When yer wife asks you if you want sugar in yer coffee, ask her to just cut off one of yer fucking legs. + Alaska's aerial hunting of potheads.

Top of the morning gents,

I like a good sugar rush.

Now I find out that these sugar rushes and sugar
crashes ruin my pancreas and make all the cells of my
body either insulin resistant or glucose resistant.

The pancreas organ produces insulin to allow our cells
to absorb sugar, if our pancreas diminishes in
performance, just like our wives ovaries, our blood
sugar rises.

High blood sugar is great prior to a workout or
athletic event, hell if we sit at the computer, TV or
wheel of our car. High blood sugar is the leading
cause of blindness, impotence and limb amputation.

High blood sugar also kills our immune system and
shreds our erectile functions.

Sugar dissolved in our bloodstream-glucose molecules,
are huge energy units that scratch and carve up our
kidneys, heart, eyes and brain feeding blood vessels.
Hence why Johnny Cash lost his vision, then required
kidney dialysis decades before he was diagnosed an
alcoholic and amphetamine junky.

Early on, he refused to eat whole foods low on the
glucogenic chart: foods that DON'T flood your
bloodstream with jagged glucose molecules. He also
refused to quit boozing: culprit number 1 in the blood
sugar rocket mission.

All adults of Nordic descent have a bit of gluten
(grain starch) and lactose (dairy fat) intolerance:
hence our weight gain when we eat continental American
foods high in dairy, starch, fats and sugar. We also
tend to blow ass if we gorp too much dairy shit.

At the 3 restaurants my classmates at the Helsinki
Campus managed, they updated their menus to foods from
300 years ago: no beef, dairy based creams and minimal
starches. Only Finnish cuisine of Reindeer, oiled
salmon, Minki whale slices with caviar and lots of
vegies make for a handsome Finn, NOT steak and taters
we all enjoy.

I've been forced to do the same in the last five
years. To improve my long distance mountain biking and
weight lifting strength, my doctor lectured that me
and bun eliminate all cholesterol, saturated fats and
sugars.

He's still bitching about my Viking's thirst for Jim
Beam.

I've shed a buttload of pounds, so has the Mrs. I went
from pert near 300 pounds of well dressed business
attire to almost 200 pounds of Barrow village attired
'stink man.'

The Mrs. has lost almost 40 pounds.

Since moving to Anchoragua and away from my mountain
bikes, walks and workouts, we're slowly trending back
to Gumbyville.

This will not do. The good doctor told me that if
sugar was discovered today, it'd be one of the most
controlled substances. The traditional American diet
is for porkers and fatfucks, hence why HALF of all
native Americans have diabetes.

Everybody on the North American Continent is an
immigrant. Everybody in the rest of the world is
busting balls and walls to get to the promised land,
Norte Del Amerigo Vespucie: The Americas.

Looking around the room, I see I'm the most recent
immigrant: first generation American. My dad's newly
adopted corporate lifestyle and afluence at Boeing
Aerospace for 35 years made him a very wealthy WOP, a
bastard child immigrant With Out Papers. In other
words, a real estate monger and Scandinavian Jew (ask
Gayle Ralston).

For the first time in our family tree, he also now has
diabetes, poor circulation, all four coronary heart
artery scraped out, angina, failing eyesight and
frequent surgeries. Finns, Swedes, stray northern
micks and limey fucks shant partake of the great
cornucopia of Yankee snacks, right mates?

None of us are immune, cuz none of us were supposed to
eat American shit foods.

The desired and coveted land of plenty is now killing
us zebra cultured hominids.

White bread, white flour, white sugar?

Good for Gumby, not you.

Now read shit, not eat shit my fellow Alaskimos.

Karl.


---

Native American Times
The Nation's Largest Independent Indian News Source.


Area events planned to battle diabetes


TULSA OK
Sam Lewin 3/29/2006

The local branch of the American Diabetes Association
reports that over 300,000 Oklahoma residents have the
disease, and they estimate up to a third do not even
know it.

