Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Despite learning dick from history, we're all still condemned to repeat it.

Top of the morning gents,

Flashbacks don’t necessarily affect your waking hours, they usually replay themselves insidiously in your dreams, hence the contrast between LSD nightmares and PTSD day-mares.

Life is a hellishly repetitive conundrum. My highly trained and battered brain draws parallel inferences from cycling time periods. Sort of like repeating epochs with alternative players cast for each role; our intermingled experiences and life spans swap out individuals yet retaining a strong and culturally reinforced friendship paradigm.

Sometime shapes emerge. A pre-migraine spike in the shape of a triangle symbolizes strong concentrations of telepathy between the NANA Region, rural Finland, and Mountlake Terrace. What the fuck, go ahead and call it the Devil’s Triangle, yer part of it.

Let me draw you back a few decades to an ancient old swimming pool that had trapdoors and laddered catwalks like catacombs underneath it. What a wonderful place to play hide and seek.

Since this tall farm boy had keys to the building, he invited all his best mates for late night lights out swims, saunas, and midnight missions to the pool.

My day job was lifeguard and swim instructor at the Lynnwood YMCA, an old dinosaur of a building that I seemingly could never leave. We were always having small emergencies and disasters like little kids gulping water, sometimes into their lungs, and golden girls having heart attacks during water aerobics.

On one occasion, an elderly gal went into cardiac arrest during her exercise class, so my lifeguard supervisor and roommate, Mark Stensland and I teamed up to perform CPR. Mark provided breathing and this sick puppy was happily designated to crush lungs through her scrawny rib cage.

We barely finished 2 rounds of huffing and humping when the Edmonds EMS Paratroopers arrived stepping in like ballet dance partners or baton relay race mates.

Real fucking artists.

Every time I crack my knuckles, the crisp clatter of my metacarpal firecrackers reminds me of that first chest compression I ever did on 70-year-old ribs; ribs that are alive and well to this day.

I’d work all day in the water teaching kids water safety and supervising public swims, then bike home for deep fried potato wedges, dark beer, and bong hits of whatever cousin Hack-Hack fetched from the grow room.

After much mastication of carbohydrates, carcinogens and cannabinoids, all of us hopped in one of the vans and returned to the YMCA Pool. After midnight we converted that Olympic size swimming pool into a sensory deprivation chamber. An ancient aboriginal tradition practiced by hyperactive lads from Northern Europe whilst maintaining analgesic levels of LSD in their alcohol systems.

Lights out, darker’n shit, and we got Cully’s Neuroshima disturbing space music echoing throughout the entire facility, with the entire crew over dosed on Bellingham Blue Dot LSD, silently floating in the water trying to comprehend the painfully bright hallucinations in the pitch dark.

Most of you have met these guys; Pim, Red, Cully, Marty Hall, Scott Wade, even Big Dumb Dale and Harley Bronson. Shit, some of these guys even got arrested in Kotzebue by a few of you graying gunslingers formerly employed by KPD. If Mark Stensland ‘d lived as long as some of us, he’d likely be sitting in the back seat of a KPD patrol car at this moment. Ain’t happening, as with countless pals from my virus cluster of hard drinking horticulturalists and hard partying hyperactive pals consisting of physics majors and musically talented lunatics, he too took an early train out of town.

One of my genius friends from the Killing Fields of the Pacific Northwest stole the contents of the heating oil tank attached to the Kotzebue Courthouse truly pissing off Judge Erlich with a colder’n shit arraignment schedule the following morning. Harley grew up that day and learned that small native villages north of 70 lat are best described as translucent fish bowls filled with poopy water, and we all know exactly how you masturbate, and with which one of yer mushing dogs.

Shit, I’ve phoned my neighbors and yelled at ‘em to take some Beano before sucking down rotten blood fluids and dairy drainage. Fucking Eskimos can blow ass louder’n a French horn if they shovel live salmonella and rancid milk down their pie hole. Us humans are quite perceptive when pressed into tight village living quarters, especially our sense of smell.

Big Dumb Dale, my 300-pound mongoloid got in trouble with KPD for bouncing Randy Kem on his ass, punching his groinulars, and raking the gravel road next to house 711 with his face. With the right blend of bullshit and lies, rum, coke, and Hydro-Shocks, Mack and Blanchard gave Dale a pass but incurred expensive favors from me.

Nope, some things just ain’t legal, but I like seeing dickheads like Randy Kem take their medicine, served up by a 300-pound retarded mongoloid mother fucker. I think the officers responding to this arctic altercation also enjoyed this scenario, saving them the trouble of dirtying up their uniforms, or bruising their knuckles.

Unbeknownst to me and my pet mongoloid, Randy Kem was long overdue for an ass whooping. Out of town talent like the rumble ready pros from Dover were merely serving the public interest, like Werneke and Jim Ginley, Randy Kem deserved cracked cheekbones and bruised testis. Sometimes justice served itself best unhindered, and Mack and Blanchard were wise enough leave best alone, while I took their bets and wagers on my pet Mongo.

