Tuesday, February 15, 2005

Sons of Fathers. Your Turn. Don't fuck this up.

Top of the morning gents,

I've been thinking about my father, and grandfather
lately. I still enjoy the advice and affection from
both of them. Ya see, Finns usually outlive the
children they care for, even children from other
broken families, even if they're homeless, or
fatherless.

I never fail to shed a tear for lonesome boys I see
abandoned at the playground, or my front porch. In
family tradition, I also collect strays. Feral lads
of different skin color, but lads just the same.

Whenever I'm lost, or confused about issues pertaining
to child development, young men's responsibilities for
the sperm they splash all over, and why my native pals
missed out, I simply phone pops. My native pals
appear to have missed out on experiencing what makes a
good father.

My pops maintained special and private relationships
with all us boys. Me and Cully could never understand
why my mom and sisters took turns smelling funny,
acting viciously, and belly aching cuz they gotta pack
tissue and rags in their pants.

The stress started with my oldest sister, thus
triggering a bleed over effect with my mom and my
other sister following suit.

This series of awful events consumed the first three
weeks of each month, followed by a miraculous healing
and attitude adjustment. So much that my mom and
sisters would spend the last week of the month hanging
out with us and wishing to be included in our chores;
in the shop, out in the pastures, and even playing
with us, and our skateboards and go-carts.

My brother Cully would advise me, "Don't fall for that
shit, they'll gonna start hitting us and screaming at
us in only 4 days." Good call bro.

Sure enough, after a mere week of healthy cooperation,
we'd start all over again with the hits, slaps, and
hair pulling so typical of a relentlessly painful
uterus. Cully would joke that if he had an aching
pussy, he could justifiably beat the crap outa his
sisters, and his mom. 'Cept he asked why it's also
called it a Twat. My father would mutter, "bloody
hell." He ain't even a limey fucking brit.

During our chores, between loads of manure, or buckets
of milk, we'd ask dad why the girls behaved like belly
aching cunts. My dad would smile, then display a
sadness and explain that all women have a monthly
cycle whereupon they'd bleed away a single egg, losing
another chance to make a viable life form, hence the
depression and monthly funeral for each passing, yet
very dead egg.

Pops didn't like my joke about beating the shit outa
bleeding women, "at least I'd get scrambled eggs."

"Don't tell yer mother I told you this, but all women
are the same, they'll all go crazy 13 times a year.
They have no control over their bad moods. Less
control over their good moods."

His scientifically accurate explanations didn't quite
explain why my sisters and mom suffered so fucking
much, nor did he explain why they were notorious
menstrual monsters.

Me and Cully used to tag along with dad to the feed
store and hardware store, just to escape the
overwhelming rusty iron stench in our house, but also
these were the times Cully and I needed our dad the
most. Shit, one third of the family was on the rag,
ya think a lad is gonna feel safe around that kind of
hemorrhagic warfare?

Dad's are safe refuge from bloody awful mean older
sisters and a man beast of a cranky mom. I still
don't think these mean old gals were even aware of
their disastrous menstrual cycles. When we shied away
from them on that glorious last week of each month,
they all looked confused and clueless why we preferred
to steer clear of bitches that can bleed for a whole
month, and not fucking die.

Living up here so far north, and so far away from
healthy human beings, I detect a slightly different
menstrual cycle for brown women with pickled eggs.
Once a gal starts whipping her kids and abusing her
peers, we see a tidal wave of blood gushing stink
pouches all clamoring at AC for the last box of
tampons and queen size butt packing pads.

Menstrual synchronicity is the word for the day.
Don't forget it.

David Burnor used to hold weeklong drinking parties
and chief out seshes he fondly called "the mad women's
club." This was the historically accurate time of the
month us broken knuckle husbands banished our foul
tempered and smelling sisters to the bleeding hut.

Fuck, some ancient practices are a stroke of genius.
I wish we could re-enact the same scenario during this
century. Instead of a trail of tears, we'd call it
the trail of pap smears and at gun point march all the
miserably and bloody awful bitches out to the bleeding
hut, lock 'em in, then set the place afire.

I'm kidding.

We'd all celebrate their return to our families, and
our dicks. Ya see, my dad explained it this way. If
you continue to be afraid of bloody awful behavior
from a gal that Can't Understand Normal Thinking, you
might as well get used to kissing and humping men in
the pooper, cuz God's choices of sexual partners ain't
like a cafeteria full of options.

It's one, or the other.

If we chose to be queers, we'd at least forego all the
thumb sized Q-tips, and mattress sized panty packing
cotton pads. We also forego the aspect of femininity
we enjoyed the most, that last week of the month.

