Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Walks far felons make interesting company.

Top of the morning gents,

Life is all about running. Running away that is.

I sure as fuck walk a lot.

A while back, I got lost just walking around town. Since none of the signs were in English, but in Cyrillic, I had to stroll a few miles to find a KOBE (cafe). I avoid rowdy bars when I'm far from the soil that spawned me, and the soil that has now subsequently gone bad.

When I'm in the mood for a strong coffee, a double of bourbon or brandy, and good French cigarettes, a cafe suits my needs just fine. I'll also live longer. Regardless of geography or sovereignty, all bars are filled with the same clientele; drunk assholes that hate well dressed outsiders.

This weekend, I took my normal long walk out along the snow fencing to the beach, and then strolled out on the ice shelf in search of things to photo, and shoot.

My canine escorts from all over Browerville yelp and jump hoping to catch my attention and be chosen for each day's trek. I tend to unleash the larger dogs on my street in case I need a Judas goat to occupy the dietary and predatory desires of the dozen of so polar bears haunting our part of town. They’re used to be 15, but the Mrs. and I have taken plenty polar bear, without legal sanction.

One I sold to Professor Porter at UAF for a coupla grand, one I donated to Rural Student Services, and the last really shot up hide, I sent to Bobby, my Siberian wife's Hitler homo bro.

No shit, that single testical dude is one violent and deadly faggot, but can stitch, sew and cruise behind a sewing machine like no other subhuman.

Me and my big dog hiking companion neither saw any polar bear this weekend, nor was eaten by one either. Pity. I would've happily shot 'em both for fun, and lunch.

A while back, I took a long walk from my dorm room all the way downtown for shopping, picture taking, and cigarette, brandy, and coffee break. The cold weather wasn't too bad, even Steven with any midwinter walk north of 70 lat.

The traffic was tricky, cuz if yer in the path of a speeding Russian car, you'll hear the carbs open up. No shit, pedestrians earn you points. Bonus points for tall Alaskans over dressed for any occasion.

Most strolls serve necessary functions. Monday is the best day for fresh meat at Stockman's, cuz I usually watch the fresh killed reindeer from my café vantage point get unloaded off the frosty lorries on Sunday. Besides, all American beef has been banned in Scandinavia for pert near a decade.

These reindeer carcasses from around Inari, Finland are marbled bright white like whole sides of beef we see in the states. Not dark and red like the low fat starving caribou currently staring at me through my computer station window.

Domesticated reindeer are softer and fatter than my tundra starved counterparts, allowing me to cook them with far less seasoning than the recipes I created to flavor my hard ass caribou jerky.

Mondays are also good days to pop in to one of my favorite shops, the Frederickinkatu Chemist Shop. I get better choices of cigarettes and coffees; cuz the owner enjoys my geographically confusing stories from Alaska, and Russia. The owner also has a nice selection of hashish from all over Europe and Africa, thus allowing this tall felon to imbibe strong Finnish coffee and Viking bong hits. Fuck ye.

Tuesdays are best to visit my local dry cleaners and chip shop, and everyday day is fine to shop for ports, wines and champagnes.

I prefer specialty shops over giant department stores. Every Wal-Mart I visit is packed with despicable minorities with skin, eye and hair color foreign to me and beyond my understanding. Us Finns are like that. Just like humans, we'll surprise and disappoint you, daily.

The best places in the world to reside are places where your personal philosophy matches the behavior of your new neighbors. Barrow is a hard-core drug pit. I'm cool here. Tallinn is a hard-core alcoholic pit. I'm cool there too. Helsinki simply has more of everything. Amen?

I live well in villages where the populace suffers from self inflicted masochism. Dublin comes to mind first, then any Nordic domicile of ill repute.

Bunnik and I "go visit" residences that welcome our arrival, go the extra measure to act as exceptional hosts, and accept and tolerate what the Super Dad from Unalakleet calls our interracial groidal (from the root word Negroid) sniggerlicious marriage. I have no clue where he fetched my other nickname: Oochuk Boy, but it cracks Octuck up every time I ask him what it means.

