation. I have to eventually change the spark plugs and do some other things, but I damn well don't feel like doing it now.

After a much-needed nap, I decided to abandon the grim realities of the day and indulge in some much-needed relaxation. This involved digging out a lot of my dusty, forgotten music manuscripts and playing the piano for several hours.

Both my pianos are ravaged from the harsh climate of West Texas. My old practice piano is out of tune. I opted for my new piano, which still has a decent tone.

Playing music that I haven't touched since I lived in California was a sublime experience. Things I had studied in college. Things that I performed at concerts, recitals, soirees.....

The lush, erotic, deeply emotional preludes and etudes of Scriabin, which evoke memories of endless rehearsals and languid misty mornings and fiercely intense nights of love.

The Transcendental Etudes of Franz Liszt, which are an eternal struggle for any pianist, but which blazed under my undaunted fingertips in my careless youth. I remember playing several of them at a concert at UCLA, after having ingested a near-lethal amount of malt liquor.

Endless works by Tchaikovsky - many of which are piano transcriptions of orchestral music. The Fifth Symphony. The entire score for The Nutcracker. I was a rehearsal pianist for a local ballet company - greatfully playing to keep my fingers warm in the vast, cold room, while dancers executed their plies and fouettes and pirouettes.

When I play the piano it always manages to transport me back to glorious days when I was happy and when life - - even my own turbulent, chaotic, unpredictable life - - was fulfilling and good.

It is only when the music ends and I glance out the dusty window at the harsh, unappealing hopelessness of West Texas that I reluctantly return to grim reality.

Evolution of a Faux Cowboy

2011-12-12T21:11:00.000-06:00

Could this possibly be my birthday? Heck, I can't remember. All I know is that I'm older than dirt, older than sin............let me put it this way: there are Egyptian mummies younger than me.

In retrospect, I was always a faux cowboy. I've got pictures to prove it.

Beyond Endurance

2011-12-09T21:06:00.003-06:00

You won't be able to fully appreciate this blog entry without reading my previous one. It's excruciatingly long, but, heck, that's part of my charm.....

CONTINUATION OF ENDURANCE

So, it's Friday night, December 2nd, and I'm in the fledgling throes of abject misery. The blizzard of the century is raging in West Texas. Temperatures are plummeting. Ice is accumulating. Snow is falling. And I'm trapped with no heat and no hot water. My body is sore from climbing the fence and crawling through the bathroom window. My ass is sore from falling on the ice. The long weekend is upon me. I have no hope of ever hearing from the furnace repairman.

Could it get worse than this?

I crawl into bed fully dressed (minus boots & hat). Despite being under a mound of covers - not to mention an incessantly snuggling cat - I can't stop shivering. These flimsy Texas houses aren't properly insulated for Arctic blasts. Even when the heat is on, I freeze my tootsies off. Without heat, it's unbearable beyond redemption. I'm too cold to move. I'm firmly adhered to my bed until dawn.

When I finally dare to emerge from the covers, it's Saturday morning and 14 degrees. I don my winter coat & my boots. I consider lighting the fireplace but I only have enough wood for a few days. Three at the most. I must conserve and think toasty thoughts. I repeatedly warm my numb fingers by the stove. I have soup for breakfast. I force myself to bake pumpkin bread, just to use the oven. I spend the duration of the day trying to get the furnace to work, but without a functioning thermostat it's an impossibility. It's too cold to do anything but shiver. I crawl back into bed, reassured only by the fact that things couldn't get worse.

A freak thunderstorm jolts me awake at around midnight. The lightning is fierce. Fierce enough to zap the power. I'm now heatless, hot waterless, and without electricity.

By Sunday morning I bravely peel off the clothes I've been wearing since Friday. I put on four new, fresh layers of clothing. A T-shirt, a henley, a flannel shirt, & a sweatshirt. Long underwear. Two pairs of socks. Before long I'm shivering so hard that I add my coat.

I know that I absolutely have to find a way to generate enough heat to survive. Since sex is out of the question, I finally light the fireplace. I decide to close the doors to every room and stay in the family room - - which has the fireplace and is adjacent to the kitchen. I'll sleep on the sofa by the fireplace.

Electricity is finally restored on Sunday night. By then snow is falling rapidly. I turn on the TV to see the local news. Within twenty minutes my cable connection is lost. Ice is pelting the windows. Life is at a complete standstill. There's no way in, no way out, nothing to do but shiver.

Roads are impassable. No way a repairman could get here on Monday. Or Tuesday. Or......I face the raw fact that I'm doomed.

I decide to order a new thermostat online. I can't wait for the ice to thaw. My computer room is so cold that within five minutes I feel like I'm going to succumb to hypothermia. I find exactly what I want on Amazon and quickly place an order, overnight express delivery. I'm assured my thermostat will arrive tomorrow, Monday.

I'm feeling a little better until I realize that, while typing on the computer, I have excruciating pain in my right index finger. It's swollen. Last week I injured the finger - under the fingernail - while working in the yard. It's now infected. I quickly utilize all the home remedies I can think of.

This tale of woe is getting far too long. I know you're weary of it - - but it's my way of purging the anguish. I'll try to speed it up but it won't be easy.....

Sunday night, it's 7 degrees. Seven.
Monday morning I get a message. My thermostat is in Lubbock but can't be delivered any farther due to "weather conditions". Snow & icy roads.
The furnace repairman can't get through because of the ice, and he's booked up until the end of the week.

I'm so cold that all humor and optimism evaporates. The fireplace, the layers of clothing are doing nothing to warm me. I'm shivering like a pansy in a hurricane. I can hardly move my hands. I can no longer feel my feet. For the first time in my life I actually think I'm going to freeze to death. In Texas, no less.

The thermostat finally arrives on Tuesday morning. I'm determined to install it immediately, despite the fact that my electrical expertise goes no farther than being able to change a light bulb. It takes awhile, but my installation is a complete success. It works perfectly. However, the furnace is still not heating.

It's far too late to opt for the short version of this story. Prepare yourselves for the happy ending.

Finally responding to my urgent pleas, the repairmen arrive on Thursday morning, December 8th. They are typical West Texas characters. The old man is alarmingly ragged & dirty and sports a thick white (or yellowish) beard. He looks like an unwholesome version of Santa Claus. The young guy is a scuzzy chain smoker. My furnace (not to mention my cold ass) is in their hands.

The prognosis? The furnace fan wasn't working properly. It had to be adjusted. They seemed honest and sincere (of course, so did Jack the Ripper). Anyway, they got my furnace going and I'm eternally grateful.

Am I warm?
Warmer than I was last week.

Am I happy?
I haven't exactly been happy since the early 1970's, but that's another story for another time.....

Are YOU happy??
No, Jon - not when your blog posts are so damn long.

ENDURANCE

2011-12-08T16:49:00.001-06:00

Endurance! The name of Shackleton's ship. You know, the one that succumbed to ice in the Antarctic. You've all heard the story. And if you didn't - shame on you. Look it up.

The past six days have been a major endurance for me. Lesser men would have perished. I had no sled dogs, no Eskimo snow shoes, no nothing.....only raw, instinctive survival skills that surfaced now and then through the frosty realms of my remote subconsciousness.

It's a story far too long for the restricted confines of a blog, so I'll try to condense, edit, and utilize fast-forward mode whenever I can.
Since verbosity is my business, it won't be easy.

One week ago, Thursday, the 1st of December, in a surprise midnight attack: the worst cold front of the year blows into West Texas. Freezing winds, frigid temperatures, ice, sleet, abject misery. No one in their right mind would dare to go out.

Friday, December 2nd. I have to go out. Important business that can't wait. I venture downtown, braving an onslaught of gale-like winds and flying ice. I hurry. My only thought is to get home. Warmth. Hot tea. Comfort from the storm.
My truck won't start. Always tempermental in damp weather, it freaks out completely in Arctic conditions. Shivering. Trying to be brave. Trying to look Macho, I open the hood (and secretly pray to the Ice Fairies to help get me home). It was the Ice Fairies, much more than my limited automotive skills, that finally induced the engine to kick in. I hop into the truck and race towards home.

Pondering the fact that West Texas was still having days in the 90's in October, I can hardly believe that we are now colder than a snowcone in Siberia. West Texas is synonymous with unprecedented extremes. As I climb out of the truck, my Justin boots clash with the ice on the driveway and I fall on my ass.

Two thoughts cross my mind:
One- I hope the neighbors didn't see me.
Two- Justin boots have no traction.

I hobble to the front door and search my pockets for house keys that aren't there. I'm locked out! As my extremities become completely numb from the cold, I am almost certain I hear the Ice Fairies laughing at me.

Scaling a six-foot fence isn't easy at my age. Getting into a bathroom window is even harder. I keep the window unlocked just in case I forget my house key. Now the entire blogging community knows my secret. But you don't know my address! ("That's what you think", some are saying).

All I want is heat. And maybe a vacation in Bermuda. Heat! Warmth! And enough tropical sunshine to melt the icicles on my mustache.

The furnace starts with a loud groan and plenty of cold air. Within twenty minutes of intense shivering, I realize the furnace isn't working. I check the thermostat. It comes apart in my hands. I knew it was old. I never realized it was so fragile. I summon my courage and try to retrieve some mechanical skills that I never really had. For the next two hours, I mess with the furnace trying to induce heat. My efforts are useless. Cold air keeps blowing from the vents, making the house even more frigid than it initially was. Thanks to the broken thermostat, I can't turn the damn thing off. I have to resort to using the main breaker.

In the realms of absolute desperation, I try to call the local furnace-fixer repair place (it's a technical term). For the very first time in two years, my MagicJack phone line isn't working. MagicJack my ass! I opt for my cell phone, praying to the Verizon Gods that my battery isn't dead.

It's nearly 5:30 and starting to get dark. I get some kind of bizarre answering service. The woman is rude, disinterested, and there's loud rock music playing in the background. I can hardly be heard. Either the bitch is deaf from the boombox or we have the worst connection in Texas. I have to repeat my name and address several dozen times before it penetrates her moronic mind.

I hang up, praying that she got my message straight. It's pitch black outside. The wind is howling. The house is colder than a penguin's kiss. I turn on the TV just in time to catch the local weather.
The horrifying words of the meteorologist seem to club me over the head like an eight-foot candy cane.
Blizzard conditions.....ice storm.....temperatures in the single digits.....be prepared for Arctic conditions.....snow tonight.....

I'm alone. In a house without heat. No hot water (I still don't have a new water heater). It's Friday night. No repairman will come on the weekend. Especially in a blizzard. Dire thoughts cross my mind.

Sometime, in late spring, when the iceblock finally melts from my house, they'll find an ice-encrusted faux cowboy and a frozen cat.
What should I do first - - prepare my will or look for firewood?

This story is too damn long for one sitting. And there's a lot more to tell. If anyone is interested in hearing the rest of my Arctic adventures, tune in next time.

To be Continued.......

FREEZING FLASH!

2011-12-05T15:45:00.000-06:00

I'm presently snowed in with no heat!!!
It's long story and this past weekend was the worst one of my entire life.
As I'm writing this, the wind is shrieking and the snow is still falling. Tonight I'll be sleeping by the fireplace.

My frigid fingers are too numb to type. If I survive this blizzard, I'm going to have one HELLUVA story to post on my blog.

Send warm thoughts my way - - I NEED THEM!!!!!!

......and now, December

2011-12-02T07:10:00.002-06:00

I probably shouldn't have written my previous blog post. It was far too personal. After ingesting a few beers, I'm inclined to do things I normally wouldn't. Let's blame it on Budweiser. This is an extremely depressing time of year for me, with the anniversaries of both my parent's deaths. The onset of winter, a myriad of memories, the onslaught of the holidays, another upcoming birthday, the dreaded approach of a new year.......

Actually, I'm thinking about discontinuing my blog after the end of this year. I've been blogging for centuries (so it seems). I have absolutely nothing new or interesting to say. I've already said it all, dozens of times. I'm reduced to writing about nothing more than the weather in West Texas and my excursions into the depths of self-pity. It's old stuff.

