Saturday, March 19, 2005

Fathers and Sons. Part III.

Top of the morning gents,

I've been toying with the idea about forgoing resentment. Tough concept. Violent fucks like meself put lots of energy into hatred and cruelty. It's my nature. I doubt I'm alone in this crowd of killers.

I've also been wrestling with the theory of forgiveness. Not the Christian ethic of forgiving trespassers and sinners, but forgiving parents and grandparents, and ourselves.

Here's the hard part. What if this struggle to understand and forgive is contained within our own heritage?

I've got a strand of my lineage that has far too many skeletons in its closet. What the fuck; knowing where the bodies are buried don't ease the guilt.

When I'm truly pissed off at my father and grandfather for their murderous exploits, Callahan cools my jets with sagely advice that I'm lucky to have any of them still alive. Smart chap.

On his boys’ night out with my brothers, he gets really annoyed at their behaviors. Ya see they never married or had any children, so they haven't quite matured beyond their partying years. Meaning they're dysfunctional 30-year-old power drinkers that still think they're swinging dicks attracting younger pussy, despite graying hair and wrinkled pubes.

Sad image; old farts way past their prime, grossing out pretty young girls. Hence why porno films don't have men our ages acting in them. Ain't that a disgusting thought.

I have a good friend that cleans my clock at almost every academic contest. No shit, this guy has a couple of abilities that blow a few of mine clean out of the water. He was also a colleague, coworker, and confidant.

Some days we'd sit side by side for hours (and years) like interracially married cell mates in a computer lab we were supposed to supervise pounding out stacks of calculations. Funny, these stacks of calculations were assigned by our professor and partner in felonious crimes already detailed heretofore; Professor Logan.

This lad has kin folk still living in a far remote village I'll call Elaudio, Dutch West Indies.

One day we engaged in a guarded intellectual game of chess, sharing tales of childhood, and our parents.

He's told me numerous stories that exemplify understanding, patience, AND forgiveness. No shit, just like graveyard shift with all you coppers, we'd sit and chat about all sorts of things, sometimes relevant and honest.

I was telling this lad why Alaskan kids are so fucked in the head, is cuz they have parents that never matured beyond high school. Hence their propensity to befriend their children, instead of educating, restraining, supporting, and coaching them. Just like Harlem, parenting children seems so 'uncool' in Alaska. Go figure.

I relayed some of the difficulties of parenting an Eskimo child, in a community that parties and has sex with their children. He chuckled at my parroted quotes from my daughter that "you're not the boss of me", and asking why I was "the bossiest, strictest and meanest dad in the whole town."

Which is ironic, cuz I let Sara Magnum tag along with me on my party treks all over the Kikiktagruk Spit. She stood directly behind me as I sat at the Men's table drinking excessively, smoking lethal amounts of pine chron, and snarfing down piles of Ciringione cocaine. The Men's table was usually in little shacks, cabins, and grottos all over the NANA Region, including north tent city and Kivalina Camp. She got to observe violent rapists and killers party, fight, and flee.

I even utilized her assistance in peeling tape off my chest. You dummies, narc toys; wires, transmitters, and recording devices.

My brilliant lab assistant was perplexed why a scum bag Viking would teach a little Eskimo girl to punch hard enough to crush Adams Apples and masculine sexual ornament ball bags. He also asked me why the fuck would I encourage a 12 year old girl to perform backwards and forwards 180's in cars of all sorts.

I revealed even more of my parenting insanity. She performed these motor head tricks while shooting at predetermined targets from her window, while driving like her dad.

Crueler yet, I made her drive all over hell and back. She'd chauffeured the Mrs. and I from Anchorage to Willow and even from the Carlson's up on Hatcher Pass near Nolton's place all the way home, cuz I was far too pasted to drive.

Shit truth? Your author was intoxicated on far too many levels, and chemicals.

On long drives from Fairbanks to Anchorage, I'd press her to drive at speeds that rightly should've gotten her put in jail. I'd direct her to hold a steady 80 mph for a few minutes, then I command her to hold a steady 100 mph, watching for moose with delicate hands on the steering wheel. I must be crazy.

With the subsequent deprivation of village schooling substituted with a decade learning with rich kids in Richmond Beach, north of Seattle, I have a finished product that refuses to ever live in the rural retard reservations containing and restricting her relatives.

Guess it's true; Native villages are best observed through your rear view mirror. So why the fuck did her parents move back in with the mud racers on Team Bacardi?