This weekend we had the wind to our backs allowing us to skate down Laura Madison to the Post Office, and then veering towards the Brower’s for refreshments. With a fresh attitude adjustment under our belts, we skated to the Artic Coast Trading Post for raw brown sugar and real butter, then back home to bang pans and toss bread dough.

The Mrs. was curious what I meant by storefront security. All Russian shops hire armed guards in uniform to keep watch. Ya see, robberies in St. Petersburg are carried out by crews of crooks, not crazy niggers of all skin hues, waiving guns around and demanding the convenience store clerks to empty the till. Theft is a daily risk and part of the cost of doing business, so it's best to hire a Mafiosi thug in a uniform to suck up the stray bullets.

Just a few synaptical time intervals ago, I collided with a speeding little kid on my morning walk, talk, and smoke. As I was leisurely strolling towards Yusef's place near the Grand Hotel, my right knee was swiveled inwards from the shoulder of a 9-year-old boy. I was also almost tackled by the pursuing armed guards with guns drawn and Billy clubs waiving.

They caught up with that kid at the corner, where I witnessed a beating that hurt too much to view, so I turned away and kept walking towards Yusef's. Besides, I had more important tasks to tend to. Like making pipe bombs that’d even make Pim and Waller proud.

The in-store guards doled out their own version of injustice and beat that little kid to pieces right there on the sidewalk. Killed him too. That little pile of starving skin and bones lay on the sidewalk all day and froze solid.

While we were stashing explosives, Yusef kicked the boy, just to make sure he was dead, and then he emptied his pockets. Chechens are funny that way.

One hard lesson growing up homeless in the streets of St. Petersburg; 5 million citizens are annoyed by the 1 million homeless child parasites roaming the streets stealing enough calories and drugs to mature no taller than Eskimos.

When stealing becomes culture, more racism is required. Finns fucking hate filthy Russian thieves, so they arrest any poorly dressed child and gypsy on site. No shit. This handsome felon evades detection and detainment merely by wearing Armani slacks and sport coats.

Callahan and Nolton may chide me for dressing like a “perfesser”, but covert camouflage takes many forms. Viking Law: Appearances are deceiving, but not perceptions. Can I sell you some passport and driver’s license pressing equipment?

Analogous to wanted criminals, if you want to get rid of refuse, put a price on it. With a deposit of nearly 50 cents on each bottle and can, you'll likely not see any trash laying in the cobble stone gutters. Instead of dead children and drunken Chukchi Eskimos, you will see lots of filthy homeless kids collecting every single bottle and can they find, cleaning the streets, and recycling valuable aluminum and glass.

From 6am to pert near noon, all you'll see on the sidewalks of frozen pre-Christian cities is rows of occupied baby strollers yielding micro clouds of ice fog, parked in long bike racks, and filthy children dressed like Americans rummaging through the gutters picking up bags of trash for free recycled money.

Of course, if your eyes work better’n yer dick, you'll also spot yours truly, the tall felon from Alaska meandering in and out of Florist shops, Chemist shops, and Cafes. My morning constitutionals are a blend of diet and exercise, and inebriation.

You can spot walks far aliens by their long and lean legs, grooming, and the pixilated distortions in their breath, resume and arrest record.

Long after we've buried all you killers, you'll see a tall distinguished man with silver beard and hair, strolling past your descendant’s shops with an elderly Eskimo gal in arm; adorned in full-length fur coats.

If any of you old farts are living and can still walk, and enjoy long strolls with the company of smarter chaps over coffee, brandies, and smokes, look me up. You'll always find me, cigarette (doobious claim) in hand, coffee and brandy on the breath, in any city in Europe or Alaska, north of the Arctic Circle.

Whenever yer free of yer responsibilities, wives and children, and drug testing, go get a passport, cuz when I see you on the dark side of the Arctic Circle, the next round of coffee and smokes is on me.

Cheers mates. Rehab is for quitters.



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