My main reason for blogging is merely to convince myself that I'm still alive. I greatly appreciate the people who read my blog and endure my inane prattle. That means a lot. More than you'll know.

And indeed, it is December. The month came so quickly that it took me by surprise. Wasn't it just August, and I was bitching about the heat? Wasn't I just carving a jack-o-lantern for Halloween? Wasn't I just wondering when to thaw that Thanksgiving turkey? It's still in my freezer. I think I'll cook it this weekend.

December has punched West Texas with a wintery blast. It arrived late yesterday with strong winds and plummeting temperatures. Ice, sleet, and misery were predicted. So far no ice, no sleet. Only misery. It was 25 degrees last night. Today's daytime high is expected to be 34 degrees.

It's just before dawn as I write this. I slept like a bear for four hours. I had an extremely early breakfast. This morning is ladened with low, dreary, misty clouds. Snow is not an improbable possibility. Christmas is in the air. Frigid weather is predicted for the next five days.

The geese are frantically chattering and honking by the lake. I love to hear them. They're probably voicing deep regret at coming to Texas for warmer weather. How the hell did they know that the high plains of West TX can get colder than a witch's tit?
I stole that one from J.D.Salinger (and he probably stole it from someone else). Sure, I've read Catcher in the Rye about thirty-five years ago. It's not one of my favorite novels - - highly over-rated. But I remember the witch tit thing. I have a sharp mind. Not to mention a dangerous one.

It's getting too cold to type and my once-sharp mind is getting numb. Until later, I hope.

Remembering My Father

2011-11-30T14:55:00.000-06:00

November 28th marked the 6th anniversary of my father's death. I seldom, if ever, talk about my father simply because it's too painful and complicated. Ours was an extremely turbulent and destructive relationship. For most of my life I blamed him solely for my downward spiral, for my self-hate, for my very fierce tendency towards self-destruction. For years I couldn't even call him "father" - the word wouldn't leave my lips. For years I harbored more hate than I care to admit.

It wasn't until my father died that suddenly all of my hate and destructive feelings vanished. I immediately forgave him for all the anguish he had caused me. For the first time, I saw things from his point of view and I deeply regretted not trying to understand him sooner. My father was so profoundly complicated that understanding him was almost an impossibility. He had a genuine Jekyll-Hyde personality.

Without a word of exaggeration, my father was the most violent person I ever knew. His rage and maniacal temper ravaged my childhood and my abject fear of him continued well into adulthood. When his temper flared, all rationality abandoned him. My mother and I were constant targets of his physical and mental abuse. He once handed me a loaded gun and begged me to kill myself. "You'll do the world a favor," he told me. On another occasion, I took a revolver and went into his bedroom late at night, with the intent of killing him. I was too cowardly to go through with my plan. This was the twisted essence of our relationship.

When I was fourteen, he fractured my ribs. When I was eighteen, he choked me into unconsciousness. On numerous occasions he genuinely tried to kill me. I'm not saying this to get sympathy. I'm far beyond that. I'm saying it because it's a truth that many people never wanted to hear.

Incredibly, my Dad could also be kind and extremely generous. When his temper subsided, he would seem to awake from a trance and display an almost child-like innocence. He was an incredibly hard worker - a true workaholic. He was extremely financially consciencious and never owed a penny in his life. He was obsessively neat and clean. He loved good music almost as much as I do.

When he first went to school, my father didn't know a word of English. He only spoke Hungarian. He learned English entirely on his own - schools didn't cater to minorities back then like they do today. He worked when he was fourteen, was in the Navy by age nineteen. His ship was bombed and he had several narrow escapes. He was in the invasion at Normandy.

Dad mellowed in his old age, but could still throw a tantrum when he wanted to. He and I became somewhat closer, although I always felt uncomfortable in his presence. I was with him when he died. That was one of the most difficult days of my life - I never got over it. Despite all the hell that we went through, I missed him, and I deeply regretted not trying to understand him.

Shortly after my father died, I had a dream about him. It was an extremely vivid dream in which he was with me again. We talked for awhile and, just as he was about to leave, I suddenly told him that I loved him - - something that I never said while he was alive. But he was already walking away from me and didn't hear me. I suddenly woke up crying. I had never cried in my sleep before.

I forgive you, Dad, I miss you, I hope you rest in peace.

Note:
Shortly after my Mother's death in December, 2009, I wrote a book entitled Notes From the Midst of December. The book is about my Mother's life and the final three weeks before her death. It also contains some graphic details about my Father's abuse.

I initially had the book privately published, so I could share it with relatives and friends. I now regret that I shared it with anyone. The feelings and raw emotions that I poured out were far too personal. I couldn't possibly expect anyone to fully understand them. I also have a gut feeling that some of the things I revealed about my Father weren't believed. Every word is true.

I recently had a New York editor interested in my book. So far, I've rejected his generous offer. The book is too intensely personal to share with the public.

Dad and Mom

Dad and I in San Angelo,
a few years before his death

Thankless Saturday

2011-11-26T15:48:00.004-06:00

The Forecast: Strong winds, cold temperatures

I waited Friday night in apprehension of the strong winds but it was calm, quiet, deceptively tame. I worked on my computer most of the night. I slept for two hours. At 7:00 a.m. I had coffee and a salami and ham sandwich (my distorted version of breakfast). Dawn came with a stiff breeze.

Just after dawn, all hell broke loose. Wild winds ripped the silence apart, tore my fragile nerves to shreds, whipped up a frenzy of dirt, dust, and leaves. As I write, the winds are screaming, shrieking around the corners of the house, rattling windows. The early morning sun has vanished - replaced by a thick haze of brown dirt. The temperature has dropped drastically. It's chilly with dirt.

Just another routine day in West Texas, folks. Just another reason why I desperately want to sell my house. If the rusty For Sale sign doesn't blow away. It will probably land somewhere in Bora Bora.

Nothing much I can do but crawl back into bed, snuggle under the covers, pray that I won't be hurled to Oz.
Over the rainbow? Hell, maybe it's not a bad idea.

It's a good time to reconsider Thanksgiving and all the things I should be thankful for. Let's see:

I'm thankful that I don't yet have emphysema, with all the dust that's accumulated in my lungs.

I'm thankful that I wasn't born in Texas, and have seen other places. (don't hang me - - it was tongue in cheek. Or was it?)

I'm thankful that all the annoying leaves from my neighbor's giant trees will finally blow away to another county, and I'll be even more thankful when their trees blow away.

I'm thankful that my illegal alien neighbors haven't been able to fit more than ten families into one house, but they're still trying.

I'm thankful that I now only have three stray cats residing in my yard instead of twelve.

I'm thankful that the holiday season only comes once a year. It takes me a full year to recover.

I'm thankful for twelve-packs of beer and gallon bottles of cheap wine. And valerian.

I'm thankful that the winds are only 75 MPH today (so far) instead of 110 MPH.

I'm thankful that six brave and faithful people still read my blog.

I'm thankful that three people liked my Debussy piano video. I'm being a sarcastic bastard, but I don't care.
Maybe it was only two people......

I'm thankful that I finally monetized my blog (see sidebar). I can only imagine what the monetization people are thinking: What the hell kinds of ads can we put on this cowboy's blog?? He doesn't fit into any logical catagory. Or any illogical one.......

I have a helluva lot more thankfuls, but I don't want to risk overwhelming you. Or boring you.

You can be thankful for that.

Here's a boner of a postscript:
(please hold your ears if you're sensitive to strong language)
Some dirty son-of-a-bitch stole the FOR SALE sign in front of my house!
It didn't blow away because it was far too heavy and it was anchored very deeply into the ground. It was there early this morning. I took a much-needed nap. It was gone in late afternoon. Go figure.

Last year I had to wire the sign to my chain link fence because the kids kept knocking it down (God love them). This time I'm going to chain a few hungry pit bulls to it.
Gawd, I love this neighborhood........
(trust me - if you lived here, you'd be guzzling gallon bottles of cheap wine, too).

Thanksgiving

2011-11-24T11:13:00.000-06:00

A day of reflection, more than of thanks. A day of solitude and snatches of introspection. As the years drift by, I seem to have less and less to be thankful for - the happier times have dwindled, the salad days are past. I'm speaking from a voice that sounds much older than myself, but I lately feel very old, tired, drained.

Here I am, on this day of Thanksgiving, trapped between a dwindling autumn and a fledgling winter. Burdened with a myriad of heavy thoughts, steeped in a sea of nostalgia that is reserved especially for lonely holidays, wallowing in perhaps a secret mire of self-pity.

It's a beautiful day. This time of year is lovely everywhere - even in the desolate wilds of a tiny West Texas town. The dawn was clear, flawless. I awoke early, after my usual fitful, pitiful few hours of sleep. I performed a listless litany of mundane daily tasks. I ventured outside to feed the trio of stray cats that haunt my yard. Mounds of yellow leaves fill the yard and sporadic showers of golden leaves flutter from sleepy trees in the breeze. No wind today - only a mild, steady breeze. The day is almost warm, but the core of the sun's warmth has drifted south. Long shadows stretch across the yard. The days are brief.

No turkey today. I bought a turkey but it's still in the freezer. I'll make it next week, or whenever the fancy strikes me. No guests on this Thanksgiving. I'm in no one's thoughts but my own. Just me here, and my cat. I actually enjoy the solitude. The older I get, the more I savor my own company. I get along with myself just fine, most of the time.

If I'm thankful for anything today, it's for not having to go out or do anything in particular. I'd like to go back to bed and hibernate until January (at least). Instead, I'll do some long-awaited projects around the house.

The day is still early as I write this. A lazy, completely uneventul day. Blue skies, golden leaves, endless flocks of Canadian geese, gentle sunlight, soft breezes - all yawning towards the end of November.

To all, have a blessed day.

Clair de Lune

2011-11-20T15:09:00.001-06:00

Clair de Lune

2011-11-20T15:08:00.004-06:00

Clair de lune is one of four piano pieces from the Suite Bergamasque by Claude Debussy (1862-1918). Originally titled Promenade Sentimentale, it was inspired by the poem Clair de lune by Paul Verlaine. Although written around 1890, Clair de lune wasn't published until 1905, when the Suite Bergamasque was revised by Debussy.

Clair de lune is immensely popular but definitely over-played. I like Debussy's music but performing it is not one of my fortes. This rendition is taken from a rehearsal tape, recorded in my old San Angelo studio on an out-of-tune piano.

Tired of Everything and Leaves and Cats

2011-11-17T16:55:00.000-06:00

I've been unwholesomely tired lately.
Is there such a word as "unwholesomely"? Well, it looks good, anyway.
I'm tired of blogging. Tired of every day's endless cycle of have-to-dos. Tired of the onset of winter. Tired of the cold.

Last night was 24 degrees. That's cold for West Texas. The leaves on my seven pecan trees are all yellow and falling quickly in the wind. The leaves on my neighbor's massive trees are shedding with a vengeance and every one of them are landing in my yard. It happens every year. My property collects them like a magnet. They go nowhere else.

In my front yard they're two-feet deep already and only a fraction of them have fallen. By December my entire house will be covered with neighbor's leaves and they won't find me until spring when the 100 MPH winds blow them away. Last winter I bagged over twenty large trash bags of neighbor's leaves and it didn't even make a dent. This year I'm not bagging anything. Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.

Two days ago it was in the 60's and unnervingly beautiful. I was tense, spent, worn-out. I decided to sit for awhile outside in the soothing sunshine. I fed the four stray cats. They ate quickly, then gathered around my chair like children waiting to hear a story. I dozed, contentedly. Suddenly I heard a scratching sound in a pile of nearby leaves. I opened my eyes and saw one of the cats digging around. He pulled an object out of the leaves, brought it to me, dropped it right at my feet. It took awhile for my myopic eyes to discern what I had been given.

It was a dead squirrel! Well, parts of a dead squirrel. There was a head, a tail, not much else. Holy shit! was my immediate thought. Was this a gift, or a demented cat's prank? I considered it a gift, but one that I could well do without. It made me sick.

My silent sojourn in the sunshine was ruined. I had to scoop up the remmnants of the squirrel and take it to the dumpster. Cats. Who needs them?