Did I ever tell you I'm a dumb ass? I am.

My daughter and rally racer extraordinaire is now a parent herself and employed by the South Central Foundation repairing clerical errors in billings and deploying software on new machines as they arrive. What a kid.

One day in the cafeteria, my lab assistant and academic nemesis once asked me what I did when I was gone all those years way up north. I stammered. Imagine that?

I confided that I do volunteer and contractual work for state and local constabularies, run communications and supervise fellow criminals; whilst they're incarcerated. He maintained his incredulous expression, so I dropped it.

During our adhoc intellectual symposiums during our years in the computer lab, we had wonderful chats on theoretical physics, business models, and bandwidth. We occasionally drifted to tales from our own past including difficulties having parents that are parents, not buddies.

Ya see, our brilliant man from Elaudio, Dutch West Indies also had hard fisted parents like mine. Must be cuz both our parents were born outside of America, hence why we were so similar.

He told me a story of when he sneaked out with his mates, had a few drinks and then got their ears pierced, joining the trend so popular just before tattoos assisted police in identifying AIDS pukes and inmates. Upon his arrival back at home, his dad spotted this piece of jewelry dangling from his ear and fucking exploded.

His pops took away his car keys and all his privileges, and likely almost taking his house keys and revoking his status as a member and resident of his parent's house.

This poor lad had to walk to school, bum rides, and basically exist with his wings clipped like earthbound poultry until the hole in his ear was completely healed and undetectable to fatherly inspection.

Now most boys would be pissy and whiny little cunts. Not my lab rat mate, he seemed to understand the bigger picture. Our man from Elaudio, Dutch West Indies knew at an early age that being a dad is hard and painful and forgave him anyway.

Most Alaskan kids would run away and become another little boy blue. Remember that tale? Little boy blew, cuz he really needed the money cuz he was a homeless little butt biscuit with a For Sale sign on his ass.

Not our man from Elaudio. He said his dad's reaction stung, and stung good. It's a bitch for a high school kid to take such forceful parenting.

Our man from Elaudio kept a stiff upper lip and merely endured his period of healing for his ear and adolescent ego. When all traces of his ear mutilation beautification vanished, he again gained his status as an entrusted driver, student, and son.

Tough parenting hurts everybody, and for good reason.

His pops didn't beat him or force him out on the street; he just revoked privileges, exactly as he should have.

Something wonderful about watching dad's raising boys to be men, instead of singly parented cunts.

It's even more wonderful to find a few good men that are both horrifically violent and pretty fucking good dads. Thus explaining why this crew can be counted with all ten fingers, plus my fly open to account for the extra digit.

Ya see, ya got a choice. You can bitch about yer parents behaving like parents instead of gay pals, or you can remember some of the painful lessons that molded you and made you an acceptable piece of shit for this gang. Amen?

My fatherless pals from the Killing Fields of the Pacific Northwest ain't the same as you boys. They can't punch hard enough to crush a testicle, and they still get offended at my brutal hunting and killing of endangered sea and land mammals and my butchering subsistence existence north of 70 lat.

Civilization doesn't have to equal weak men. A man is a man. Not a woman. So don't try to meld the genders together.

I admire you lads for putting up with my harsh language, sometimes I don't know how to put it any other way. It's also why I never send these emails to women. They'll never understand.

Let yer wives be mothers, but slap 'em down when they step into father-son relationships, ain't no place for 'em. This is as offensive as us teaching our daughters how to strap on a pad or shoving an oversized earplug in their clooch, our wives shall never hear some of the advice we give our sons.

This may all be duplicative redundancy, but some concepts need reiteration. When yer wives scowl and grimace at you for you’re hard headed fathering techniques, force yer tit in yer child's mouth and start whining about yer uterus like a real cunt.

She ought to figure it out REAL quick and stick to her mother-daughter duties and steer far clear of your father-son parenting duties. If she's fucking about in the Man Shit zone, yer daughters are being deprived of their lessons.

Dads are dads, and no woman can perform these tasks. Don't even try to explain this to a woman; they don't got a dick so they fall in the category of "have-nots."

Can I get an Amen?

Decades from now, your wives might see their sons become good fathers just like you sons of birches. And then it’ll all make perfect sense.

Hopefully she'll also forgive you too.

If your sons were raised by stern fathers, like my pal from Elaudio, Dutch West Indies, they already have.


Karl.

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