We'd also have to put up with the disgusting aspects
of homosexuality dad scared the shit out of us with.
When a lad is lectured on the fundamentals of gay sex,
it don't take long to view menstruation in a more
patient, compassionate and understanding context.

Shoot, a whole life time of limp wristed, gape assed
same sex fecus eating homos, or one good week every
month of love and affection from the pretty girls in
our class that haven't even started bleeding yet.

Me, Cully, and Callahan may have been naive little
criminals, but we weren't naive about life's truly
shitty choices in life partners and spouses. All
three of us thought long and hard on that criterion.
And it was frustrating.

Ya see, my dad was also father to all my boyhood
friends. If yer gonna help move livestock, shovel
manure, and make forts on the farm, yer gonna get
sickening, yet honest lectures from a rather brilliant
and bearded man. My father.

Ain't none of my friends missed helping out with the
chores. My dad insisted it was good for them. Since
all my childhood pals suffered needlessly from
divorce, my old man just recruited these boys, fed
them hard Finnish bread, goat's milk and cheese, and
while working the shit out of them, he'd lecture on
the physics of electrical fencing, the mass of a
single bale of hay, and the pounds per square inch a
goat's horns or a horse's hooves can deliver to yer
gonads.

No shit, we always listened.

The old man wasn't merely blowing hot air, he cleverly
concealed the moral of his stories within his tales of
horse back trail riding at altitude in the Cascade
Mountain Range, butchering food animals, and why a
four cylinder Triumph power plant was limited to
little more than 100 horsepower.

He also got a kick out taking all us lads out for a
weekly spin in his British sports car, or his Swedish
coupes. He'd yell over the roar of the motor why twin
SU carbs have flat spots because naturally aspirated
motors require vacuum induced air/fuel intake flow
ratios at pert near 13.7 to 1. Which subsequently,
only occurred from half to full throttle.

We didn't question his expertise about coefficients of
friction at standard temperature and pressure, cuz he
was driving far too fast whilst valiantly trying to
recover from over steer typical of rear wheel drive
British sports cars, under excessive throttle.

During the three weeks of ovarian violence, our dad
was our only friend, and hero. What is so sad, is
that all my boyhood pals all lost their dads.

Not a single one of those boys spawned in the Killing
Fields of the Pacific Northwest had a father that
lasted long enough to witness our voices cracking and
our evolving understanding of the care and feeding of
farm animals, and human females.

My pops attended more graduations for kids that didn't
share his looks, or culture. It used to make me
sicker'n shit with jealousy to see my folks grooming,
caring, and feeding such a plethora of foreign kids.
Thinking about all the exchange students that invaded
our house, sat at our dinner table, and ate and drank
our home made bread and wine still pisses me off.

This is a good thing though. I'm fortunate to be in
such a privileged position.

I'm also fortunate to know why.

The last time I visited the folks, I sneaked into the
garage, sat down on an old tin full of oats, smoked a
ceremonial bowl with Willie Nelson in mind and did a
pre-flight inspection on the old Triumph TR-3. The
British sports car that hasn't been crossed up and
sideways at 80 miles per hour in 3 decades.

Three decades is a long time. Meaning those boys are
now graying gunslingers. The smell of hot exhaust
gasses and smoking rubber ain't the prettiest smell in
the world, just the world of little boys that lost
their dads, and chose to do hard manual labor on a
farm.

These same stray boys that worked their asses off,
right next to Cully and I, while also listening to
lectures from a surrogate father who never played
favorites with the back of his hand or his affection,
nor his high speed exploits.

There's something wonderful about seeing an old man
coach and guide little boys on how to be little men.
Something wonderful, that starts when yer big enough
for britches, yet badly needed up here north of 70
lat.

It still breaks my heart to see so many stray native
kids wandering around the playground alone, and lost.

Looking back, that group of lads that lost their own
fathers, likely haven't failed to understand the need
for surrogate dads. I'd like to fly my folks up here
to facilitate the same experiences they afforded us,
but with new recruits with browner skin.

Sadly, it's no longer my father's duty to raise stray
boys to be patient and understanding of human females.
This duty has now fallen on other shoulders.

Namely ours.

I don't think any of us have grown big enough to fill
those shoes.

If you don't know what makes a good dad, you're in
dire need of more lectures.

Y'all best be fixin' to write yer dad a letter. Fuck
even a phone call. If yer pops is now dead, phone
mine, he won't let you off the phone without the good
advice you know yer needin'.

Karl.

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