TAKING SHIT IN THE MORNING

Estanislao Contreras, the poet of Chicano Fuck Songs, called his compadre Jack O'Connell, the great unpublished novelist, Sunday morning. This was there dilatory conversation that only those who love the art of Brownsville minutiae:

Estanislao: What's up, compa?

Jack: Not much, bro. I smoked a joint as soon as I could free myself from the sheets. I've lit candles around my hotel cell and Etta James is playing in the background. I'm sipping a green tea hoping that it will give me the energy to fix breakfast.

Estanislao: And what's for breakfast? You're not going to patronize The Toddle Inn. You have to keep your finger on the pulse of Brownsville if you hope to be relevant.

Jack: As long as you're breathing you remain relevant to the only person that matters--yourself. I'm taking it slow. I popped a Xanax and chased it down with Nyquil before I went to bed last night  I'm feeling a bit groggy, but at least I'm not battling a hangover. I've decided that I'm going to put more trust in dope, Xanax and Nyquil and less confidence in alcohol. We'll see if that change in strategy lends more productive results.

Estanislao: You haven't contributed much to The McHale Report lately. Doc misses your insight.

Jack: Doc doesn't miss my insight. He misses my input because he doesn't have to fill his screen with his misguided bullshit or steal articles from the other or any other internet source so he can skate. It's time to cruise into the lazy holiday season and relish the temporary rush that we were successful in assisting the voters in their decision to clean house in the BISD by replacing Los Tres Malos with fresh faces. And, of course, we can never forget about our long-term of crusade of sending the treacherous Trump and the rest of the racists, rednecks, religious right and Republic radicals to hell for their hypocrisies. They don't believe in our country. They don't in Christianity. They have no other belief than to impose their will on us even though they have no vision because they reside in the stubborn certainty of a black-and-white world instead of realizing the reality that life is lived in the gray.

Estanislao: You are philosophical this morning.

Jack: My son sent me an excellent baggie of hydro from Austin that he smokes before his shows and claims improves his voice. I'm just tripping. I have no plans today except to breathe deeply. I might go to the Island and eat with my youngest son or I'll hit the deck at Cobbleheads later and mingle with the crowd of our fellow deadheads. It's Thanksgiving week. We need to give thanks for this moment of tranquility before we receive the news that someone we love has died.

Estanislao: That dope isn't making you paranoid, is it, compa?

Jack: Paranoia always lingers on the periphery before we're suddenly whacked over the head with a bat. It's all about breathing, bro. If you haven't found your rhythm in this frenzy existence, you are reduced to speeding in the fast lane with no idea of the direction you have taken. I have surrendered without waving the white flag if that makes any sense.

Estanislao: I need a hit of that shit you're smoking.

Jack: I'll have a loaded pipe before we play tennis tomorrow.

Estanislao: And the pussy situation?

Jack: No complaints.

Estanislao: Any details?

Jack: You wouldn't know her.

Estanislao: Maybe I'll see you at Cobbleheads in the afternoon, compa.

Jack: First round's on me.

Estanislao: Un abrazo, compa.

Jack: Igual, bro.

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