Saturday, August 20, 2005

Miscellaneous ramblings. Our bike ride to Ira's cabin out near the point: a cultural, chemical and biological blender party.

Top of the morning gents,

Sucks to be sick.

Apart from acronyms like PTSD or ADHD, I’m suffering
something awful from a simple bacterium or a virus of
terrestrially dubious origin.

Whatever, I got a doozy of a dose of that all too
familiar rural village crud. You know the kind that
kills small village children but leaves full honey
buckets standing?

They say that joggers don’t ever get sick; I’ll put a
high mileage bicycle rider in the same herd of turds.

Sure.

Don’t believe it for a fucking second: joggers don’t
jog in sick remote villages north of 70 lat. They also
don’t take long bike rides out of town and party with
elderly Eskimos, dwelling in shitty little cabins.

We are in the middle of our 66 days without a sunset,
so bicameral and hyperactive Finns endeavor to get
lost: culturally and geographically, and also
chemically and existentially.

The other day me and my Siberian Mrs. loaded our
backpacks with party favors and pedaled our mountain
bikes way the fuck out of town to Ira’s little shack:
a subsistence shack a couple miles east of Barrow,
past the cluster of cabins and the old airport and
near the point.

Ira’s little beach cabin was surrounded by a couple of
4-wheelers with a small enclave of Alaskimos out front
stirring a bonfire, tipping pink cap and charring
their bowls.

Bunnik and I parked our bikes, said our salutary
‘Suvat’ and obligatory ‘Not much’, concluding with the
‘Who got immoos ‘n booques?’ to the villagers out
front. They all nodded toward the shack with the
raised eyebrows and red chinked eyeballs. Ya see,
these guys were taking shots of pink cap so they shant
open their gobs near an open fire lest they might
explode; go native dudes.

Me bunnik and I pounded on Ira’s door entering
simultaneously as we heard an anonymous ‘Come in.’

As expected, the house was filled with dozens more
natives packed tighter than a classroom full of
compressed gooks after downing just one Manhattan
Project Martini, but we were able to reach around the
room and shake sticky hands with in-laws and long lost
‘funny uncles.’ Me and Bunnik offered our greetings
and party favors to old man Ira, a troll of a scraling
with silver beard and hair, and broken glasses.

His exclamatory “Adiga” signaled the arrival of their
long awaited arctic mobile Finnish bar service. I
opened 2 bottles of whiskey: a Jim Beam and an R&R
took a belt from both and passed them around in
opposite directions, in traditional Eskimo fashion.

Note: If you’ve never gotten hamfucked with Ukpeagvik
scralings in a one light bulb cabin, perched on the
tip of Pt. Barrow, then you’re whiter than your
Finnish brother.

Shit I’m cursed. We all remember Kivalina Camp’s
(south tent city) most vile butt camping squatter,
Danny Burnor. 18 fucking years and 9 countries later:
I’m still biking, hiking, or stowing away to some
circumpolar honey bucket shack to do criminal things
to my body and unethical things to the local cultures
and economies.

I’m now cornered and trapped on the furthest north
point in Alaska. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide,
hell, time to stop running: might as well go crazy and
unleash my Viking lungs and liver on a small Eskimo
community that smells an awful lot like Ukpeagvik
spittle.

A few of you have had a hepatitis and pneumonia loaded
native sneeze a ton of heavy sputum in yer fucking
face. Inmate snot locker discharge may taste great and
be less filling, but I ain’t fucking native and I
ain’t accustomed to sucking snot outa my baby's lungs
and snout.

But, in direct contradiction to my multi-vitamin
philosophy, I will take mucho monster iron lung pulls
off soggy hooters packed with Willie Nelson’s hybrid
alfalfa/pine chron, even if it’s been nigger-lipped by
two dozen toothless fucking river rat Selawikmutes.

I'll have to play my Inupiaq phat chief crew Little
Feat's "Don't Bogart That Joint My Friend." I've never
had fat doobage pass by me without a little TB spit or
HerpHepAIDS snot on it. On Eskimo Territory, passing
bottles and joints is pert near close to sharing
needles and second hand Inuit pussy. Party till you
die mates.

Did I ever tell you I’m a dumb ass? Trust me, I am.

Back to my adventure to where the wild natives roam.

The two bottles of whiskey didn’t quite make it around
the room back to me so I had to punch Riley Kuwonna in
his bony arm to cajole him outa 2 more pink cap jet
fuel Indun killers.

Using my Leatherman I carefully removed the metal flow
restrictor from the bottle, plugged my nose, and
quaffed back pert near a cup of jet fuel, thereby
fueled up and ready to race with my Eskimo mates for
Team Bacardi.

This round, the bottles made 3 complete revolutions:
it’s hard to drink greedier’n a Front Street Fuck when
yer chugging solvents distilled from diabetic heroin:
cane sugar.

151 still kicks my ass, possibly more so since our
last visit on Christmas. I’m quite a bit lighter this
season: no more North Slope Metro Transit Service, so
this ScandiNegro White Devil bikes more than ever with
longer hair, bleached and mud soaked.

If I regress back to my more primitive personae, I can
cope with Alaskan villagers without breaking necks,
stomping neighbors, and sitting in the back of an NS
cop car. With increased alcohol consumption levered
against magnitudes more organic (carbon based)
bio-fiber and vegetation incineration, a hyperactive
puke will give ulcers, but not get them.

Ultra high protein diets based on skanky and gamy ass
caribou, puke flavored salmon and sheefish, and lots
of high speed mountain biking: that’s my recipe for
successful living in an arctic ghetto inhabited by
scraling party animal descendants of gooks.

Compared to other places I’ve pissed and shit in, my
castle and research laboratory on North Star Street
north of 70 lat is best described as pert near
perfect.

I think I’m turning Japanese.

You boys have a good weekend, I’m gonna recover from
my flu-cold sickness, but likely not my illnesses on
too many other levels. My sunny days north of 70 lat.
are numbered, I gotta get healthy so I can expose
myself to evermore alien geography, culture and
biology.

Have backpack full of cane sugar bio-fuel; will
travel. Travel correspondence posted daily. Fiction
mates.

Karl.

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