Monday, April 11, 2005

Variety is the spice of life. So is racism and drug abuse.

Top of the morning gents,

After every weekend I gotta take time to sort through my notes.

Ya see, just like you sentient beings operating from a highly modified monkey platform, I have to pen my thoughts down as they gush out my butt, or they vanish and are forgotten quicker’n a popcorn fart in a Deering snowstorm.

Yup, my best notions I pull outa my ass. Like all feral farm boys, I do my best thinking while my hands are busy doing chores on autopilot.

When I was chopping and shoveling our trail on the ice shelf out to the Brower's whale hunting camp, I stopped occasionally and penned trigger words and cryptic sentences that are only understood by you lot, tragically neglected boys that grew up to be heroes.

I'll apologize for my Finnish skepticism and dismissiveness, but the Mrs. is of the impression you gents have repeatedly gone above and beyond the call of duty in the service and protection of more than yer loved ones, but also yer extremely remote arctic neighborhoods.

No shit, the angel I married does a remarkable job of reminding me I'm a dumb ass, and she's the gifted and gorgeous gal occupying the significant position as "my better half."

As I scan through "me little black book with me poems in" (P. Floyd), I see mention of my multi-ethnic, multi-racial party I threw Saturday evening and the theory of spectral analysis of solitary creativity versus social synthetic groupthink.

(I'm stealing brilliant insights from my brother Cully. Next time you see him, tell him he was spot on).

Since I wrote it down, it must have been significant to mention a kick ass party we assembled Saturday evening.

An Asian chap I do crimes with approached me last week and requested I throw a party and allow him to purchase all the food and beverages, and choose the guests.

Fucking deal dude.

Friday, the day before this party, this Asian member of my criminally ambiguous crime family went shopping for grubbage and druggage appropriate for an adhoc Piraqtaq. An ancient native food and beverage party celebrating temps above zero, the arrival of Spring sunlight, and its predictable migration of whales.

This former intelligence officer employed by a previous regime in the Philippines bestowed the Mrs. with a whole turkey, cans of cranberry sauce, olives, celery and onions, and a coupla cases of delicious cold beer.

He also covertly acquired and delivered a large bundle of reddish brown weed I hadn't seen in a hunnert years: authentic Thai bud arrived from SE Tsunami Territory, notorious during the days when Columbo ran his own smuggling syndicate.

Don't think he achieved genius level knowledge handling undercover black bag narc ops from a fucking moron police academy instructor. Think again, he'd never have earned his nom de plum as Columbo had he not authentically possessed skills that supercede mine 1.8 times out of every 3. Do the math, I never win, hence his role as coach, mine as punching bag, walking transmitter and drug killer sniper target.

What goes on in the field stays in the field. Take it from a dope fuck, the field of undercover narcotics operations in such remote and arctic communities, totally sucks.

Back to our party.

The Mrs. baked her formula whole wheat bread, biscuits, and glazed cinnamon roles alongside a gorgeous turkey, while I decanted some bottles of port and chilled the beer. I also dug into my furnace room and shop to assemble a smoking device relevant to the ethnicity of this occasion.

Despite my existence on an Eskimo reservation, a lad can still surround himself with irrational numbers of souls from other continents; Asian, Nordic, Siberian, and a couple Alaskan natives too.

Ron and Josie Brower arrived shortly after Edgar and Chris (code name Carolina), with Heddy and John and few other Jap/Phllip/Zero demographic contributors showing at the fashionable dining hour of 8:00pm.

Sequencing arrivals allow a steady stream of hungry chinks to refill plates, grab fresh beers, and ingest complex hydrocarbons rich in stupefying cannabinoids bubbled through water. Still with me?

My odd vocabulary is derivative of Wertman's now famous Big Lake/Willow slogan, "dude, we smoked phat chiefs and got chinked", hence my non-racist use of the word 'chink'. Fuck ye.

Here's the part that affects you lot. I showed ALL my slides up on the wall as I simultaneously reproduced the same chemically agreeable singularity with my guests, as my photographed subjects: you pukes, minus a hunnert years.

Fun stuff Maynard.

These haunted slides are a trip. Rope swings, Meadowdale Beach, Bitches Beach, and building a covert recording studio near 85th and Greenwood. I also have photos of nameless coppers in KPD Junk Jeeps, muni Chevrolets driven by the Sgt. and 1D25's son, a crushed skull from a flipped 4 wheeler accident near the old rec center, and a frozen dude we buried in Selawik.

A short Eskimo gal at our party commented that my peers are all hyperactive, and look like big gorillas in heat. That’s us mates, big arms and beards, sporting wood, driving beaters and patrol cars, and butchering food. Fuck all.

I also lit up the house with large images of the SOM computer lab, and my coworkers and colleagues. One distinguished figure is our dude from Elaudio, Dutch West Indies.

If I'm ever on trial for crimes against sub-humanity, and Elaudio is a United Stated Supreme Court Justice, I'll wave these photos around and blame my felonious life style on the influences of my criminal friends from my youth and work at KPD/AST/ABADE, and Mat-Su Narcotics Task Force.

These good folks from all over the world were mesmerized. We took a trip without ever leaving the farm. Taking a 3-week break from frozen arctic hell some nights does a soldier good. When I turned off the projector and opened the drapes, we were all blinded by the laser bright midday sunlight, at 11:30 in the fucking evening.

It's still colder'n shit with blowing snow all fucking day and Vuarnet sunglasses are absolutely necessary to ward off snow blindness and conceal the true color and shape of yer eyes.

My brother Cully was right; I must first absorb volumes of data from the company of rich and diverse hominids. Then sift and sort this aggregate of gems and butt nuggets on my own time, alone.

Once sorted and washed, it’s my duty to compose a synopsis, and report to all you killers.

As always, this message will self-destruct in 20 seconds.



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