A series of area events marking the next few months is
designed to raise awareness of the illness and raise
money for research.

The Tour De Cure, a series of cycling events held in
more than 80 cities nationwide to benefit the
association takes place May 13th, followed by
America's Walk four months later.

This year’s tour begins and ends at OSU-Tulsa at 700
N. Greenwood, in the north part of the city. The
routes vary, ranging in distance from 66, 40, 23 and
12 miles. Cyclists are encouraged to raise at least
$125. All told, the walk is expected to raise $100,000
for research.

The walk is a massive fundraising event and according
to the association’s website Tulsa is the only
Oklahoma city where the event takes place, starting
out this year at LaFortune Park. For information about
the walk and the tour, or just to find out more about
the association in general, call 1-888-DIABETES. The
Tulsa number is (918) 492-3839.

It is no secret that diabetes has ravaged the American
Indian community. The Indian Health Care Resource
Center of Tulsa reports that over half of their
patients ages 7-12 currently are classified as
overweight. Seven out of every of the children
enrolled in the center’s summer camp have a family
history of diabetes.

Other organizations have looked at the diabetes
epidemic among Natives living across the country.
According to the National Diabetes Information
Clearinghouse, the disease is one of the most serious
health challenges facing American Indians and Alaska
Natives in the United States today. The disease is
very common in many tribes, and morbidity and
mortality from diabetes can be severe. Most American
Indians and Alaska Natives with diabetes have type 2
diabetes, which usually develops in adults but can
develop in children or adolescents. Type 2 diabetes is
caused by the body's resistance to the action of
insulin and by impaired insulin secretion. It can be
managed with healthy eating, physical activity, oral
diabetes medications, and/or injected insulin. Until
recently, type 2 diabetes was rarely diagnosed in
children and adolescents. However, type 2 diabetes is
now common in American Indian children age 10 and
older. A small number of American Indians (about 2 to
4 percent) have type 1 diabetes, which usually
develops before age 20 and is managed with insulin,
healthy eating, and physical activity.

About 15 percent of American Indians and Alaska
Natives who receive care from the Indian Health
Service have been diagnosed with diabetes, a total of
105,000 people. On average, American Indians and
Alaska Natives are 2.6 times as likely to have
diagnosed diabetes as non-Hispanic whites of a similar
age.

In all, over 18 million Americans are afflicted with
the illness.

First started in 1940, the American Diabetes
Association now has a message specifically designed
for Native Americans. It appears on the group’s
website and reads as follows:

Years ago, Native Americans did not have diabetes.
Elders can recall times when people hunted and
gathered food for simple meals. People walked a lot.
Now, in some Native communities, one in two adults has
diabetes.

Awakening the Spirit: Pathways to Diabetes Prevention
& Control was created to help share important messages
about diabetes. No one should have to fight diabetes
alone.

It is important for you to know:

People with diabetes can manage it.

People with diabetes can live full lives

People with diabetes can be well enough to watch their
grandchildren grow up.

Through working with other organizations including the
Indian Health Service, developing and disseminating
educational materials and participating in advocacy
activities, Awakening the Spirit is working to
encourage your spirit to fight diabetes, to make
healthy food choices and be more active.

All of these things will help create a healthy pathway
for you and the generations that will follow after
you.

Nationally and locally, Native American communities
around the country are working through Awakening the
Spirit to encourage Congress to continue funding
diabetes education programs in tribal communities.
Writing, faxing, calling and visiting congressional
members are several strategies employed at the
community level to lobby for issues of concern
specifically addressing needs identified by the Native
American community.

The volunteer leadership of Awakening the Spirit,
representing various tribal communities, invites you
to join in the fight against diabetes.

You can make a difference! Register with our ADA
Action Center. You will receive regular updates on
state and federal diabetes legislation that affects
you. Together we can work to improve access to quality
care, eliminate discrimination against people because
of their diabetes, and ensure appropriate funding for
diabetes research and programs.

