Sunday Scribblings #130: Wedding
SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY
Raven-haired, seven-acre Sacajawea filled the capacious bed of Flat Top Jimmy’s red pick up truck. Five o’clock Friday rush hour traffic in Tres Leches, the communion stakes are on, evening masses be damned. Calvin, annunciated via the commodious blessings of Air Quality Action Day #7 and three Tecates since the 410 ramp, throws the question Indian Maiden-way, without singeing his eyebrows and reckons that sign a good ‘un.
Sac, not yet sure she wants to have heard what flamed her way: “If honeydew’ll get it, honey,” she says, “That’ll do. You ain’t misbehavin’, is you?”
“I’ll have the bulldog now,” says driving Jimmy, and yes, up from the coronation bed rises a big fat bully, all white knuckle-fur and slurry speech—Churchill on a slaphappy drool. Jimmy’s lard-happy himself in jowly bliss, thinking, indeed, two can be as one.
What you’re missing, dear reader, because he hasn’t yet told you, is that that Texas Ag-exemption’s worth of raven-tressed subdivided ranch land in the back of the matrimonial Dodge Ram appears to be, albeit without full documentary proof, indubitably buck naked. This sits amusingly in a fuzzy head that for the past week, between recurring bouts of inconsequential musing and pre- and post-consequential bouts of influenza, has seen and felt very little to amuse its fuzzyheadedness, short of the life and times of Fats Waller in Passaic.
I’m sorry: I know you want more. I can give you the coordinates of Fredericksburg Road and the 410 access, all the Humpty Dumpty flair of rose-petaled highway carousel, the blonde woman at roadside who could not have worked for food had the invitation been offered, the dingbat gerrymandering mouth of Sean Hannity caught in a nano-second of unscripted tomfoolery, this on my way down the dial to David Gates’ wanting to make it with you, when out of the clear blues of the clear blue there sits Sacajawea in a suit worthy of this her birthday, even if it isn’t.
You see, the truth of the matter is, I lost her. Missed the promenade down San Pedro, Homecoming Dance mums tossed at the Park and Ride, $3.55 gas bought at the corner of Basse, hot glazed donuts lamented in the ruins of the old A-frame just down from the equally dead and gone Olmos Theater. Did the 5:25 Amtrak cruise over as they passed under, did America’s stepdad verify the skyclad nuptials in our midst, and was “I do” sufficient unto the day for a woman who’d come back from the Snake to tell the tale, who’d survived the insufferable pedantry and piss-poor table manners of Toussaint Charbonneau, all to the tune of several more lines of entry?
Brothers and sisters, let us so pray.
Raven-haired, seven-acre Sacajawea filled the capacious bed of Flat Top Jimmy’s red pick up truck. Five o’clock Friday rush hour traffic in Tres Leches, the communion stakes are on, evening masses be damned. Calvin, annunciated via the commodious blessings of Air Quality Action Day #7 and three Tecates since the 410 ramp, throws the question Indian Maiden-way, without singeing his eyebrows and reckons that sign a good ‘un.
Sac, not yet sure she wants to have heard what flamed her way: “If honeydew’ll get it, honey,” she says, “That’ll do. You ain’t misbehavin’, is you?”
“I’ll have the bulldog now,” says driving Jimmy, and yes, up from the coronation bed rises a big fat bully, all white knuckle-fur and slurry speech—Churchill on a slaphappy drool. Jimmy’s lard-happy himself in jowly bliss, thinking, indeed, two can be as one.
What you’re missing, dear reader, because he hasn’t yet told you, is that that Texas Ag-exemption’s worth of raven-tressed subdivided ranch land in the back of the matrimonial Dodge Ram appears to be, albeit without full documentary proof, indubitably buck naked. This sits amusingly in a fuzzy head that for the past week, between recurring bouts of inconsequential musing and pre- and post-consequential bouts of influenza, has seen and felt very little to amuse its fuzzyheadedness, short of the life and times of Fats Waller in Passaic.