This morning:
I got up early. It was freezing, still in the 20's. One of the stray cats was in my kitchen window, staring at me. Intimidating me. Inducing me into going outside to feed her and the gang. This particular cat looks exactly like my indoor cat Scratch. They are about the same age, both female, both black & white.

I open the back door. Before I can go outside, the stray black & white runs inside! She wildly bounds around the room in unfamiliar surroundings. My cat Scratch wildly bounds around the room, excited because of the unwelcomed guest.

It's all a blur in black and white.
I can't tell one cat from the other. I'm confused. I honestly don't know which one is mine and which is the interloper. They're twinsies. I try to think fast and make an educated guess. I snatch up the more scraggly of the two and put it outside. Fortunately my guess was correct.

I had six cats taken away to the local Cat Farm and four are still left in my yard. I'm too tired to care anymore. Someday soon - if I can ever be found under a pile of leaves and stray cats - they are going to take me away to the Funny Farm. And it ain't funny.

A Few Random Thoughts

2011-11-15T21:08:00.004-06:00

I thought I'd add a few random things concerning my previous post and some questions that a few people asked.

My mother was born and raised in New Jersey. All of my relatives originally came from New Jersey but some of the more adventurous ones migrated to western states. My great-uncle George (my maternal grandmother's brother) had a cattle ranch near Clovis, New Mexico. My great-aunt Mary had a ranch near Tucumcari. Some other relatives on my mother's side of the family owned a popular summer resort in Red River, New Mexico.

When my mom first visited New Mexico (probably when she was about eighteen) she fell passionately in love with the west and that enthusiasm never left her. When her relatives in Red River invited her to stay with them, she jumped at the chance. Red River is located high in the mountains, north of Taos. It's presently a ski resort, but at the time my mom lived there it was only open during the summer months. She stayed there every year from June through September, until she got married.

I was born in New Jersey but my parents moved to California when I was five and I lived there for nearly thirty years. California is my true home.

My parents came to Texas after they retired, mostly for the warm climate and low cost of living. I consider it the worst mistake of their lives.
Did my mom like Texas? She learned to politely tolerate it. Did my dad like Texas? Not after he got to know it. I came to the Lone Star State on a whim, just to be near my parents. They are now both deceased.

Do I like Texas? Aw, you already know the answer to that.
Let me put it this way:the nicest thing I can say about Texas is that it's the worst place I've ever been. Everything about it is in direct contrast to my nature. Life in this harsh, relentlessly hostile place has robbed me of my heart and soul. There's nothing left of myself but an empty shell. I definitely don't belong here.

Native Texans want to hang me for harboring these brutal sentiments.

I must admit that I can only speak about life in West Texas, which is an entity unto itself. The state is huge and there are many other, much nicer areas in which to live.
There are also wonderful people in Texas. From personal experience, I've found that the very best people are the genuine Texans - the ranchers, cowboys, farmers. They are honest, decent, hard-working people.

The low-class criminals, drug dealers, and illegals that I've so often encountered and so often had trouble with are not representitive of the heart of Texas.

Have I said enough? I'm just rambling aimlessly again as usual.

Most of the photos of my New Mexico relatives are in storage. Here is a photo of my Great-Aunt Mary who was known as Tucumcari Mary. She was an excellent equestrian and could shoot a rattlesnake between the eyes.

This is me (below) in Red River at age six, with a family friend named Patty. We were on an old clunker of a horse. Shortly after this photo was taken, the horse went wild and bounded down a very steep mountainside. Never being one for chivalry, I jumped off the horse and left Patty to fend for herself. Several men had to be sent down the mountainside to rescue us. I should have known then that I wasn't cut out to be a cowboy........

In Remembrance

2011-11-13T15:10:00.000-06:00

I couldn't let November 14th pass without remembering my Mom's birthday. I've undoubtedly posted these photos before, but I've decided to share them again. She was an extraordinary woman and I miss her.

November Elegy

2011-11-08T19:53:00.003-06:00

Autumn always enters West Texas late and reluctantly. Summer lingers as an unwanted visitor and is unwilling to leave. Finally - after summer decides to depart, after October melts into memories, after November is more than a week old - autumn makes a brief but welcomed appearance.

The days are cooler, the nights are brisk. The burning sun drifts farther and farther south until its rays are tempered and mellow. Long, cool shadows yawn across the arid earth and deepen in unexpected places. The leaves on the trees turn subtle shades of yellow and timid hues of gold. The relentless winds shake the branches and force the leaves to fall prematurely, in glorious showers of autumnal colors.

The Canadian geese are arriving for the winter. They never come all at once. They arrive little by little, in small groups, usually late at night and most often unnoticed. Then, suddenly, one day there are thousands of them - chattering and honking and circling the lake, hoping for a temperate Texas winter. Their hope will inevitably be shattered soon enough, when the ground freezes solid and the lake ices over. The intense heat of summer doesn't last forever.....

Late last night, way past midnight, I happened to look out my window and saw a large fox hurrying down the street, on the sidewalk, like a frenzied pedestrian. It's not at all uncommon to see foxes about this time of year. Several years ago, one of them took up residence in my back yard. This year I only have cats and skunks. And squirrels and 'possums. And heaven knows what else.

I'm glad to see summer gone, but I'm dreading winter for many reasons. Another birthday approaching. Another anniversary of my father's death in November. Another anniversary of my mother's death in December. Another year passing. There's a sadness and emptiness at the passing of years as one grows older. Feelings of regret and trepidation.

This afternoon: chilly winds expunge the warmth from the sun, wailing plaintively like ghosts from the past. Showers of leaves endlessly blow across the yard. An autumnal melancholy permeates my soul, overpowers my existence. The idea of outdoor work is suddenly abandoned and my attention reverts to indoor occupations. I read, write, play the piano. Extra blankets, hot cups of tea, and home-baked pies are increasingly intriguing.

We are well into November and I am unwillingly preparing myself for an enormous winter.

Weird Friday

2011-11-04T18:01:00.002-05:00

All right, Jon - will you do us a favor and let go of October already?

Naw, I'll never let go. I'm still in a big October Mode. I'm still immersed in a perpetual shower of autumn leaves, I'm still wandering in imaginary pumpkin patches. I'm still celebrating Halloween.

I'm still dreading being stuck in Texas for another winter.

I was awakened early this morning by the pitter-patter of squirrels running across my roof. At least I think they were squirrels. It was an unusually heavy tred - more like deer or a moose (meese??). Perhaps a few illegal aliens escaping from the law? It's too damn early for Santa Claus.
Anyway, something heavy was running across my roof.

I still don't have hot water. Last night was 27 degrees. Taking a shower, or even washing my face, gives a whole new meaning to the word "brisk". The water heater that I wanted to buy won't fit - - I measured carefully - which means I'll have to get a much more expensive model. There's a lot more to complicate this story, but I'll spare you.

Yet another big dust storm is expected tomorrow. I can't wait. I'm looking forward to getting dust in my eyes & hair & ears & teeth and having to rinse it off in an ice water shower.

I burned a pot of sauerkraut today - sauerkraut and sausages. Just left it on the stove without thinking, while I was doing other things. It burned to a crisp - it burned black - it burned beyond recognition. Words can't describe how bad burned sauerkraut smells (hell, sauerkraut smells even when it's not burned). I opened all the windows and doors and aired the house out for an hour, but it still stinks. Now I have a frigid house that reeks of nuked sauerkraut.

I captured another one of the stray cats today. I did it very reluctantly but I had no choice. She will be on her way to the local cat farm with the others.
I said cat Farm, not cat House. There's a difference.
Knowing that the cats will not be killed or harmed is a great relief. I'd rather be on a farm than in a gas chamber. I think.

There are now only (only!!) four cats left in my yard, and these are the very tame ones. I can handle four, but I sure as hell couldn't handle a dozen.

The following will probably only be of interest to my relatives.

I talked to Nancy (my Tennessee cousin) today. We had a great conversation, but she's the only person I know who always has as many problems as I do. If we wrote all our problems down, the list would stretch from Texas to Tennessee. And back.

Don't ask me exactly how this happened, because I can't quite figure, but a few weeks ago Nancy nearly amputated one of her fingers. It was a freak accident. She was doing some work around the house, moving old pieces of sharp tile. Somehow, one of the jagged pieces sliced through the thumb on her right hand. She said all she could see was bone and fragments of tendon.

All the stitches are finally removed and it seems to be healing, but she has no feeling in her finger and it keeps moving involuntarily when she tries to use her hand. She has an appointment with some kind of specialist next week.
She was driving home from work the other day and said she got dizzy and almost passed out. She attributed this to exhaustion from long hours.
Anyway, I'll keep my relatives posted.

As for me, I've rambled on long enough. Will I have a restful weekend? I doubt it. But I'll try.

When October Goes - Barry Manilow.avi

2011-11-02T03:18:00.000-05:00

Farewell, October

2011-11-02T03:16:00.003-05:00

LATE OCTOBER

Trees are shedding
their last amber leaves
across the yard.
They tumble dumbly
through brisk afternoons
gathering in heaps
at the edge of an exhausted year.
The garden is a tangle
of withered vines
and pillaged fruit,
lean days the birds have picked clean.
Shadows stray to unfamiliar regions,
stretching past the shrinking hours.
The sun has burned itself out,
leaving less than the trace
of a long-ago summer.

This is one of my old poems, included in my book Dreams of Escape. Nothing special here - merely a simple lament for the end of my favorite month.

I generally don't like to share poems or sappy sentiments, but I always have difficulty letting go of autumn. It's an intensely nostalgic and personal time of year for me - filled with incredible memories, passionate yearnings, and limitless depths of delicious melancholia.

I've included a YouTube link to the song When October Goes. Johnny Mercer wrote the lyrics, which were found after his death. Mercer's wife gave them to Barry Manilow, who wrote the music. I was never a big Manilow fan, but this one is superb. I love it.

(click on the "Watch on YouTube" link)

All Hallow's Eve

2011-10-31T17:53:00.013-05:00

I'm a full-blooded Hungarian, with a deliciously assorted Magyar mix. Royal blood on my mother's side, gypsy blood on my father's side, and undoubtedly vampiric blood on both sides. I have always strongly suspected that vampires are lurking abundantly in the branches of my family tree. That would fully explain my extreme eccentricities   and strong nocturnal instincts. Do I thirst for blood? Only on occasion. I have a stronger thirst for beer and cheap wine, which has probably somewhat diluted my pedigree.

Does all this have to do with anything? No, not in the least. I just thought I'd    mention it because it's Halloween and   autumn is my favorite time of year and Halloween is my favorite holiday - if indeed it can be called a holiday. It's certainly a time when witches and warlocks and ghouls and vampires - and especially soused West Texas faux cowboy vampires - feel most comfortable and are in their absolute element.

What exactly am I saying? I have no     idea, but it sounded good as I was writing it.

I have no big plans this Halloween. The day was sunny and mild and wonderfully calm. I'm wondering how my east-coast relatives are coping with the unexpected October snowstorm. Since I haven't heard from anyone, I'm assuming that they are experiencing power outages. Either that, or they've disowned me after reading these inane blog entries.

How will I celebrate Halloween            this year? Very quietly and                  unobtrusively. No parties, no orgies, no vandalism or unnecessary rowdiness of any kind. After dusk, I'll turn out the   lights and indulge in some scary movies and unnutritious feasting. Is there such a word as "unnutritious"? Probably not, but it sounds good to me.

Pizza, apple cider, pretzels, chocolate chip cookies. And maybe pumpkin pie. And whatever else I can dig up.
What about the trick-or-treaters, you ask? Hell, let them buy their own treats. I have no intention of answering the door for insolent, snot-nosed, pint-sized beggars. My Halloween feast is a private one and I'm not inviting anyone - -except perhaps a few random, stray, after-midnight ghosts and witches and   vampires and - - -just maybe perhaps - - - you!

silly symphony - the skeleton dance 1929 disney short

2011-10-28T15:39:00.001-05:00

Frosty Friday

2011-10-28T15:38:00.000-05:00

I had Big Plans (capitalized for emphasis) for writing some interesting Halloween things, but my busy and consistently chaotic life managed to sidetrack everything. My favorite month has passed by too quickly. Well, I still have a few precious October days left. I'll make the most of them.

