Tuesday, February 08, 2005

Parallel Cultures = Dissimilarly Colored Vultures

Top of the morning gents.

I'm gonna hop between two dimensional paradigms: Self
image and culture, violence and poor self control.

Maintaining faith and honor in yer own culture simply
reneges your membership with the rest of the human
race. Culture is vital during childhood, but
interferes with external relationships in your
adulthood.

Diversity is great, but I recommend you don't exceed
the boundaries of your ethnicity, or your religion. A
non-member's view of you may not be the most
flattering and will likely hurt yer pussy ass
feelings.

No shit, culture is devoid of any re-inventiveness or
genetically habitual reformation displayed by hominids
that have reached their full quid.

Culture oppresses individuality. It also molds and
props up a simplistic and distorted self-image.

A dichotomy that arises is the incongruency between
our own self image, and the reflection received from
other partially functioning hominids. At home, we
possess a face only our mommies could love. Away from
home we're talking a serious case of ugliness.

When a lad looks at himself in the mirror, he sees a
reverse image of himself. Identical, but reversed.
Hence why photographs of our faces are disturbing and
intriguing.

When a friend or foe compliments or insults us, we get
a glimpse of how perspective truly affects who we are
and what we are. I tend to enjoy a foe's image of me,
more than my friend's.

Which reflection do you prefer? An outsider's view of
you or the image seen by members of your own family,
community, or race?

I've always been rather fond of my own self-image, but
resistant to the expectations of my family and
friends. Leaping far away from home and family is
rewarded with new views and new opinions; good and
bad.

Some folks rightly think of us as monsters. Others
rightly view us as heroes. I wouldn’t be surprised if
any of you believed yourself to be a monster. See
where I'm going?

All cultures are highly narcissistic, yet an anal
retentively feigned personae not too different from a
cookie cutter or an over used mold.

Thus the humor behind my whispered quip, "If I smash
that guy's face in dough, I'll get a really fucking
ugly gorilla cookie." Just imagine any of the drunks
you've arrested, slam them face down in cookie dough
and you've got butt ugly monkey biscuits. Biscuits
we'd all cackle over, yet none of us would ever eat.

What a racist, yet humorous marketing scheme. Press a
bunch of Galena or Barrow faces in shit and sell them
as monkey biscuits or gorilla cookies.

Can you see how an outsider views his neighbor's
genetic facial anomalies? Fuck, what a racist quip,
"gorilla cookies." It's not funny unless we insert a
face from the Evan's clan or any other poorly mixed
breed Alaskan turd squeezer.

You can never escape yourself. Which creates a
hellish cognitive dissonance. How does a monster live
with himself?

Simple. Accept the hard truth: "It's your nature."

Late at night, when the demons come out, do you ever
regret some of the brutal beatings you've doled out?

Do you see that scared and crying face with your
knuckles, knees and boots leaving dents and bruises
all over it?

Those faces we've broken will haunt us for a long
time, despite overwhelming justification.

In a recent chat with one of our uniformed comrades, I
asked how it felt to see a fellow human get shot to
death while he was being served up a killer portion of
Whoop Ass. No shit, this muke took a beating while
putting up a hell of a fight, then was killed with 3
explosive rounds to center mass.

As we talked it was revealed that it took quite a few
days to get over the awful feeling that we just
destroyed another fellow human. Regardless of
culture, birthplace, or skin color; that guy we killed
was one of us.

Time heals all wounds. Not. Some feats of
unparalleled violence will live with us forever.

Eats at you, don't it?

Ain't no living with a killer, even if he has a
conscience.

Sharing these horrific feats only makes matters worse.
Your loved ones will then fear the possibility of
lethal violence upon them.

Don't believe me? Just ask them.

Don't ask yourself and assume the comfortable answer,
ask them.

I grew up with tales of violence couched in valiant
deeds of heroism. Revisiting these tales, we'll
likely see more viciousness and hatred, than any
cultural or familial altruism.

What has been sold as eliminating the bad guy now
appears to be something worse. Rounding up a gang of
thugs and beating, lynching, and mutilating
non-members of my grandfather's culture doesn't look
so heroic after all.

This also applies to my pals of my youth. A mixed
batch of first and second generation Americans hell
bent on horrifically injuring non-members.

Here's an example you boys in blue may remember. Back
about 20 years ago we had mysterious snipers and
boulder lobbers damaging and destroying cars traveling
on Interstate 5.

Near Mountlake Terrace there are numerous off ramps,
bridges, and overpasses. A popular party game was to
observe freeway accidents from Franky's, or from the
bluff by Troy's and Higman's. A place also inhabited
by a defective piece of shit; yours truly.

One particular overpass is designed solely for
pedestrians, so me, Big Dumb Dale, and Marty would
fill our pockets with rocks of all sorts, creep out to
the middle of this pedestrian overpass, then drop our
payload into the paths of cars speeding directly
underneath us.

If your timing is just fucking perfect, you could send
a rock directly into the front windshield, whereupon
we needed to speedily creep back off the overpass, hop
into the AMC Ambassador and rally back to Hash House
1, or Lem's Morturary and Crack House to watch
ambulances and coppers comb the woods about a mile
south of us. Way cool dudes.

This propensity for violence and hard drug consumption
shant be duplicated in our children. Amen?

Good fucking luck. Our children are carbon based life
forms, and also carbon copies of our DNA, albeit
diluted by duller genes from our duller wives.

I feel I'm the mouthpiece for this murderous batch of
bastards. So it's a safe assumption you boys can
relate not by family or culture, but can relate by
experience.

Unless none of you ever pulled deadly pranks for fun
or hire.

Sure. You smell that too? One of you is a lying
bitch. You can lie to yourself, but if you lie to any
of us, we'll pound yer pussy ass.

A culture of violence serves as a bonding agent that
keeps you graying gunslingers together.

Late at night, when yer agonizing over failed
obligations and unnecessary injury and abuse to
smaller people that refuse to stay under water or
underground, remember, you ain't alone. Every one of
us is there weeping with you, but never questioning
your use of extraordinary violence.

I’ll say it again. We're all right there with you;
invisible, but with you regardless.

The reason you can't see us is cuz we aren’t in yer
nightmares, your childhood, or your culture.

If I can live with your friendships, you ought to be
able to live with yourself.

In my view, you’re all heroes.

Karl.


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