Knowledge is power in the fight against diabetes. We
have information to share with you, your family and
community about living well with diabetes. Call us at
1-800-DIABETES (342-2383).

---

Alaska announces aerial pothead control
By CASEY GROVE
Managing Editor

Alaska voters approved a controversial ballot measure
Monday to create an aerial pothead control program.
Supporters of the bill say it will help keep stoners
at home where they belong, and opponents, who fought
long and hard against the measure, were suddenly
unavailable for comment.

Existing state helicopters already equipped for
hunting wolf will be modified to track and shoot
marijuana smokers from the air. No bag limits have
been announced yet, but the Department of Fish and
Game has announced open season on anyone seen wearing
a hemp necklace, a Led Zeppelin T-shirt, or
Birkenstocks.

Tourists from out of state immediately expressed
outrage at the plan.

"You dumb whiteys, when will you ever learn?" said
Jimmy Livingstone of Jamaica, who had just heard of
the program. "From now on, I and I's on the beach
mon."

As they ended a weeklong vacation, an opposition
group, whose members hail from Maine, Vermont,
Connecticut and Jamaica, vowed never to return to
Alaska again.

"Don't let the door hit ya where the good Lord split
ya!" said Gov. Frank Murkowski. Murkowski praised
Alaskan voters in a press release this morning, and
suggested hippie grease and woven dreadlock rugs as
useful byproducts of the program.

"I can't wait to get my hands on all the leftover
munchies!" Murkowski said.

Phoebe Hartfeldt, president of Friends for Potheads,
said her organization is taking out ads in magazines
and newspapers urging tourists to boycott Alaska.

"Potheads are beautiful, gentle animals," Hartfeldt
said. "Popular mythology has reinforced mankind's
unfounded fear of the pot smoker. It doesn't have to
be that way."

Intel update and mining big old brains for smart ideas.

Hey Dudes,

Not the normal signature introduction today, just a
quick update and a very special request from you
graying gunslingers.

I've been burning daylight and my calling card
chatting with Paul and Dave: strategies and
contingencies mates.

What the fuck? Two ol' busted up cops make the best
conversationalists when fetching supporting data,
corroborating evidence and colorful insight to
horrific homicides and rapes (pre and post mortem,
with and without skulls or limbs) for these am cop
talk newsletters.

But best of all, these old spooks are great for
PLANNING shit.

Call me a dumb ass, but I've exploited all of you
uniformed fuckers as leaders, example setters,
supervisors and superiors: deference is mandatory in
the company of all you goddamned killers.

A brilliant chap from the village of Elaudio, Dutch
West Indies never failed to step up the bat and coach,
nor failed to graciously step aside when his teammates
required floor time shining. Think of this hombre as
an intimidating genius waltz and research presentation
dance partner, folks always stepped aside for my
interracial lab rat partner.

Yup, it's embarrassing to fess up to, but parts of his
cerebral tool belt and genetic mother board puts parts
of all or numbskull combat circuitry to shame.

1D25's quick draw kid kept my shit tight when weight
and balancing our aircraft, re-fueling and complicated
on-campus date-rape undercover narc jobs. No shit, if
I was left to tend to these duties, we'd see a
fireball and mushroom cloud where Ryan Air USED to be,
and even more raped and scraped campus bitch bait at
UAF: Shitbanks, AK.

I can't resist temptation, can you?

All the rest of you bastards don't need reminding how
many times you handed me my dick on a platter, fixed
my SR's AND attitude, and saved my ass with a million
combined years of NAVY, VPSO, and firearms theory.

On this mish, I tapped the old farts. Hooah!

Both these graying gunslingers shoulder burdensome
interracial marriages, so who best to ask if it's a
good idea to fly my Siberian Mrs. up to Kotzebue to
visit her golden girls and old lady network WITHOUT
her dumbass fair-haired, yet highly indiscreet
dickhead husband of non-native excretion.

See what I mean Lem?

Ain't none of ye have shoveled coal and manure next to
an Indun bride as long as these two old versions of
sober, yet busted to shit Wyatt Earps.

