Jahnean Jordan Pegasus 2010


I met my Nanny-goatee’d HouseHusband on a hippy goat farm in Humboldt County, the year I turned 50, broke my ankle, and became disabled, almost 13 years ago.
Before she returned to Georgia to tend to her sick Mother, she gave me $200 so I could Greyhound-it to Arizona the renew the tags on my Volkswagen, so I could vacate the job site and live on the street and river in relative safety, until I could finally retire to the Death Valley’s hot springs in Tecopa CA, on an SSI’ nutcheck, which I earned for being a ‘magical thinker’ and boycotter of Big Pharma.
Three years later Pegasus came thru the Desert on her way home from her last road trip while her Mom was still alive, to see how I was doing, and found me housebound, on crutches, with nobody to push my wheelchair. We had a lovely week together, back and forth to the hot springs, and I was sooo grateful and in love with her caring, that I popped ’the question’ and gave her a crystal engagement ring before she left for home to her Mother, where she shortly thereafter, made arrangements with an adopted son in Vegas to deliver a needed golf cart to my front yard, so I could toodle down the block to the dumpster and Post Office on my own. She’s never mentioned how much it cost, so I suspect her Mother was in cahoots.
Four years passed in utter comfort, until a city-trash family moved in next door, with a pre-teen boy who harassed me constantly for driving privileges, ungoverned by his hustling parents, and then my Old Hipi Road Dog died 2 years later. So when my daughter-in-law in Texas invited me to move into their backyard camper, and when my Son, who also lusted after the golf-cart, offered to come get it, and me and my last two dogs and cat, I jumped at the chance to meet my GrandDaughters, as well as get halfway to Georgia, so my Pegasus could afford to rescue us from a winter with NO HOT WATER, and so I could soak in her hot tub and help her pay the utilities and taxes on her deceased Mother’s money-pit of a house, during our old age together.

Remembering My First Saturn Cycle

When I was 30, I killed the motor in my family’s Vega station wagon, and replaced it with a ‘73 Gold Ford Pinto w/moon roof and a hot-ass-repair voucher in the glove box, left the kids behind, safely tucked with their Father in their GrandMother’s Pennsylvania hometown, and took off for the Jersey Shore to help my Gay Uncle, Jimmy Paul McBride, restore his Cabin Cruiser.
He later disowned me for editing the name of his boat, by painting out the B in OBLIVIA with house paint, leaving an apostrophe, to read the more Gaelic O’LIVIA, because before I’d left Home, I’d had a prophetic dream about being stretched out on the bow, hunting overboard trying to find him underwater.
My Father’s baby brother wasted that entire winter at the boatyard trying to impress me into his ‘Christian’ Coven…so when I trumped his naming power, I crushed his wizard’s ego. Last time I saw him, he was crumpled over a cup of diner coffee, sobbing to his rich Yew Norker Lady Priestess, who asked me to leave him alone w/ her, so I did. He was bemoaning the $500 cost of ‘repairing’ my ‘vandalism‘, totally missing the point. I found out later from my Favorite Uncle Jack, that Jimmy had tattled on me to my Dad, after years of being incommunicado, who just told me recently that Brother Paul had died young(only 13 yrs.older than me), 10 years later in the Port of New Orleans. So, I guess he got the boat afloat, and he’d survived his unappealingly sinister moog music rituals.
Too bad he‘s dead, but I’ll always remember him giving me The Spring Tour of the Big Apple, and taking me to the Top o’ the Tower restaurant at the World Trade Center where he bought me a Manhattan, then took me to a bar in Greenwi(t)ch Village to meet a witchy woman who gave me a gold earring, and introduced me to Perrier to sober me up before he took me home on the Ferry under the Statue of Liberty, where he “came out“ to me, and I had to tell him that I‘d known since he was a teen-ager.
At the first bar on the Jersey side, I called a pit stop to run in and BUY MYSELF the bartender’s version of his New Jersey‘s cocktail…a Brandy Alexander, which he served to me just as my impatient Uncle came in from the car, tired of waiting for me, only to pull up a stool and flirt with the bartender while I leisurely enjoyed the classy buzz of down-to-earth barfly entertainment.