As a token sentiment, I'm offering one of my favorite Halloween cartoons, The Skeleton Dance. This is one of the very early Silly Symphony creations by Walt Disney, made in 1929. It's much, much older than I am. I want to emphasize that (without capitals) for all of you people who think that I saw the original cartoon in a theater a few weeks after it was produced.
These ancient cartoons are far more creative and atmospheric than anything around today.

Frosty Friday? It is indeed. West Texas is always full of surprises (most of them unpleasant) and this week offered a major weather surprise. It was sunny and 90 toasty degrees on Monday and Tuesday. Late Wednesday night a nasty cold front blew in from the north - with rain, wind, and plummeting temperatures. Thursday was wet, cloudy, and dreary, with a daytime high temperature of - get this - 36 degrees. Very appropriate weather for Halloween. Last night was 31 degrees.

This cold blast reminded me of being in the Ozarks, where I enjoyed wandering through deserted graveyards on frigid days in late October. I'm not weird. I merely have some occasional vampiric inclinations. Blame it on my Hungarian blood.

My stray cat problem is partially resolved. The big old red tomcat was getting so hostile towards the rest of the cats that my frazzled nerves were on edge. On Monday I caged Old Red and reluctantly called the local Animal Control.
The guy who came to get Old Red had some very reassuring news. He told me that he has a friend who owns a large farm nearby and all the stray cats are taken to the farm. It was a great relief to learn that Old Red will be going to a farm instead of Death Row.

I now have a clear conscience, or about as clear as my drastically soiled conscience can get.......
I still have five cats in my yard, so I plan to round up a few more next week. I have recently been spending more money on cat food than on food for myself, and I'm not exaggerating.

Stay tuned, I'll hopefully offer more Halloween stuff this weekend.
I can only imagine your excitement.

Halloweenetorial

2011-10-25T15:29:00.002-05:00

Halloweenetorial?? It's sort of like an editorial, but it's about Halloween. Or what's left of it. This is fair warning. All you hysterical people can leave now. All of you hypersensitive people can get your smelling salts.

You've cleared the room, Jon. The only ones left are you and a 95 -year-old Armenian lady who is too slow to turn off her computer.

I turned on the TV early this morning, while having my left-over pizza for breakfast. There was some Major Dork on ABC seriously suggesting that children's Halloween costumes should be catagorized and rated by age-sensitivity, so that small children aren't inadvertently traumatized by scary costumes.

After choking on my pizza, and successfully performing a self-inflicted Heimlich maneuver, I seethed and probably ranted. Aren't we going too far with this inane nitpicking and super-hypersensitivity crap? Things have changed so much from when I was a kid that I often have trouble believing I'm still on the same planet.

Halloween used to be a time for fun & pranks & games & parties & trick-or-treating & scary stuff & unbridled carelessness. Sadly - like everything else - it has been dissected, diluted, and picked dry by selfish self-righteous politically correct spoil-sport zealots.

Isn't it bad enough that we've taken Christ out of Christmas, religion out of Easter, the saint out of Valentine's Day? We've banned prayers in schools, reading the Bible is nearly illegal, God can't be mentioned publicly. Saluting our flag is no longer honorable. We've dragged our former traditions and values and beliefs over the coals and doused them with - certainly not holy water - doused them with toilet water. It's all gone - there's nothing left but inane political correctness and scattered fragments of what life used to be.

Get back to Halloween, Jon. You're getting way off course.....

Uh-hum! Excuse me while I compose myself.......

Halloween? The rules have become a burden:
No masks because the little ones will have obstruction of vision. No long costumes, because they might trip. Plaster them with reflective tape so they will glow in the dark and avoid getting creamed by traffic. Absolutely no candles anywhere - not even in jack-o-lanterns. Flashlights are safer. No scary movies. No scary costumes. No candy or sweets of any kind. Let's keep the holiday healthy with carrot sticks and raisins and lemon grass. Let's all Obamatize the little ones with nutritious tidbits from our back yard herb gardens.

Let's all hold hands and sing Mother Nature songs and embrace the other cultures of our vast earth and think happy thoughts and expunge the witches and goblins and ghosts and zombies and bats and cats and full moons and good old-fashion fun from Halloween. Which, of course, is a pagan holiday anyway.

Sanitize Halloween? Humbug! I want it the way it used to be!

After the Dust and October Night Walk

2011-10-22T08:34:00.001-05:00

I seldom write about all of my problems in this worthless blog. I seldom reveal all of my deepest anxieties and worries and fears. It would take too long. It would be too tedious to write and to read. It would fully explain why life so often looks better to me drunk than sober. Life is a Big Ugly Bitch that kicks us in the ass until we're down and then keeps kicking us over & over just so that we don't have the strength to get back up. And it laughs all the while.

Gee, Jon, that was profoundly philosophical.

That was, in fact, only the scum on top of the barrel. I wouldn't dare try to go to the bottom.

Well, I've finally dug myself out of the aftermath of the great West Texas dust storm. Worst dust storm since 1933, some say. Worst dust storm in Texas history, others claim. Worst one I ever saw, that's for sure. Courtesy of the drought. And layers upon layers upon layers of dust on the open, flat plains. The dust storm was 8,000 feet high. Winds in Lubbock were clocked at 75 MPH. Winds here where I live were nearly 85 MPH.

The good news? It's over.
The bad news? Another cold front is due to blow in by the middle of next week and we could get a repeat.

These "cold fronts" are a joke. They never last. It's still in the high 80's. Clear. Beautiful. Deceptively calm. It took me two days to clean up the mess from the storm. Thick piles of dirt are everywhere. Words can't describe it. You'd have to see to believe.

In bursts of nervous energy I've been painting walls in my house. Last night I did the two bathrooms. The bathroom adjacent to my bedroom is small. The other bathroom is huge. My walls don't really need to be painted, but they are (were) a little dull. A fresh coat of paint always brightens things up.

(written Friday night)
Tonight:cool, slightly breezy, moonless, extremely dark. I decide to walk long after dusk - a rambling, invigorating walk by the lake and other places. Dark, very dark, not a cloud in the sky, a dazzling brilliant display of shimmering stars. Dangerously remote.

If I told you I have a loaded handgun with me just in case, you'd think I was a wild, uncivilized cowboy. Well, this is a wild, uncivilized place.

Walking is my solace. The dead of night is my great escape. Escape from what? Myself??

Nothing is more beautiful than an autumn night, even if it happens to be in the dust-tainted wilds of the Texas high plains. Jupiter is radiant, rising in the east. A lonesome phantom on the distant horizon, glowing brighter and climbing higher as I walk.

The air is crystal clear for a rare change and I'm drunk only on nostalgia. On nights like these I yearn - - for exactly what I don't know.......for long-ago autumns and distant pasts, for those I loved who are now gone, for all the halcyon days and better times that linger in the dream-dusted realms of my selective memory.

My present existence pales sorrowfully in comparison to all the glorious autumns that I have experienced and savored. I am now nothing more than an empty ghost, wandering through the haunted realms of my half-existence in the deceptively intriguing shadows of the night.

Beyond Belief

2011-10-17T21:43:00.004-05:00

I've been writing about life in West Texas for a long time and I've never been short on words. My descriptions, to some, may have seemed exaggerated - but I can assure you they never were. What I experienced this afternoon, however, has not only rendered me speechless but has also left me in a state of semi-shock. I've never experienced anything like it and I hope I never do again.
Perhaps the photos below will help explain.

It started out as a beautiful October day, as lovely as it tends to get on these wasted plains. Blue, cloudless skies, clean air - or as clean as it can be here in Dustland. I had an extremely sleepless night. At dawn I was still up reading to take my mind off this relentless insomnia. I got up within two hours, did chores, went out. On my way past the lake I snapped a few photos, for no reason other than I happened to have my digital camera with me. October, my favorite month, is passing much too quickly.

The searing, dry desert winds start rippling at around noon and it's 90 degrees. An hour later the desert ripples become fairly strong breezes and it's 95. I hate hot weather, especially in autumn, but somehow it feels soothingly nice. After all, how many places are 95 in October? Despite the heat, I'm getting into a Halloween Mode. I'll have to buy some pumpkins this week.

Cut to the chase, Jon, you're rambling again.

After a lazily pleasant afternoon, I decide to make dinner at around 6:00. A hodgepodge of Mexican food - Spanish rice, burritos, taquitos, sour cream, salsa - all the good stuff. I turn on the TV news and the local anchors are frantically talking about the situation in Lubbock - power lines down, trees down, never saw anything like it before......

What the hell are they talking about? I wonder. The sun is shining. It's still in the 90's. I'm 45 miles southwest of Lubbock.

I happen to look out a window which faces north. The sky is dark reddish brown, a darkness and color that I've never seen before. I've seen plenty of dust storms but this is completely different. It's quickly building momentum and heading this way. Whatever it is, it's enormous and fast.

It hit this sleepy cowtown like a hurricane, with such force that I'm nearly knocked to the ground. The house shakes so violently that I think it's being ripped off the foundation.

It's a dust storm, prelude to a cold front.

In an instant, all sunlight completely vanishes and the wind screams with a wild voice that I've never heard before. Everything turns a brownish-black and the dust is so thick that my lungs squeeze shut. I'm literally choking. I run to close the windows. I try to close the back door but the wind is so strong that my efforts are powerless.

In an insane moment of dumb bravura, I grab the camera and go outside. The stray cats are cowering around me. Things are being ripped to shreds in the yard. Taking pictures is a futile effort against the gale. Visibility is definitely zero. I try to catch a breath and get a mouthful of dirt. I can taste it, feel it in my teeth. I get back inside and manage to shut the door. My dinner is over-done. My cat Scratch is cowering under the dining room table. I'm shaking like a bowl of Jello that's been left out of the refrigerator too long. My legs are weak.

I glance out at the carport. The wind has torn the cover from one of my cars and ripped it in two. There's nothing I can do. My fate is at the mercy of Mother Nature. I have a skull-shattering sinus headache. My eyes, my lungs, my mouth, my hair - - everything is filled with thick dust and dirt. I'm a walking dirt bag (no intentional humor here).

Within an hour the worst of the dust storm passes, but the shrieking wind stays and will be here all night. The first cold front of autumn has arrived like a monster.

My opinion has never changed, folks, and I won't apologize. West Texas is the worst place on earth!

                                          This is the lake this afternoon, a few hours
                                          before the dust storm

This is my back yard IN BROAD DAYLIGHT during
the dust storm. There is no rain, it is ALL dirt and dust.

I aimed the camera at the sky, above the windmill (lower left).
Again, this is not rain - it's only dust!!!!

Iceberg Ahead!

2011-10-15T02:43:00.001-05:00

I drank too much beer on Friday (I suppose that's better than not drinking enough) so my mind is muddled, my head feels like helium was pumped into it, and my tongue feels like I was French-kissing an armadillo.

How do I know what it's like to French-kiss an armadillo, you ask?
Trust me, folks. I've been around.

By the way, my entire watch list on eBay has completely vanished and I had twenty-three things on it. This has never happened before. I'm pissed because there were some things I really wanted to bid on.
What does this have to do with anything, you're asking?
Nothing at all, but I just thought I'd mention it.

So what's this about an iceberg ahead?

Well, I sat down to dinner on Friday evening, turned on TV, and was subjected to a performance of Gilbert and Sullivan's H.M.S. Pinafore on PBS. Since my fingers were greasy with fried chicken, I didn't bother to turn the channel even though I should have. I hate Gilbert and I hate Sullivan. They devised some of the most worthless operettas ever written.

I knew I was in trouble when the best thing about the entire production were the ample breasts of Josephine, the Captain's daughter. They were more interesting than the scenery.

The guys in the chorus were wearing sailor pants so tight that nothing was left to the imagination. It didn't bother me, but it must have made dancing difficult. Some of them looked like they had socks stuffed in their crotches. Am I jealous? Hell, no. I don't need a sock in my crotch. Think about that for a minute. It will eventually make sense.

