I was quite rudely awakened this morning by the guttural clucks and sonic honks of an obnoxious flock of Canadian geese.  I could tell they were Canadian by their stupid accents.  My initial inclination was to grab the shotgun, kick the door open, and blast those clucking Canuck fuckers right out of the sky.  But I knew that would not only wake up the entire household, but would also likely shake the neighbors awake and set them off on another wasted day of half-assed Jayson protests and limp-wristed bitching.

This all started a couple of years ago, when I de facto adopted a squirrel that I subsequently named Bath Salts for his rather maniacal and often seemingly drug-induced behavior.  Our relationship began a few years back when he began showing up at the door of my writing office, seemingly wondering what I was up to inside.  I thought this was a rather ballsy approach, and I rewarded him with nuts.  We quickly fell into a routine when he would show up at the door each morning, check on my progress, get some nuts, and go deal with squirrel business the rest of the day.  But I quickly noticed that my new friend was being rather brutally harassed almost constantly by a flock of blackbirds that had, unbeknownst to me and certainly without my permission, occupied the Italian Ficus trees in the back field.  I don’t know the depth of my dear reader’s ornithological knowledge, but it is certainly deeper than mine.  I had previously that “blackbirds” referred to crows and ravens, and for all I know, it does.  But upon witnessing these malignant black bastards with their beady yellow eyes aggressively pecking and divebombing my beloved squirrel, I knew these were the “blackbirds” from nursery rhymes that one would want to bake in a pie.  It was around that time that I started engaging the blackbirds with my .22 while they were molesting Mr. Salts (Salts was a bit freaked out when the bullets first started whizzing by, but he soon realized that I am downright surgical with that thing).  After a few days of this, the scourge of the blackbirds was ended, and the whole obnoxious flock fucked off for more hospitable conditions.

They’ve sent scouts in the spring during the last couple of years, but these are quickly dispatched, and any plans they have had about reoccupying my Italian Ficusses (what the hell is the plural of Ficus?  Ficii?) disappear with a soft, dull “thud” and an explosion of black feathers floating slowly to the ground, where a very grateful Bath Salts gathers them up to upholster and reinsulate his nest for the winter.  All of which I find rather poetic.

The neighbors have no appreciation for poetry.  I actually doubt they know how to read.  So to hell with those illiterate gypsies, and to hell with Canadian geese.  And may God help them if either one dare disturb my slumber again, especially on a Sunday morning.  Heathens.

Had a rather intense meeting with Mgmt yesterday, the result of which was me being put on a somewhat impossible schedule that will control my existence for the next few months.  They’ve decided which book I need to complete, and that if I don’t complete it, Bad Things will happen.  They sort of hyperventilated about exactly what the Bad Things would be, but none of them moved my needle at all.  Still, I know they are right.  This is the book that needs to come out, and this is absolutely the year it should happen.  So I agreed to their ridiculous timeline.  What the hell else was I going to do?  It’s not like there are people lined up to try to manage this chaos.  Besides, it’s high time I started writing on deadline again.  Of course, I had some conditions before I agreed to this arrangement.  The first, which was a daily delivery of one large Triple Mocha Frozen Coffee to the Safe House, was agreed to quickly.  The second was met with a bit more resistance.   Part of the book involved Tijuana, and what’s written is 100% accurate, but in my opinion could use an update.  It’s been ages since I danced on the dark and bloody ground of TJ with the girls in the red dresses, ever since President Houseplant opened the border and created a massive and depressing humanitarian crisis in what was my favorite vacation spot on the planet.  Before that, I was making a Run for the Border two or three times a year.  I was on a first name basis with the owners of most of the bars and restaurants on Revolucion Ave, as well as the staff of my favorite farmacia, who used to call me “Jugo” since my hair reminded them of some big-deal soccer player or something.  I was just another gringo writer down from the States to take in a bullfight or two, lose some money at the dog track, maybe do some light weapons- and/or drug smuggling, and everybody was fine with that.  Sure there was the occasional “arrest” by the TJPD, and one unfortunate episode of kidnapping by the cartel (which was surprisingly easily resolved), but in my business, those are just occupational hazards.  The price of doing business, as it were.  But then everything went to hell.  The entire Zona Norte was inundated with all manner of drug-addled cannibals from weird countries so far south of Mexico that very few Yankees had even heard of them, the names of which even fewer could pronounce.

Now all of that is finished, America’s long nightmare is over, and I am more than ready to return, if for no other reason than to update my story.  But Mgmt and their attorneys don’t seem to be having it.  They seem to be under the impression that since Big Don recently listed the 12 largest cartels as terrorist organizations and presently has fully armed Reaper drones circling directly over the heads of the leaders of each organization, that should he use said drones and cut all the heads off the Cartel Hydra simultaneously, something worse than civil war would instantly break out across Mexico.  Which is likely completely true.  But Mgmt seems to think this would be a problem for me and is using it as a reason not to let me go.  Which I contend is pusillanimous bullshit.

Shit…they just called.  They want to see today’s pages in the next hour.  One day into this new schedule and I’m already questioning everything.  I gotta get to work.

N.P.: “Blue Lights On” – Texas Hippie Coalition