Wednesday, February 15, 2006

I love the smell of napalm in the morning. It smells like victory.

Top of the morning gents,

Energy is so cool.

Boyhood memories of dumb ass pyro-spastic match play make a moron wince in embarrassment, guilt and self-punishing sense of stupid-ness.

Peeping inside all yer minds I see TONS of wasted storage space filled with a lust for burning shit too.

As boys, me and Cully pedaled to every neighborhood house fire and lightshow just to watch all the activity and rescue water response and mud-fest.

We sped on our bikes to the four corners of the Killing Fields of the Pacific Northwest just to watch nuclear clouds arising from barns, stalls and farmhouses. Some collapsing still inhabited with farm folk and farm animals. That kind of trauma is way better'n black and white TV any day.

One fire we didn't stick around to watch was the house fire we set ourselves. That scared me and I ain't a scared of nothing.

Me and Cully and Mike Perlatti snagged some chez (matches) from this old garage way out in the Indian Trails we'd played in for years. Lots of old tools, tires and glass jars full of nuts, bolts and clear fluids.

Great toyshop for future bombers, drug dealers and car thieves: all except the jars full of clear fluid that almost cooked 3 boys and flared up the wall louder'n a dog barking.

No shit, that fireball woofed at us and blew our goldie-locks back barely burning our eyelashes.

The series of subsequent flare-ups also effectively accelerated our midget leg sprint out the back door and to our getaway bicycles we'd covertly kept stashed and idling silently nearby.

When yer size 4 Keds is burning rubber faster than an adopted redheaded stepsister screaming and scared shitless, it's hard to make motor noises with yer mouth. So we had to imagine racecar motor noises and peeled out heading straight for home trying real hard not to cry.

First time the 3 of us ever saw one match turn into such a big and loud fucking monster. We never recovered from that experience.

We also never learned a damn thing that day either, cuz shit never stopped burning and exploding way out in the back of the goat's pasture along a dirt road in rural Snohomish County. Pyro-spastics tend to migrate like Chinese slaves, Nordic rapists and diseased gypsies, including one that shit and pissed all over the Kikiktagruk spit.

One of my most classic bonfires effectively fumigated all mosquito action from house 369 all the way past north tent city to those unnuk barrels me and Harley always kicked over.

I phoned Monson and Kathy Elam I was tearing off the front and back porches of house 369 and burning all the trash. Of course, not mentioning the dozen tires and hundreds of cooqtuq buckets filled with Eskimo ass paint energy cells.

Yup, Charlie and Big Dumb Dale raked and swept out the entire house, the surrounding yard, piling it atop a 10 foot stack of precariously balanced coolers, buckets and a freezer full of brown trout and reservation pancake butt-syrup. Mount Gallahorn I called this handsome pile, then I lit the fucker and put up a stink and smoke flair visible from the Deering bluffs.

The Chief and Sgt came out, watched us tear off rotten walls and roofing with a keen eye on Joe and Shauna Hammersley legally poaching narco-trafficantes on property owned by a crooked man, yer author on drugs.

Monson came out, Gordon Ito also showed up. Real geniuses speculated I needed a water source for safety concerns.

I pointed at the mile high steam plume over Pike’s Spit emanating from the untold hissing and steaming buckets of Inupiaq dysentery, exploding slowly over the tire fire underneath and pallet garbage fire atop, effectively storing 500 gallons of frozen incendiary retard right in my barbeque and poopy wiener roast.

Dave Summerfelt also graced us with his retarded supervisor's thoughts about landfills being cleaner than open pit bonfires. I chuckled with him, and at him.

Poor dick head is likely still poking through the trash at the District Office trying to deduce where so much electronic and PA equipment disappeared to.

The steady melting of liquid bio-mass and flavor cells kept the pallets, trash and tires at a steady roar and a damn fine upward wind thrust turning north at 50 feet dumping particulate poopoo and micro butt nuggets all over Kotzebue proper, but mostly Ken Hall's, Chris's little house and David Burnor's bug infested summer bucket shack.

My swath of collateral damage embarrasses me, but when I recall the total devastation of mosquitoes and criminal irritation I produced, my soiled boner and shitty grin outweigh any residual rapist's guilt.

I fucking love burning shit, which makes the energy field so cool. We gotta torch something like coal, natural gas, gasoline and diesel to get that throaty V-8 roar. The same roar I got when I drilled out the inner muffler plates under my 75 Cadillac.

I've run super in some real goddamn junkers, even lawn mowers, roto-tillers, weed-eaters and farm equipment. I still do. Every fill-up I've ever pumped my whole fucking life has been Leaded Premium or Super Unleaded, except in bush Alaska, you guys get the cloudy 87-octane tank piss.

Mark Arneson worked at the Ballard Union-76 for years. His analysis goes as follows:

"In the gasoline business, it's pretty much a commodity market with anti-foaming, anti-knock, detergents and water elimination additives for brand distinction and brand loyalty."