I’m sorry: I know you want more. I can give you the coordinates of Fredericksburg Road and the 410 access, all the Humpty Dumpty flair of rose-petaled highway carousel, the blonde woman at roadside who could not have worked for food had the invitation been offered, the dingbat gerrymandering mouth of Sean Hannity caught in a nano-second of unscripted tomfoolery, this on my way down the dial to David Gates’ wanting to make it with you, when out of the clear blues of the clear blue there sits Sacajawea in a suit worthy of this her birthday, even if it isn’t.
You see, the truth of the matter is, I lost her. Missed the promenade down San Pedro, Homecoming Dance mums tossed at the Park and Ride, $3.55 gas bought at the corner of Basse, hot glazed donuts lamented in the ruins of the old A-frame just down from the equally dead and gone Olmos Theater. Did the 5:25 Amtrak cruise over as they passed under, did America’s stepdad verify the skyclad nuptials in our midst, and was “I do” sufficient unto the day for a woman who’d come back from the Snake to tell the tale, who’d survived the insufferable pedantry and piss-poor table manners of Toussaint Charbonneau, all to the tune of several more lines of entry?
Brothers and sisters, let us so pray.
Labels: wizzles of oz
posted by murat11 at 10:26 AM
6 Comments:
Lewis and Clark never had it as good tellin’ ‘bout the travails of their days in a VD haze... No, never as good as today’s scat-writin’ Amtrak brain wid da enza in da flu workin’ just as outrageous but far less dangerous, just as contagious but not infectious, if you catch my drift. This five o’clock train be spinnin’ its wheels like a fuzzy-lookin’ flatbed in da mud of Red Dog beer an' Texas dust. Just put all that stuff you got there, just put it in the fuel tank, honey, the dew rinds, rose petals, and the crumpled Humpty Dumpty bags. This Harvard-built flux capacitor can extract hydrogen atoms from anything and make it mo betta than any fun you eva had wid Miss Kitty down at the drown ;-)
missalister
Well, that's just exactly what I wuz thinkin', too, Ms A. So to speak. I swear to God the woman had to be buck naked, as skyclad as that fuzzywhite bully she lifted up at one point. Unless that was one helluva strapless prom dress she was sportin', I don't think...
One helluva raven you sent flyin' over at the construction site.
SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY:
now that is a great way to enter any sort of relationship! Sufficient already.
A lard-happy conjoining of the Rubinesque, the raven-haired, the Tecate-breathed, the bulldog-bidden,
the rose-petaled, the pre-and post-consequential bouts of influenza.
Feverish hallucinations, no? Or was it a doughnut high? Or were you sniffing that $3.55 gasolina?
Open the door please!
Ssssh! All of Muratville is asleep. Go away!
But I want to know if Sac is here!
Who wants ta know?
Otter Woman.
There ain’t no other women here! Now go away!
No, I am Otter Woman. O-t-t-e-r. Like the amphibious fish-eating mammal.
I’m outta da trappin’ business. Now go on! Git!
I have a 16 year old Assiniboine for you out here…
[door opens] Oh yeah?
SMACK! Take that, you inufferably disreputable, pirogue-tipping boor! C’mon Sac, honey, we got to skidaddle. We’ll call Paschal from Blogland and see if he wants to join us.
Apologies, amigas: I am (still) in the (insufferable, vertiginous) grunge. I can gets me to skool and flog body through Orwell and Poe and Lovecraft and all points in between, but by the time I get home, I've just been dragging my sorry ass back to bed and rest. My urchins are learning to read to me, rather than I to them. That's a good lesson.
True Scorpio, I keep making "I am better and will be totally back by ______________ (fill in date)..." Well, I have stopped making such pronouncements: I drinks my teas and misos and just humbly prays that I can have me voice back, please..."
When I am fullier backer, I'll respond more personal-like. I miss you all.
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