The performers did their very best, but nothing could successfully save the H.M.S. Pinafore except for an iceberg. If the ship and cast went down in the deep, the audience would have responded with wild applause.

If you want to see a good operetta, dump Gilbert and Sullivan and watch The Merry Widow by Lehar. The best rendition I ever saw was the N.Y. City Opera production with Jane Thorngren and Michael Hayes. This was superb!

Cut the music crap, Jon, and tell us how your life is going.

Well, for starters, I have no life. Why else would I be keeping this stupid blog?

I put up new wooden Venetian blinds in the two bathrooms and decided to paint the dull walls. I have so much work to do in the yard that I get physically ill just thinking about it. I've been so busy with various projects, and my torrid love life, that I haven't even had time to get rid of the stray cats yet.

I just threw in the torrid love life thing to see if you were alert.

Every time I open the back door, six hungry cats assault me.
Worst of all, I discovered something the other day. Remember the old lady who used to live next door to me? The one who always fed the stray cats? Well, I talked to her son and found out that she didn't die after all. She merely moved away to be closer to her children! This means that she carelessly and heartlessly abandoned the cats and now I'M stuck with them. I think that was a rotten thing to do. She fed those cats for years, and now they are unwittingly my responsibility. I'm pissed.

She moved to Levelland, and if I knew exactly where, I'd put the cats in my truck and dump them on her property.

Summer has returned to Texas. It was nearly 90 degrees yesterday and it's supposed to be at least 95 on the weekend. To say that I hate it would be an understatement.

Let's all clasp our hands together, think cool thoughts, and send Jon some REAL autumn weather.

And while you're at it, will somebody please buy my damn house??

Note:
Suzy said that she can't see the sidebar on my blog. I thought she was joking but she's not. Can anyone see my sidebar??? Has part of my blog vanished? Let me know, because these things worry the hell out of me.

Jackpot and Dropped like a Hotcake

2011-10-11T18:33:00.001-05:00

After having a myriad of problems and weeks of bad luck, things seem to be finally looking up. I just received yet another email from someone in Nigeria who insists that I have an $800,000 check from UNICEF.

All I have to do is claim it. And pay a "security" fee. And pay a "delivery" fee. And provide pertinent personal information. $800,000 will certainly get me a new water heater, and probably a new house to go around it. Preferably not in Texas.

I was going to jump for joy, but I don't want to risk injuring anything.

I'm wondering why UNICEF would want to endow me (just a figure of speech) with so much money. It must be for all those good deeds I did in the distant past.

Being astutely aware of everything connected with my blog, I noticed that one of my "Faithful Friends and Fine People" (see sidebar) has dropped me like a hotcake. It's not easy to lose a friend. Or former friend.

Could it have to do with anything I said? I occasionally put a foot in my mouth. More often, I have two feet in my mouth - - - which isn't an easy task.

Liberals usually run from me like I have the plague. It's a good thing I often restrain myself from expressing my political opinions. If I didn't, you'd ALL be running as far away as you could get.

Liberals have absolutely no sense of humor and no sense of fair play, but that's beside the point.

Anyone who knows me intimately (just a figure of speech, again), understands my personal quirks and my wry, tongue-in-cheek, black sense of humor.

Okay! Right there, I've probably offended several more of you!!! Should I have said "dark" humor, instead of "black"? Is that more acceptable? Possibly I should say "macabre" humor. Is that politically correct? You see, I'm not offensive, I'm confused. It could happen to anyone - - especially an innocent, unobtrusive faux cowboy.

If my humor isn't perceived as "black or "dark" or "macabre", it's probably murky. Or dull. Caustic would be too strong a word. Wouldn't it??

I'm fervently hoping that none of you other "Faithful Friends and Fine People" will join the exodus. It can be devastating to someone as sensitive as myself.

Love me for who I am, and be glad that I'm so unique and entertaining.
And it's free entertainment! By visiting my blog, you aren't losing a thing - -
except valuable time.........

Moon Rings, Gate Goblins, Evil Italians

2011-10-09T14:25:00.012-05:00

A "cold front" swept into West Texas late Friday night, bringing rain and delicious smidgens of chilly air. The rain came far too late, after endless months of drought and 100 degree temperatures. The chilly air didn't come soon enough. I love it and will savor it while I can because it won't last. For a few precious moments, it actually feels like October.

There was a ring around the moon last night. A huge, perfectly round, shimmering ring. It was a cold, misty, dramatically atmospheric night filled with autumnal dreams and poetic inspirations. Moon rings signify all things mystical and dramatic to star-dusted romantics like myself.
To bland, unimaginative scientific types, moon rings are merely refractions of ice crystals through moonlight. I'm greatful that I'm not a bland, scientific type......

When I lived in the Ozarks, I remember a ring appearing around the moon the night before Halloween. The next day, on Halloween, it snowed.

I've previously mentioned the gate on the six-foot fence in back of my house. In case you forgot, I'll reiterate:

For months, probably for more than half a year, somebody keeps messing with the latches on my gate. I put two sliding latches on the inside of the gate, and someone keeps trying to open them. The only way they could possibly do this is to somehow maneuver their fingers through the thin spaces between the boards. This would take the ingenuity of Houdini, but they obviously have the skill and patience to do it. The latches are never completely open, but they are always opened halfway.

Even though I am inherently paranoid, I tried to appease myself with semi-logical explanations. The wood on the gate is shifting from temperature fluxuations, the wind, a cat, a ghost....???
I initially thought it was merely some kids messing around, but when it started happening every night - sometimes several times a night - I got spooked.

I tried tying the latches and the next day they'd be untied. I finally put heavy layers of duck tape over them, but the tape would always be moved and the latches partially opened. It was obvious that this wasn't a random incident, it was an absolute obsession. It's creepy and scary. Last Thursday night it happened three times!

I finally bought a padlock and put it on the inside of the gate Friday morning. So far this weekend, no one has messed with the gate. I'm sure, however, that the Gate Goblin will try something again. Creeps with obsessions don't give up easily.

I think next week I'm going to install a second padlock on the gate. It's a helluva way to have to live, but I desperately want to dissuade the Gate Goblin.

Tomorrow is Columbus Day, which turns this into yet another long, useless holiday weekend.

When I went to school the teachers had us believe that Columbus was a kindly, innocent Italian dude who got permission from sweet Queen Isabella to sail the ocean blue and discover America.

Today, the demented politically correct revisionists tell us that Columbus was an evil self-serving Italian (much like us evil self-serving white men) - who brought slavery, exploitation, and syphilis to the pure, innocent, sacred Indians.

Hold your ears, revisionists.

This is bullshit!!!
I prefer the Disney version of the story.......

Note:
I received some bitter flack about my Columbus comments from a friend of mine who is a politically correct revisionist.

All I'll say about it is this:
If it wasn't for the evil white man, we'd all still be living in tents, eating maize, and wearing buffalo robes......
(hey, perhaps that's not a bad idea)

Lackadaisical Days

2011-10-06T15:45:00.003-05:00

Did I spell it correctly, all you readers with sharp eyes and keen minds? Lackadaisical, lacking luster, lazy, lethargic. A brief summation of my present existence. Complaints aplenty, but I'll put them on hold.

A very strong, mildly warm southern wind has blown in and is whipping around these early October days. This afternoon it has increased in intensity, filling once-blue skies with thick brown dust, and inducing abundant sneezes from allergy-prone faux cowboys. My sinus headaches - which were on a blessed hiatus for several days - have returned with a vengeance. My eyes burn. My lungs are squeezed tight. Texas dust will do that to you.

I try to be positive, I try to be optimistic. I try to savor the autumn season that I love so intensely - but here in the post-Sodom desolation of West Texas it has to be savored indirectly - through the vivid imagination of other autumns long past, in other places far away. I sorely miss the genuine soul of October - crisp days and chilly nights, dust-free skies and the heart-wrenching beauty of colorful autumnal foliage.
I miss those autumns of my distant past.

There's no way out of Texas, Jon. You knew it when you came here. Your apt intuition told you that there would be absolutely no escape. A place this hopeless and heartless and unbearably soulless has no way out. It's a trap, a cage, a web, quicksand. I have wryly and often thought of it as punishment for my past sins. Hell exists, for some, long before we slumber in the grave. I slumber in an eternal hell on earth. I slumber, and drink, and dream, and hope, and drink, and hope again.....but hope is for fools......
These are your private thoughts, Jon, certainly not meant to be seen or read by anyone other than yourself......

I'm writing completely sober today. You woudn't know, because my mind is sharp and imaginative and creative whether sober or soused. Today my mind is merely filled with dust and cobwebs and lackadaisical yearnings.

It seems that everything around me is yearning for an autumn that will never really come. Squirrels are scampering everywhere, gathering nuts and things for a rumored winter. Blackbirds, bluebirds, grackles, mourning doves are everywhere. The soft, plaintive coo-coo laments of the mourning doves always soothe my troubled soul. Racoons, skunks, 'possums, scamper through my yard, always at night. I haven't seen foxes yet, but they're around.

The feral cats, the stray cats, the cats that are raising my blood pressure and ruining my life still congregate in my yard, waiting eagerly for my presence, greedily devouring the food that I bring.
Jon, Saint Jon, Jon of Assisi, Cowboy Jon, faithful friend of the wayward felines.

No, I haven't found homes for any of the cats yet. I'm too damn busy with other things, I'm too damn distracted, too tired, too lazy. Yesterday I worked all afternoon in the yard, despite a backache and a very painful knee.

Rain is supposed to arrive tomorrow night and settle in on Saturday. Rumors of severe storms abound. And cooler temperatures. I'll wait and see. It's in the 80's now, which is fine. Better than 110. Better than early frosts. But I like frost on the pumpkins......

Until the future changes, until things are different - possibly in some remote, uncertain afterlife - I am left alone on the high plains of this wild Texas wasteland, to bask in the warm dust-shrouded sunshine. The wind isn't shrieking this afternoon, it is merely wailing softly through trees and around corners - with warm whispers and gentle caresses, like ghost-dusted dreams of long-ago lovers and intensely lyrical autumns........

Note:
I am still unable to leave comments on some blogs and I can't figure out why. I'm properly signed into my Google account, but I get the same weird message that says "Cookie value is null for form restoration."
So, if I don't comment on your blog, it's not my fault. You can blame it on Google, or Blogger,.....or George Bush.....

Boring Blogging, Cold Showers, Killer Food

2011-10-01T00:12:00.002-05:00

Remember long ago when I only used to blog once or twice a month? Those were the good old days when everybody liked me because I didn't wear myself too thin. I wisely utilized the theory that less is better. Lately I've been blogging every few days and people are growing tired of me. Heck, I'm tired of myself.

I always send my relatives links to my blog posts, solely to let them know I'm still alive and keep them updated on what I'm doing. Not that they care.

I wish my relatives would blog so I could know what they're doing, too. I suppose they're too smart to blog and make public fools of themselves. I'm the only blogger in the family. I'm also the only peculiar - - oops, I mean unique - one in the family. My presence makes the family interesting. And colorful.

I actually dislike the word "blog". Web log. It's too clinical. I prefer "journal", but anything that I write and publicly expose online is not a journal, in my humble opinion.

I just had another cold shower and it happened to coincide exactly with some unexpected foul weather. As soon as I stepped into the shower lightning flashed, the wind started howling, and rumbles of thunder echoed loudly. I've heard rumors of a "cold front" coming. A cold front doesn't mean much here in West TX - - it usually means the temperature will drop five degrees. But it makes a grand entrance.

I have been enjoying my cold showers - there's something invigoratingly Nordic about them. It was blazingly hot again today - over 95 degrees. So, I'm wondering why the water is so damn ice cold. It's as if they pump it in from Nova Scotia or something. This reminds me that I have to buy a new water heater. The Sears sale turned out to be a ripoff.

Sears proclaimed: All Kenmore appliances are 30% off.
But the fine print said: water heaters not included.
Screw Sears. I'll procure my new water heater from another proprietor.

Moral of the story?
The fine print will always disappoint you.