Kathy Elam screamed at me for bringing Big Dumb Dale to Kotzebue. I kind of enjoyed his company, so I flew him up to Alaska 3 more times. Fat Kathy never relaxed the cramp in her face or her mammoth cunt, and has never been nice to me since. Pity.

Each time Big Dumb Dale set foot on Bad Soil Spit he tangled it up with every single one of Kotzebue’s local thugs. Shit, he even made Bobby Richards, Kevin Zabrisky, and White Mike Baker say “Uncle”, beg for mercy, and to be fucked in the goat ass. Nothing better’n a big ass retard from Mountlake Terrace to do all your village dirty work, that big monkey fucker could unleash holy hell whenever his pit boss gave him the nod. He’d even plant a yard of gristle in yer bucket if I let him have his way with ye.

Years of foster care trained that mongoloid well, he could discern mice from men, but fucked ‘em both on command anyway. I like a serial sex offender that follows orders.

If you’re firing on all 3 digits of your IQ, or “cookin’ with gas” you should see the larger patterns, or the big picture; we’ve got large hunnert year cycles that repeat themselves.

This last weekend, I thoroughly enjoyed getting filthy dirty, beat to shit, and basically “dick in the dirt, tits up, or face down” dog tired from the nasty ass hard work of butchering whale slop and reindeer bleed. I boxed up and shipped out gnarly muk missiles to our mates south of the Brooks Range. Gnarly mates afflicted with too fucking much Siberian DNA, but we love ‘em anyway.

The Mrs. cut up reindeer shoulders and asses donated by Super Dad from Unalakleet, cubed and carved jiggling soft tasty whale eats donated by Sadie Rexford and baked pastries and breads all goddamn Saturday and Sunday.

I’m bitching cuz our kitchen radiated so much fucking heat that I now think I may be personally responsible for all global warming. Combine this with my foul mouth and poor hygiene and we may have a defensible thesis for the cause of the ozone hole over the Arctic, fuck all.

Dozing off in front of roasting ovens, hot from hours of baking bread is an addiction I formed from childhood. Sleeping soundly to the rattle and clatter of sewing machines is an acquired skill, just like catching Z’s in a boat or hay truck. If you surround yourself with similarly noisy human activities and behaviors from your childhood, you can finally get some rest.

To find duplicative redundancy in the existential comfort from my most pleasurable and relaxing childhood farmyard memories, I had to marry a gal just as smart and dedicated to her children as me mum. Hence my brilliant acquisition of a Siberian Eskimo woman whose notion of a home matches mine: same domestic culture, just variant skin hue.

In other words, to locate a vintage 1930’s wife with matching expertise in butchering, baking, and sewing as my Nordic mum, I had to venture way out into Inupiaq Territory.

This gulag hard labor camp north of 70 lat offers me a healthy lifestyle. Like my farmyard childhood at 8623 200th SW Edmonds, I now have my own private Idaho I’ve reconstructed here on the Arctic Ocean including a life partner in crime. By George, I think I’ve got it; butcher, baker, candlestick maker, and wife stolen from the Eskimo tribes.

No shit. A doze on the floor sounds uncomfortable until you add the sounds and smells and warmth of your childhood. After an all day butcher sesh out on a goddamned ice shelf and then again in my front yard, the cold patiently waits until I’m beat, then it creeps in through my dick and ears. If yer beat to shit and yer ass is toast, you’ll collapse in seconds after you warm up and have a bite to eat.

After a hard day’s work in the blowing snow, ain’t no human can stay on their feet once warmed, fed, and smothered with affection.

It’s may be mid May and we just saw our last sunset last night, but it’s still fucking cold outside. We got killer bright and sunny daytime hours with temps near 25 degrees above. During the evening hours we’ll see zero, easily.

When you see this poop covered and blood soaked man staggering home in the evenings, ya best plug yer nose.

We’ve killed 9 whales so far, 3 to go. Bunnik has me deliver major piles and buckets of food to her in-law whale killing relatives. On the way back you’ll see me trucking major nasties, lugging home whale slabs from the Leavitts, Rexfords, Browers, and the crew Reilly Kuwonna works on.

Barter at it’s most primitive basics; I offer baked goods delivery and help cutting up sea monsters in exchange for tons of muktuk I get to spoil my best mates with: you lot. By spoiling my indigenous friends, I get a chance to visit parts of this universe concealed behind the damage from the ‘stroke’ Red thinks I had when I bid him farewell and started hiking North to Alaska over 20 years ago.

Good deal if I say so myself. Lots of hard work, good foods, an Eskimo wife, and 9 months of a perpetual white Christmas: Shangri-La at the end of my trek North.

Not a bad deal at all. Casting has filled all my repeating stage roles with counterfeit Inukuns; all I need to finish this dreamscape reproduction is the keys to the swimming pool.

Oh, and a few sheets of Bellingham Blue Dot Acid.



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