Friday, February 04, 2005

Partying Hard. In my blessed FAZ.

Top of the morning gents,

Time flies when you agonize.

Kidding, just examining the last 4 months of checked
off days on my AC calendar and sadly remembering the
last time I purchased a half assed sirloin steak or
pink Washington grown chicken.

Bun curtly reminded me of the smoked ham I bought in
August, and the few packages of bacon I insert into my
trout (ticktolics is what the Mrs. calls them), and
also into my salmon, merely to boost up dismally scant
saturated fat calories.

Benecol is a Finnish brand of margarine that claims to
lower cholesterol and LDL-proteins (low density
lippo-proteins), the super contact cement that plaques
our North American arteries. Preliminary medical
tests and evaluations were suspended due to phenomenal
casualty rates among the subjects.

As it turns out, ya can't eliminate saturated fat and
cholesterol from a Viking's diet too drastically, or
too quickly.

Out of the 10,000 subjects partaking in the
cholesterol reduction study, the domestic violence,
suicide, and arrest and detainment for violent crimes
went through the roof.

This ain't no trivial matter for a region and culture
practiced in steadying nerves, calming trigger
fingers, and turning barbarism tools into cell phones
and super models.

Previously calm and composed gentlemen started taking
pleasure in kick boxing children, Spetsnatz punching
spouses, and launching farm tools towards loved ones.

A component of criminal behavior amongst Finns has
always been attributed to poor diet and health, not
weakness of character or judgment.

Like the Gipper commented way back when, "Poor is a
state of mind." Violence and crime arises from poor
health and poverty. Well, don’t we have an eye for
the obvious?

A monthly Finnish cafeteria pass for any and all
schools and universities is cheaper than a monthly
tram/rail pass. I blame my multivitamin packet
addiction on my tall grandparents, and of course my
other habits of good food, good drink. Validating
their claim to fame; yes, Scandinavia has the lowest
crime of the industrialized nations. Until I showed
up.

No shit, by tweaking the diet of over educated
Scandinavians, you can convert a normally composed and
congenial chap into a goddamned fat and aggressive
muke "from the states." Immediately the blond
mathematical whiz kids returned with statistical
violence mirroring those fat Yanks.

The subsequent studies expanded periodicity and
duration, yielding good results sans the broken noses
and inky incarcerated fingers.

It's fun picking on myself, and my heritage. Ain't no
dumbshit better qualified to deprecate thy self.

Over the last 3 years, I’ve organized a rather
splendid game food delivery system. If a lad arrives
with carcasses, fish, or sea mammal, I crank up the
Scandic gypsy music and start pouring the rounds.

I overdosed my golden girls back on the Kikiktagruk
Peninsula with lots of big hard meats and blubs. I
also performed my spousal directed angelic deeds of
divine intervention of supplying Cyrus Harris with
more muktuk than a hunnert shrunken head Inukuns could
ever gum down.

Seasonal duties completed, I experienced logjams and
back-ups with my food chain piling boxes and bloody
fucking bags on my porch.

At the suggestion of Aunt Bunny, I decided to try my
culinary finesse with nasty game meats and skanky fish
stores. So last spring, with the tutelage of the
cooking channel and 3 kick ass cookbooks on smoking,
barbeque, and rural road kill marinating, I started
cooking and eating all the foods that arrived.

And some of you funny fuckers have told me to “eat
shit”.

I did. I’ve served every imaginable dish using the
basics: white fish, salmon, trout, caribou, reindeer,
and moose. Sorry lads, I have yet to place a putrid
piece of muktuk in me mouth; the same goes for seal
oil. Not yet, likely never.

Oh, and a hundred pounds of mountain goat from old man
Porter, and a hunnert pounds a halibut from local pal
of mine, a lunatic sharp eyed hombre that operates my
40 foot limo, NS Borough Bus.

Looking back at this self imposed existential
experiment; I detect a dramatic drop in daily alcohol
intake. This troubles me. I promised myself; for
relocating back to the Fetal Alcohol Zone, I’d reward
myself with a steady supply of Jim Beam, French
cigarettes, and whatever else sparks up when I put
flame to it. Don’t I sound just like an abusive, yet
drunken pregnant Native woman? Ya see, that’s the
rub. Whining about my selfish desires despite being
surrounded by abysmal Fetal Alcoholism. Adolescent
and Adult Alcoholism too.

This is my cognitive dissonance in a nut sack. Where
the hell do I get the nerve to believe I could bring
my Northern European Arctic drinking hobbies with me
to the Reservation?

Fuck I’m a dumbshit.

I am guilty of abusing some other things though. One
look at my mountain bike reveals use beyond warrantee
recommendations and would horrify the manufacturers.
It’s beat to shit, worn to crap, but the rider looks
pretty fucking good.

Losing the weight might be good for my cardio-vascular
system but makes heavy drinking painfully sickening.
Since losing pert near 50 pounds, my Viking’s thirst
for bourbon diminished accordingly.

Dropping from my 2-year extended drinking and smoking
vacation weight of 285 pounds down to my current
225-240 subsequently and proportionately reduced my
distinguished tolerance for liquor. It’s frustrating
to be thin and fit, and then to engage in Native
drinking endeavors.

I really hate waking up sick, I hate heaving up, and I
hate losing a perfectly good drinking day to a goddamn
hangover. In Helsinki or Stockholm, everyday is a
holiday, festivities are a good thing. In Barrow,
Kotzebue or Galena, alcohol consumption is the
surefire signal of mental illness. We already know
we’re all unstable at best; we don’t need the stigma
of a recovering gunslinger that frequents houses of
ill repute.

Calmness is a weird state of being. Gray days. Gray
moods. Haven’t slugged a soul in days. No spikes in
attitude, no rants, no raves, little to piss a chap
off and drive him to the typewriter.

Buddhist Monks achieve this state through rigorous
methodologies, dumbshits oughta move north of 70
latitude, eliminate North American foods, ride a
goddamned bike all over Gods greener pastures, and a
monastic existence in front of a computer.

Simple huh? Only after the goddamned kids move out,
and the fucking dog dies, does life truly begin.


Karl.

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