I swear to God, this is absolutely true:
I was watching TV last night and eating cantaloupe, when suddenly a smirking News Babe came on and did a story about Killer Cantaloupes. Apparently, cantaloupes contain a deadly bacteria that kills you instantly. One bite and you keel over. Since I'd had several dozen bites, I was a little worried. Then I realized that the Killer Cantaloupes were from out-of-state. I was eating a cantaloupe from Pecos, Texas. The only thing that can kill you in Pecos is boredom. Trust me, I've been there.

I think the news media is completely over the top with killer food stories. Killer peanut butter, killer eggs, killer tomatos, killer lettuce, killer milk, killer tamales (I just threw tamales in for effect....).
Every day they come up with something else that's going to kill you. I'll tell you what will kill you. Life in West Texas. And probably Stravinsky.

So what about the cats, you're wondering - - -
Well, I had a rational moment of compassion and decided not to dump them off at shelters. I'm going to advertise and try to get them good homes. Or reasonably good homes, anyway. Hey, anyone want free cats? I'll ship them Overnight Express.

September is fading fast and another old month is in the can.

Welcome, October!

Note: I've been having trouble posting comments on some blogs again (not all). I tried to post comments on Paula and Claudia's blogs and got a weird message that says:
"Cookie value is null for form restoration."

I ask you - - What the hell does that mean??????

Almost Stark Raving Mad

2011-09-27T15:20:00.001-05:00

I've always maintained that writing and music are the two things that have kept me from going completely crazy.

But Jon, we always thought that you are completely crazy.

Wrong. I'm not certifiably insane. I'm only mildly crazy - - sort of borderline. I can be playfully crazy, irritatingly crazy, peculiarly crazy. Heck, I can be sexually crazy (don't ask, because I don't wanna tell). In essence, I've never been crazy enough to require any physical restraints (i.e. straightjackets). Until this week.

I'm under lots of stress and pressure and I'm starting to lose it (whatever "it" is). In order to alleviate some of this stress and pressure, I'll write about it. Nothing you haven't heard before, but it's all driving me crazy.

"We all go a little mad now and then." Norman Bates.

First of all, I'm still existing without hot water - ever since my water heater broke down and flooded things. Was that about ten years ago? It sure as hell seems it.

The temperature here in Cowcrapland is still in the 90's, so being without hot water isn't all that bad. In another two months, however, the temperature will suddenly & unexpectedly plummet to 45 below zero, icicles will form on my mustache, and I'll be yearning for hot showers.
I happened to see an El Cheapo water heater on sale at Sears and I think I'll get it ASAP. I'm going to install it myself, and if I survive I'm sure it will be interesting to write about.

The menagerie of animals presently congregating on my back patio is more than enough to send me on the Road to Raving Madness. In truth, I'm freaking out. Every time I look outside, or attempt to go outside, I suffer panic attacks.

I've already told this story several times, but I'm going to tell it again, with feeling.

My next door neighbor (one of my very few good neighbors) was a kind-hearted old lady who fed all the feral cats. And I mean ALL of them. Ever since she passed away, all (and I mean ALL) of the cats have migrated to my yard. I'm inundated with cats, completely overrun by them. My HUGE mistake was feeling sorry for them and starting to feed them. I now not only have every cat in West Texas, I have skunks and squirrels. And assorted other critters. The only thing I don't have yet is a camel.

Linda, the good White Witch, is laughing now, because she knows that I have an imaginary camel.....(it's a private joke).

The cats sleep on my patio, stare in all of my windows, and rush towards me en masse whenever I open the back door, demanding to be fed.

The other night I happened to be by the kitchen sink at 3:00 a.m. and I suddenly saw a huge yellow-eyed cat at the window looking in at me. Being unduly edgy and Gothically imaginative, it scared the living jeeters out of me. I jumped three feet. Three feet, hell. I almost went to the moon.

To put the proverbial cherry on the cake - - the big old mean red cat, King of the Neighborhood, has also taken up residence on my property and enjoys beating the crap out of all the other cats. I'm living in Cat Chaos (capitalized for emphasis).

Don't get me wrong. I'm definitely a cat person. I love cats. I have my own cat Scratch (also known as Kitzee) whom I keep safely indoors.

But eight or ten or twelve cats is far too many even for us feline fans. I'm seriously freaking out. Subsequently, I've designated tomorrow as D-Day, or, perhaps, Cat Roundup Day. I've got to do this, or risk losing what's left of my sanity.

I'm going to round up all the wild cats and take them to the Lubbock Animal Shelter. Then I'm going to place ads and get all the tame cats good homes.

I have no alternative. If I don't do something soon, I will indeed go stark raving mad. If I'm not stark raving mad already.

A note to HarryGoaz: I've heard of Blue Jay Way and I know where it is, but I've never attended any parties there. More about my Hollywood adventures in a future post.....

Just For You

2011-09-25T16:44:00.000-05:00

I always read all of your comments and I comply with most of your requests (not all, but most). Salemslot9 salemslot9 journal
wants to know more about my Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band experience and actually has a copy of the film on VHS. I think I have a copy somewhere, too, but I haven't watched it in at least twenty years (give or take). As I stated in my previous blog entry - the film was a big flop and I never particularly liked it.

My experience on the set of the film was by no means the most interesting thing I ever did in Hollywood, and it happened so long ago that it lingers only vaguely in the cobwebbed recesses of my memory. I was very young at the time and extremely wild. My connection with the person who worked on the film was much more than just a friendship (read between the lines, if you must, and come to your own horrifying conclusions). I can't mention any names because this person is still living and working in Hollywood.
I'm trying to be subtle here, folks, but it ain't easy......

If I remember correctly, they started recording the soundtrack for the film in the spring of 1977. Filming of the movie itself probably started in the summer, and I didn't have access to being on the set until the autumn of '77 (they were still filming in December). The very first outdoor scene in the movie was filmed in October and I was there.

There's very little glamor watching a film being made - it mostly consists of waiting around and doing retakes. It was very obvious that director Michael Schultz was having a difficult time and - quite bluntly - didn't know what the hell he was doing. This is surprising, because the previous year he directed Car Wash , which I really loved.

Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band was the last film made at MGM under the existing management. The good old days of the big studios were definitely gone forever. Incredibly, there were still some old sets there from the 1939 movie The Wizard of Oz. I vividly remember seeing the huge field of (plastic) poppies, where Dorothy falls asleep under their potent spell before she gets to the city of Oz. It's heartbreaking to think that most of those old sets were being destroyed or auctioned off.

I got to meet Peter Frampton and some of the Bee Gees. I met George Burns, and he later sent me an autographed photo (which I still have somewhere in storage). In retrospect, this was an incredible time in my life - - - but back then I didn't really think much of it.

That was an extremely busy and frenzied year for me (one of many). I was trying to "balance" (haha) two relationships (an impossibility), I was slumming in Hollywood, I was taking classes in college, working as a film extra, performing everywhere as a pianist, and burning more candles at both ends than anyone could possibly believe.

As I've previously stated, I have had one helluva life. It's no wonder I feel so bored and dejected here in the remote wilds of West TX.........

Ghosts of Autumns Past

2011-09-23T01:09:00.006-05:00

Caution: another of my extremely long, inane rants

Autumn has arrived! My favorite time of year! I'm too damn tired to get up and do a dance in honor of the autumnal equinox. Instead, I'll opt for the easy way out and write about it.

My biggest regret is that I'm wasting another autumn in Texas, where seasons have little meaning and where every season is bland and unappealing. I live on the high plains, at an elevation of 3,400. By Texas standards, that's extremely high. Heck, I'm in the Alps - or a reasonable Lone Star facsimile. Seasonal changes are subtle here, but they are much more noticable than in many other parts of the state.

No matter where I happen to be living at any given time, and no matter how dejected my state of mind might be, autumn always manages to revive and rejuvenate me. Every aspect of autumn exemplifies my inner-self: mellow, sentimental, romantic, melancholic. I have an autumnal soul.

Since I was born on the east coast, I suppose New England autumns are in my blood. I was four years old when my mother and I took a train to New Hampshire to visit a family friend whose husband was mayor of a large city. They lived in a mansion on a lake. We stayed there for a week and - even at that early age - I was completely mesmerized by the brilliant, glorious, autumn foliage.

My parents moved to Southern California when I was five, and for nearly the next thirty years it was my home. Autumns were entirely different in California, but they still held a special magic.
Blazing hot Septembers, with wild Santa Ana winds that sweep the skies clean and leave them pure and impossibly blue. Rampant wildfires that rage over the Southland, eclipsing the sun with smoke and ash, inducing bloodred sunsets and suffocating nights. Balmy Octobers, so heavily ladened with smog and fog that Los Angeles smolders in its own incandescent fire, becoming a surrealistic neon dreamscape after dark.

Memories of my California autumns could easily fill a book: biking, hiking, savoring the mellow sunshine. Afternoons at the beach. Secret picnics in the secluded rural hills, reading poetry and making love with whomever happened to be my passion at the moment. Intimate nights with strawberry wine and scented candles, long midnight walks in the fog on deserted beaches.
Periodic work as a movie extra in L.A. (which was always more fun than it was work). One particular October, when a close friend of mine was working with Peter Frampton on the movie Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band......The film turned out to be a flop, but it was an enjoyable experience being on the set every day.

My life in Hollywood was my descent into the very depths of Hell, but it was a delicious descent......
Autumn nights haunting the after-midnight streets of Hollywood, immersing myself in the hardcore world of unspeakable pleasures and pursuits.....ironically, I was a faux cowboy even back then......wearing Justin boots and a Kit Carson hat. I kept a switchblade in my right boot, a pint of whiskey in my coat pocket, and a handful of quaaludes in my jeans.........I did a fantastic job of pretending I was tough.......
Later, my autumn days at college - - teaching piano, studying, rehearsing, performing.......
but my impossibly busy days never quenched those burning nights......

You're telling too much, Jon, making a fool of yourself as usual.

Well, I have a lot to tell and I've had one helluva life. Much of it was bad, but it also contained a surplus of incredible adventures. I only choose to reveal fractions of it because if I told everything, no one would believe me.

Later, in a haphazard effort to sever myself from the frenzied, detrimental lure of California, I came to the tranquillity of the Ozarks. This did nothing to quell my adventures or my wild side, but it allowed me to experience and savor incredibly beautiful autumns unlike anything in California. It was a different world, a completely different lifestyle.

These certainly aren't the only places I've been or the only autumns I've seen, but they were possibly the most memorable.

And Texas? Perhaps I loathe Texas because it pales so drastically from all the other places I have known. Texans will vehemently disagree with me, but in my humble and biased opinion these wild, desolate wastelands have no soul and have completely robbed me of the soul I once had. Here I have only relentless winds and endless heat and a vast, mundane nothingness that fiercely fights to expunge the romanticism from my soul.

So, in essence, the absence of those golden long-ago autumns has made them all the more potent and dear to my heart. They remain locked in my memories as a soothing antidote for the toxic wounds that I now harbor.

.....but no matter where I am. I still revel in the wonders and magic and beauty of autumn, and I wholeheartedly welcome the autumnal equinox.......

Heavy Boots, Earplugs, Resurrection

2011-09-18T19:56:00.002-05:00

Days as beautiful as this seldom exist here on the high plains of cowboyland. This Sunday was picture perfect. Blue skies, pure air, and dry. Extremely dry. Egyptian dry. Drier than a mummy's embrace. Our "cool front" didn't last long (not that I ever thought it would). It's near 90 again, but it's a deliciously nice 90.

Heavy boots?
I had to wear them last night. I initially went into the kitchen barefooted. When I turned on a light, a gigantic scorpion was rambling on the floor. I nearly stepped on it. It was the second scorpion this week. I had been living dangerously, without boots, because I hadn't seen a scorpion in a long time. The creepy creatures are starting to show up again - so, after last night's encounter, I'm compelled to wear heavy boots again all night long.

In case you're curious, I killed the scorpion. It was a horrendous battle of wills.

Earplugs?
There were two (count 'em, two) wild parties in my neighborhood on Saturday night. One at the Mexican party house across the street, and another in a house beyond the field in back of my house. Both parties were ear-shatteringly loud. I don't know what the hell kind of amplifiers these cretins have, but I'm certain the pounding cacaphony could be heard in St. Louis.