"In other words, you get exactly what you pay for, not penny more."

"If you prefer the cheaper grades of fuels, be my fucking guest." "It's cheap fuckers like that dumb bitch over there that keeps us mechanics in cigarettes, titties and beer."

Old Bob Jones at R&R Automotive always laughed every time I recited Arnie-Girl's fuel sit rep rendition.

"You know Karl, I make a penny more on regular gas per gallon than I do on Premium."

"Notice me and all my boys only use premium?"

"We hate gummy carbs, sooty plugs, and carbon pits in our exhaust valves."

"Besides, I hate fixing my own cars. Pisses me off."

"Now get back to work Mr. Ewing we got a line a cars out front. Get to washing windows and pumping gas and quit fucking around under the hoist!"

Before I was old enough to legally purchase liquor, I lived with Pim in a junkyard and worked at R&R Automotive pumping gas, washing windshields and chasing parts.

Americans sure can chief up a lot of tasty burnables. Earth easily accommodated all of us Americans and our thirst for Texaco Sky Chief Leaded Super 102 octane petrol. The North American Continent ain’t nothing, fueling China and India will surely Bogart the piss out of our personal stash of harsh oil.

Some shit never changes. My favorite leisure activities include road races, gumball rallies up and down Interstate 5, the Glenn and the Parks, or hanging around Jeb Timm, Jared Hope and John Trotter drinking cold beers and smoking cigarettes in hangars and service bays. I am in full agreement with our Texas pit bull president; I am truly addicted to resource eating machines.

Fire halls are an addictive substitute for my motor head fixes, as long as I smell a little diesel fuel from any tanker, hot coffee and Monson's cigarette smoke.

You lads all have similar surrogate fathers, brothers and toke partners no longer banging about in the shop, but raising holy hell inside yer minds.

Yup, it shows. Despite our diverse backgrounds, I’m betting most of our olfactory memory banks are filled with smells of delicious carcinogens.

Some of our old pals come up here and visit us from time to time just to remind us how far we’ve traveled and how many we’ve abandoned. That smell of cigarette and coffee smoke you smell every morning is proof they all made it back home hauling ass burning GTO (gas, tires and oil).

Funny, I think this might be why all these angels no longer leave skid nor burnout marks on terrestrial pavement in airfields nor hangars, highways nor drag strips.

They’re almost all gone now. Once in a while 1D25’s quick draw kid will pursue one of our long dead grease monkeys, motor heads and petrol-spooks, maybe even try to pull one of ‘em over for speeding over twice the legal limit.

I know Nay's kid can drive like a mother fucker and do spectacular signatures backwards and forwards in a patrol car, but my money ain’t on our copper dude.

Ye can’t pull ‘em over if Ye can’t force ‘em to land.

Like every story that ain't got no moral, gotta let the bad guy win every once in a while.



The North Slope Crude right out my backyard used to be 25% of America’s oil reserve, now we’re only a skoatch over 10%.

From over 2 billion barrels a day down to less than half (875K): scary to see one of the largest oil pools on the continent leaning towards a quarter tank.

Sucking fumes? Only if we can’t pump 35 tcf of natural gas to market in Chicago.

January's North Slope oil production declined
MIXED RESULTS: Slope's two biggest fields increased output during the month.

Petroleum News

Published: February 15, 2006
Last Modified: February 15, 2006 at 02:55 AM

North Slope oil production averaged 857,271 barrels per day in January, down 0.3 percent from December, the state Department of Revenue said.

Production from the Slope's two biggest fields, which account for more than 60 percent of the output, saw more oil in January.

At Prudhoe Bay, which BP Exploration (Alaska) Inc. runs on behalf of all the oil companies with interest there, production averaged 406,578 barrels a day, up 1.4 percent. Prudhoe production includes oil from its small satellite fields: Midnight Sun, Aurora, Polaris, Borealis and Orion.

At the Kuparuk River fields, run by Conoco Phillips Alaska Inc. on behalf of itself and other oil companies, production averaged 170,336 barrels a day, up 0.6 percent. This total includes oil from the nearby West Sak, Tabasco, Tarn, Meltwater and Palm fields.

The Slope's number-three field is Alpine, which averaged 127,880 barrels a day, down 1.6 percent. The Revenue Department said production there slowed in the first week of January for minor pipeline repairs.

BP's Northstar field had the largest month-to-month production drop, down 10 percent, with an average of 49,462 barrels a day in January. The department said production slowed Jan. 17-27 while an engine was replaced on a gas compressor.

Production at BP's Milne Point field, which includes Schrader Bluff production, averaged 42,165 barrels a day, down 6 percent.

The Lisburne field averaged 40,124 barrels a day, up 3 percent. Lisburne's numbers include oil from the Point McIntyre and Niakuk fields.

The Endicott field averaged 20,726 barrels a day, down 2 percent. Endicott production includes oil from the Sag River, Eider and Badami fields nearby.



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