This neighborhood is a cesspool. Many of the houses are rentals, and rentals in West TX attract the lowest trash imaginable. Several people have suggested that I rent my house out instead of trying to sell it. Yea, right. If I ever did that, the renters would tear it down to the foundation. Decent people in West Texas are harder to find than virgins in Hollywood (it's a crappy analogy, but I came up with it in two seconds).

Resurrection?
In order to calm my shredded nerves and soothe my battered soul, I watched a performance of Mahler's Resurrection Symphony on PBS. I'm not exactly in love with Mahler, but he's a helluva lot better than scary scorpions and drug-induced parties.

Alan Gilbert conducted very admirably. Gilbert and James Levine are two of my favorite conductors. Levine has always been superb. Unfortunately he's presently on an extended hiatus because of serious health problems.

I know - - you don't give a rat's ass about classical music. Well, keep reading anyway. Maybe you'll learn something. Then again, maybe you won't.

The problem with Mahler's Resurrection is that you have to sit through forty minutes of crap before it starts to get good. The final part, from the poem Die Auferstehung by Klopstock, is beautiful - the words are extremely moving.

There was a man in the audience who slept through the entire performance. I kid you not. He was either sleeping or dead. I'm not sure. It's very possible that Mahler's music killed him.

Mahler?
I much prefer his Fifth and Seventh symphonies. The exquisite Adagietto from the Fifth Symphony is one of the most beautiful orchestral pieces ever written.

In the even greater realms of death and resurrections, I am invariably attracted to the Brahms German Requiem and especially Tod und Verklarung (Death and Transfiguration) by Richard Strauss.

For sheer power and depth of emotion, nothing can compare to Death and Transfiguration. Strauss wrote it when he was only twenty-four. I first heard it in Los Angeles when I was twenty and it blew me away. The emotional impact was unforgettable.

Jon, why do you insist on giving us these boring musical lectures?

Because I'm overflowing with knowledge that I want to share. Because good music is ambrosia of the soul. Because music transports me to lofty places far beyond the realms of heaven.......

.......because I like to irritate the hell out of people.....

To Hell With La Boheme

2011-09-16T17:09:00.006-05:00

I know exactly what you're thinking:
We don't give a damn about La Boheme, Jon. We want to know what happened to your weird and annoying neighbors. What's going on??

Well, first of all - - my main reason for posting my piano videos now & then (see previous post) is to incorporate some culture into my blog - and subsequently into your lives.
You know, culture - - - it's like the stuff you find in an outdated carton of yogurt that has been in your refrigerator for six months.

My neighbors? They've been fairly quiet since the mega-explosion that occurred last weekend. Some of them were arrested. Some of them moved out. All the others remained. It's all a very normal part of life here in the badlands of West TX.

Did you notice that I always emphasize I live in WEST Texas? That's because I don't want to piss off my friends and relatives who live in different parts of the state. They love Texas. I beg to differ. Next to hell, and probably purgatory, I think it's the worst place in existence.
So shoot me.

I'm in an extremely bad mood because I had an extremely bad week and I also had an extreme amount of alcohol today. When I'm soused I'm mean and say things that I shouldn't. Reeling in the custody of alcohol makes life look better. Not much. But a little.

Another "cold" front blew in late Wednesday night, with rain & humidity & drastic changes. Last Monday was 97 degrees. On Thursday it was 56 degrees. I love the cool autumnal weather, but the rapid and drastic change has wrecked havoc on my delicate constitution. I feel like hell or possibly worse. After enduring three months of 100+ temps, it's a shock to suddenly feel cool. After running around near-naked all summer, I've now been compelled to wear layers of clothing and put a blanket on my bed. My cat slept with me last night, which is a sure sign of cool weather. In the summer she always sleeps on the floor.

Speaking of cats, my yard is so innundated with neighborhood felines that I'm freaking out Big Time. I know you've heard this tale of woe many times before, but I feel the urge to reiterate. The old lady next door used to feed them. Since she passed away, all the cats have migrated to my yard. I now have to feed eight cats and one skunk. Yup, skunk. The skunk comes every night to eat the cat food. The cats are here constantly. They sleep on my patio, look in my windows, and unnerve the living jeeters out of me. I love cats but this is far too much to handle. If I'm not able to find good homes for them very soon, I'm going to shoot them and make cat tacos. I hardly have enough money to feed myself, let alone eight cats. And one skunk.

Got stuck at WalMart this afternoon for two hours (went there to buy cat food). My truck wouldn't start. This always happens in damp weather, but I'll spare you the details. Let's just say it has something to do with bad spark plugs. That's a simplification.

So anyway, I'm breaking out in a cold sweat trying to get the damn truck started. Parked right next to me is another truck filled with Amish women. They're drinking and eating. I'm hoping they didn't hear my choice curses.

Actually, they're not exactly Amish. I think they're a spinoff of the Mennonites. I used to live near a real Amish community in the Ozarks. Those people had no electricity and rode in horse-drawn buggies. The ones here in West Texas drive pickup trucks. The women all look like demure Quakers, but they drive like bats out of hell. They have penis power when they accelerate.

Am I making any sense? Actually, I'm doing pretty good for being soused. Few people could do better when they're sober. For once, I'm gonna ring my own bell (nothing sexual) and applaud myself. Hell, nobody else will do it for me.

I haven't revealed a fraction of my troubles. I'm becoming more disenchanted every day, to the point where I'm hardly able to hang on. But I'll survive. I'll do it simply to prove to myself that I can. And I'll do it to annoy you.

(I'm thinking of posting more piano videos because I know how much you love them)

La Boheme Piano Improvision

2011-09-15T02:07:00.001-05:00

La Boheme

2011-09-15T02:05:00.003-05:00

(Whenever I'm not in the mood to write, I post a dumb piano video.....)

As an unabashed romantic and sentimentalist, I love all of Puccini's operas - - from the grandious Tosca to the minor masterpiece Suor Angelica. My favorite Puccini opera is Butterfly, of course, but my absolute ultra-favorite is Turandot.

I like La Boheme, but strangely enough it was never one of my favorites. It's a perfect opera - - filled with romance, pathos, heart-wrenching tragedy, and deliciously devised music (what more could we ask for?). The bleakness of Paris in the winter, the doomed love of MiMi and Rudolpho, and the heartbreaking death of MiMi........perhaps - theatrically speaking - it's too much of a good thing.

It is said that Puccini cried when he wrote the final strains of music that depicts MiMi breathing her last. No matter how many times I see Boheme and witness the demise of our fragile heroine....tears are indeed inevitably evoked.....

This piano piece is my own arrangement, a brief improvision on one or two choice themes from La Boheme. Nothing spectacular, merely a minor tribute to the opera.
The candles are real - - don't ask me why I used them because I don't know. A momentary spark of insanity - - or perhaps a shameless display of romanticism......

Wild Night in Cowboyland

2011-09-11T23:23:00.003-05:00

Now that my Blogger and YouTube accounts are finally back to normal (normal? What the heck is that??) I can resume blogging with little apprehension. At least for awhile.

I'm anxious to tell about what happened in my neighborhood last night, but first I want to briefly reiterate some of the reasons why I so desperately want to get out of Texas.

When I was in San Angelo, I lived in a very nice house across the street from a church. My neighbors turned out to be major drug dealers and pimps. I unfortunately decided to turn them in to the authorities. As a result, there were several drug raids and numerous neighbors were sent to prison. This not only angered the drug dealers and their friends, it also pissed off several corrupt cops. As a result, I received death threats and my house was shot at. I narrowly escaped there with my life.

When I moved to Odessa, the realtor assured us that our house was located in "the best neighborhood in the city". Shortly after I moved in, my next door neighbor was arrested, and there was also a drug raid on the house across the street.

Do you see a pattern emerging here?

Presently I live in a very nice house in a small cowtown southwest of Lubbock. When I first moved here the neighborhood was quiet & peaceful. Within a year, several of the good neighbors moved away, one of them passed away, and the neighborhood rapidly deteriorated. The large hoard of Mexicans next door caused nightmarish problems for several years.

One week ago the people across the street moved out. Several hours later (I am NOT exaggerating) six Mexican men moved in. They have been having wild all-night parties ever since. Last night - - Saturday night - - was the worst night ever. There were so many vehicles there that they were double-parked in the street and the party didn't break up until around four in the morning.

I was JUST starting to relax - - when all hell broke loose at the house next door.

It's after 4:00 a.m.
I'm sitting at my computer, trying to do some work and trying to recover from the wild party across the street. It's a warm night and I'm clad only in my underwear (don't attempt to visualize this. I don't want to scare anyone).

Suddenly, I hear a huge commotion coming from the house next door. At first I try to ignore it, but it soon gets so alarmingly audible that I jump up from my chair. There's clanging, banging, thumps and bumps. I hear muffled, agitated voices that soon get louder as some of them come out into the driveway. The bangs get louder. The shouting makes me shudder. The sound of breaking glass induces me to run to the window. I look out but can't see a damn thing because it's so dark and, anyway, their driveway is not in my view.

I instinctively turn out the lights in my computer room. I wait breathlessly for at least half an hour while the commotion continues. Then, there are screams. Not just regular screams. These are unbelievably loud, desperate, blood-curdling screams that make me think someone is being murdered.

I'm so scared that I quickly get dressed. I then grab my cell phone, ready to dial 911. I'm shaking like a pansy in a March wind.
Before I can dial (thank God) four patrol cars show up and surround the house next door, illuminating it with bright spotlights. There is a lot of activity and commotion that lasts at least another half hour. It's nearly six-thirty when the cops finally leave. From what I could see, arrests were made.

I breathed a Huge Sigh of relief (capitalized for emphasis) when the cops finally left, BUT they returned again just before 7:00 a.m. It was starting to get light out. I don't know what the hell is going on, but it's definitely something Big.

I dropped into bed around 7:30 and was awakened an hour later with more clanging. I looked out the window and saw major activity next door. There were at least five vehicles there and people were frantically moving furniture and possessions out of the house.

So what exactly is going on? Hell if I know. This is West Texas, where you can always expect the unexpected. Just another typical trashy Saturday night in Cowboyland.

Now,
is there any wonder why I have my house up for sale???

Miracle!

2011-09-11T16:35:00.000-05:00

I'm more confused than ever over this Google, Blogger, YouTube thing - - BUT (here's the inevitable "but" again) - -
I suddenly got my old YouTube account back!!!!!
In complete desperation, I reset the password on my old Google account and suddenly my old JayveeSonata YouTube account reappeared (and I didn't even sign in!).
THEN,
as my luck would have it - -
I wasn't able to access my Lonestar Concerto blog account.
I think I passed out for a moment....
After getting up off the floor and taking some smelling salts, I sat back at my computer desk and tried accessing my blog with my old Google email address and it worked!!!

I finally have my blog account and my YouTube account. At least for now..........

I'm getting too damn old and faint-hearted to deal with all this computer stuff. I desperately need a quill, a scroll, and some candles.

Now that I can safely (?????) get back to blogging, I'm going to have to tell about all the excitement that happened in my neighborhood last night. I didn't get to bed until after 7:00 a.m.

On the Verge of Hysteria

2011-09-11T03:23:00.001-05:00

I'm usually an extremely calm, rational, level-headed person (yea, that's why I drink, have insomnia, and experience panic attacks).

It generally takes a lot to upset me and it takes a helluva lot to induce hysteria. Right now I am on the brink of major hysteria. I'm freaking out. In a few moments I'll be screaming like a five-year-old girl. Perhaps I'll be screaming like five two-year-old girls.

First of all, I cannot - CAN NOT - figure out the intricate complexities of how Google, Blogger, and YouTube are linked. All this complex connection crap is completely baffling to a simple country boy.

Somehow, in the distant past, I had managed to procure two Google accounts - - or was it two YouTube accounts? I'm not sure. Anyway, I had two of something. Today I tried to delete one of the two accounts that I never use and as a result I now have two of nothing.

Poof! Gone!

In essence, in the process of trying to delete an unwanted account, I somehow managed to also delete the YouTube account that I wanted. As a result, ALL of my YouTube videos are deleted - vanished - forever. It was an act worthy of Houdini.
It's no longer possible to recover a YouTube account, like it used to be.

So, JayveeSonata is kaput. My piano videos. My videos of the Romanov family. My Texas photo videos.

What can I say?
Crap.
Or, more appropriately,
SHIT!

I can possibly retrieve some of my video stuff by searching through old computer files.
BUT (the inevitable "but")
I'll now have to open a new YouTube account, under a new name, and start uploading the damn videos all over again. Not a pleasant prospect. It will be a looooong & tedious process.....

Moral of the story:
Don't delete ANYTHING before you know exactly what you're deleting.......

Frantic Friday

2011-09-09T21:07:00.000-05:00

Since nearly every day of my entire life has been frantic, it's rather useless to assume that today was any more frantic than all the others. In all fairness, it could probably more aptly be described as fairly frantic. The degree of franticness in my days varies, of course, but if I ever experienced a completely franticless day I'd undoubtedly keel over from the shock.

Is there such a word as "franticness"? Or "franticless"?
Have I completely confused you? It's more likely that I've completely exasperated you. I enjoy doing that.

I presently have a hangover that would kill a lesser person. I feel no need to expound, but I will say that nobody should drink a gallon of wine on an empty stomach. I also have an incredible sinus headache. I don't get headaches from hangovers. I get them from the enormous amount of pollen and ragweed and dust and other irritating stuff that Texas offers.

Despite all the rain on Saturday night, rumor hazzit that we received less than half an inch. It did nothing to revive my dead lawn.

After not hearing from my realtor in over a month, she finally decided to show my house this morning. She called yesterday to announce the news. Much like everything else with her, the call was an exasperating experience.

First, she called my landline number. I answered and she didn't say a damn thing. I kept saying "Hello?......hello??......hello???" All I got was dead air.
Then she called my MagicJack number. I answered. All I got was dead air. I repeated my "hello, hello?" repertoire and ended it with a few choice curses.
Then she called my cell phone and left a message. I called her back.

And I'm wondering What the hell is wrong with this woman? Is she on drugs or has she merely been in West Texas too long? I can't figure it out. If she can't make a simple phone call, I have little confidence that she could ever sell a house.

So Friday morning was indeed frantic. I had to get up early after only two hours of sleep. I made sure the house was spotless. I went out on my back patio and was immediately mobbed by six whining feral cats wanting food. I fed the damn cats, then cleaned up an enormous pile of feathers. One of the cats very obviously had a bird for an appetizer. It must have been a big bird.

Back inside the house, my own cat freaked out when she heard the realtor at the front door. She (my cat) hid in the laundry room while the people looked at my house. They stayed a long time and seemed interested, but I have absolutely no hope or optimism.

In a frenzied whirlwind, while the people looked at the house, I hopped in my truck and raced around town. Before high noon I had already gone to the bank, post office, city hall, and the hardware store. Then I got ten gallons of water at the water machine (drink tap water in Texas and you'll die instantly) and did some necessary grocery shopping.

Speaking of shopping (notice how smoothly I do the transitions?) -
I've been an eBay addict for at least five years. Today was the first time in five years that a seller sent me the wrong item. I purchased an antique nineteenth century photo. I received a plastic Star Wars toy. Go figure. I hate Star Wars.

After all this writing I suddenly realized that I've said nothing interesting.
That's all right. It isn't what you say - - it's how you say it.

I think I'll post some more piano videos here tonight, just for the hell of it (I can only imagine your joy and eager anticipation......).

The Rains Came

2011-09-05T20:37:00.002-05:00

My apologies to Louis Bromfield, from whom I stole the title.....

No apologies, however, for my previous enigmatic blog post. Certain parts of it were probably perplexing, possibly annoying, perhaps confusing. As usual, I said too much and yet not nearly enough. I can only blame my sentimental self.
I'm sure all my relatives were saying "Jon always was damn peculiar. I'm glad he doesn't live near us."
I have yet to reveal even a fraction of the vast complexities of my inner selves. There's too much to unravel. Often, I even baffle myself......

The rains came. Quickly, unexpectedly. On Saturday night, exactly at midnight. After a year of drought, after three months of 100 degree temperatures, after the hottest Texas summer I can remember, the rains finally came.

A "cold" front blew in from the north with wild winds. Thunder rumbled with false promises. Lightning zapped. And then it poured for hours. Torrential rain - - the sound of which was nearly foreign to my ears. The smell of which freshened an impossibly tomb-like arid night.

By Sunday morning it was cloudy, misty, and still raining. And it was intoxicatingly cool. The temperature dropped at least forty degrees. It felt as though autumn had suddenly arrived from a distant place and taken up residence in the land of the bull-riding Pharaohs. I was temporarily elated. Temporarily, because here in West TX it will never last.....

Today, Monday, Labor Day,
it was a gorgeous, absolutely perfect day. Pure blue skies washed clean from the rain, not a cloud in sight. Temperatures only in the 70's. A high-voltage shock from the brutally endless heat that we're used to. It was a glorious autumn day - - or pre-autumn day, if you want to get technical.

Labor Day? Labor, indeed. I forced myself to do all of my housecleaning. I vacuumed. I dusted. I washed the kitchen floor and scrubbed everything clean. I did three loads of laundry, including my sheets. I had to sweep up all the mud outside. West TX rain does messy things.

Birds were singing. The feral cats were playing in the still-wet grass. Seemingly dormant bugs are coming out of nowhere. Butterflies, horseflies, and hostile killer bees from probably Pakistan. Late this afternoon there was a sudden onslaught of dragonflies. Hundreds and hundreds of them zigzagging everywhere.

My weekend was immensely pleasurable for a rare change, and I'm dreading the start of another grueling and depressing work week.

I still don't have hot water, because I can't easily afford to get a new water heater. Cold showers still feel great but they won't in another month or so.

I've lately been blogging far too much and I'm sure some of you (hopefully only some) are getting weary of it. Heck, I get weary myself at times. I should be working on my unfinished novel. Writing is my emotional outlet. It's easier than committing murder.

Note:
I noticed on my sideboard Feedjit that somebody from Springfield, Missouri had visited my blog. Whoever you are, I'd like to hear from you. I used to live in Springfield. In fact, I did research on Springfield history and published several articles (long ago).

Feedjit is great because now I can track everyone who visits my blog. There's no escape from me......
(wow, that's a helluva scary thought)

Thoughts on the Threshold of September

2011-09-03T23:37:00.004-05:00

August is gone and has taken everything with her but the intense heat which - even for August - is unwanted baggage. Summer is a waning memory nearly everywhere except West Texas. Rumors of cooler weather have evaporated under the intensity of the broiling midday sun. Whispers of rain drift aimlessly between midnight clouds and sweat-drenched sheets, never quite wanting to materialize. August has vanished but summer persistently remains.

The ugly red earth is cracked and parched like a long-abandoned oil painting, the reddish-brown dust has taken on a powdery texture reminiscent of charred bones. My back yard lawn is no longer grass. It's worthless dried yellow straw, ironically the color and texture of my sun-bleached hair. My flesh is beyond tan - - it's leathery Indian brown. Blackbirds and mourning doves crowd around the fresh water I leave for them. The feral cats languish in the deepest shadows of sheltering shade, emerging only for the food and water I leave for them.

The heat has an intenseness that nobody outside of Texas could comprehend. The relentless sun scorches or burns everything in its wake. The air is so dry that nostrils and lungs are raw. Thirst takes on desperately dangerous dimensions. My body is listless, my brain lethargic. My entire being is filled with dust and tumbleweeds and dim thoughts of long-ago elsewheres.

The poet in me is worn out. The lover in me is spent. The optimism I once had has vanished with the heat-hazed afternoons of August........

I never try to make sense, I merely write.......write.......

My thoughts are elsewhere, always elsewhere. They would wither if I left them here in Texas. Summer has yet to end, the season has stagnated, but the months are passing quickly. I can hardly keep up with them. The days all seem to melt into each other and have become so slippery that it's impossible to hold on. I sometimes find myself grasping dumbly at hours.......

My summer was full, if nothing else. Some pleasantness, some adventure, some recklessness, some anxiety, some laments.

I'm still reeling in shock over the premature death of W.G.H. It not only signifies the death of my greatest love but also the end of the past......the end of the golden past that I foolishly and desperately cling to in times of present needs. The perfection of the past always ripens with the distance of time. The perfection of true love never fades.

There's nothing worse than being sentimental, nothing worse than wearing hearts on sleeves or wallowing in self-pity. It's especially unbecoming to reckless faux cowboys who cower under the guise of callousness and find solace in the safety of written words. Yet, I think and wonder and remember......

.....and afterwards, after this enormous burden known as life, are we remembered in that vast unknown region that unfolds in the eternity of the uncertain beyond? Am I only a fleeting memory, as delicate as cloud shadows passing over parched earth, or do the memories of my love burn like the future suns of our eternal existence?
Tell me, as you used to tell me - in gentle whispers and warm caresses that soothe like a midnight West Texas wind.......

And thus begins September, with old thoughts and perhaps new hope.
I'm rambling, babbling, purging my worthless soul with secret words that only have meaning to me........
and perhaps to you......

Never Do Your Petting in the Dark

2011-08-31T00:43:00.001-05:00

Hurricane Irene has finally left town. Unfortunately the obnoxious news media hasn't.
My relatives on the east coast have survived the storm. I've heard from most of them - - well, all except one - - who very possibly could have been swept away to Bora Bora. Nearly everyone had power outages. My aunt and uncle's basement was flooded. I received a photo of my Uncle Carl knee-deep in water.

While bailing out, I think they sent some excess water my way. It rained this afternoon here in West Texas. Well, it wasn't exactly rain. It was more aptly a very timid shower that lasted perhaps five or ten minutes - depending on where you were standing. But it was wet. And it was sorely needed. Did I mention that it was 103 degrees while it was raining? The unexpected wetness did nothing to quench the heat.

Did I mention that there are now two more houses on my block up for sale? Just what I needed: more competition. Every friggin' house in this God-forsaken town is for sale. I'll never get out of here alive. I've reluctantly resigned myself to the fact. The only thing in my favor is that the house across the street from me (for sale) is outrageously over-priced. They'll never sell it to anyone in their right mind. The house right next door to me (where the old Cat Lady used to live) went on the market two days ago. The initial shock shaved a few years off my life and inspired me to ingest a near-toxic amount of malt liquor. Life looks a little better through a thick alcoholic haze........

I figure the only way I can generate interest in my house is to put a new sign in my front yard:
Cheap House, Free Beer, Free Sex
It's worth a try.

All right, Jon, when the hell are you going to tell us about petting in the dark?

I'm getting there. After all the stuff I already wrote, I didn't think you'd remember my post title.......

So. As you all know, there are lots of stray cats that hang around in my yard, demanding food and making me miserable (or even more miserable than I already am). Sometimes, late at night, I like to go outside in the back yard to get some air, look at the stars, and savor the post-midnight hours. Usually one or more of the cats will saunter over to keep me company.

Last night it was moonless, very dark, sort of murky. I went out in the yard and it was taking a long time for my myopic eyes to adjust to the dark. I could sense that one of the furry felines was near me - - probably the little silver cat who is always the most friendly. I started talking to him. As I bent down to pet him, I thought that he seemed a lot bigger than usual. My eyes slowly started to focus, and before long I realized that it wasn't a cat I was trying to pet - - it was a huge, robust skunk!

Holy Crappuccino!!!!

The skunk and I exchanged bewildered glances for a few frozen seconds before I slowly started backing away. I managed to reach the covered patio and kept backing until I backed into the back door. I opened the door and slipped into the house. It was a call too close for my comfort.

I've seen that skunk before. He occasionally shows up late at night to eat any cat food that I might have left outside. He doesn't seem hostile, but I certainly don't want to test his ability to get that way.

Moral of the story?
If you're going to pet something, do it in the daylight so you know exactly what it is.
Heck, I've petted more than my share of skunks in the dark before but that's another story for another time.
I'll let your imaginations go rampant.