Shit, even you Eskimo killers can appreciate this: you
guys know how hard it is to keep a cross-colored wife
of a lesser God longer than 7 years score: and itch.

Them pretty gals tend to get lost and go native on ye
once in a while. Sometimes in their own front yards,
sometimes in another dude's foul trousers of similar
race and skin hue.

Wake up fucks! Unlike you blood-spattered yet wingless
angels, they are extremely mortal and earth bound
human beings.

Like us, they all gotta go back home from time to
time: as in bump with handsome Induns during the
Stampede or Yakima Pow-Wows, grope something truly
fine upriver Shungnak or Ambler, or share hugs and
smiles in the genetic glow and context of mirrored
beauty whilst tapping that tall Scandinavian girl
close to where 80,000 years of blond alien relatives
raped and killed arctic style.

The human genome has been appropriately called "The
Selfish Gene" by my professor of cultural and physical
anthropology, Lou Tarrant. He chuckles at custom and
culture's failed attempts to regulate and harness the
human drive to eat, sleep, shit, piss and fuck.

The only way to curb these overpowering logic
derailments and canine behavior loops is with chronic
alcohol, cigs and change yer name to Jim Ginley.

Fuck I'm funny.

Ain't none of ye are ever gonna discontinue yer
membership with the human race nor cease reinventing
yourself towards the prettier. Some of you will also
likely test drive yer keels in saltier water too;
without a bag on yer trash.

Further yet, some of us will likely afford an
apartment for our mistress above the hardware and
antique store leaving our wives comfortably set up
back home.

Some of our most precious moments of intimacy and true
wonderment are still a secret between you and God and
line of spouses, even maybe a fellow uniforms, which
could possibly include any one of you.

Romance is the very best drug on the planet, and I
recommend all of ye inhale fully when some of God's
most stunning females embrace your olfactory senses
AND thorax with all four of her limbs and lips. Like
that?


Maybe I'm off base and way out of the ballpark,
perchance completely wrong and full of shit.

But I doubt it.

God be with ye lads. Even if you think nobody's
looking.

Karl.

PS and special favor to ask of you, if you see my
blessed Siberian bride getting harassed or pestered by
any of Kotzebue’s riff raff: my former clients, feel
free to use extreme prejudice. Or she will, and that
wouldn’t be good for any body. She can’t turn it off.

As a professional courtesy, I’ll call John Ward in
advance. If I was Chief of Police in a rural violent
village, I’d fucking like advance notices of Karl or
his murderous wife’s coming back to town.

Maybe even arrest them at the goddamned airport for a
million fucking firearms violations and unpaid OTZ
phoneboxes on the side of 20 year old telephone polls
all shot to shit.

Look at the ground yer standing on: soil's gone bad. Gentlemen, start yer killing.

Top of the morning gents,

"Like Dale Campbell's Soup, it's mmm mmm good." I
still enjoy recycling Big Dumb Dale humor. Those that
remember my 300 pound mongoloid may recall his
devotion to pleasing his owner and master, yer author
on drugs.

Everybody oughta own their own Mongo. Mine was a
sexual predator from Mountlake Terrace and frequent
customer of Don Bueler, before he imploded a shit load
of Washington corruption. Odd that Bueler never took
Big Dumb Dale with him to Kotz.

Yeah, I know bringing a child poacher and pre-crimson
biscuit splitter to Kotzebue is like bringing sand to
the beach, but the burried mass grave sickness magnet
drew Dale to the NANA region as it did little squat
Chinese abbies from across the water.

Kotzebue is unique in geology due to the sheer number
of corpses we've tilled out of our gardens, plowed out
of our driveways and seen rolling apart in the sewer
mud behind the KIC bucket loaders.

I swore to Bobby Richards and Jeff Skinner I'd never
mention the nasty bone clusters we fetched outa the
smelly waste water and mud holes, covering quickly
with shovel and spade as Damon Tabor speedily
continued shovelling shit oblivious to his ancestors
bathing in muck directly under the tracks of our
loaders.

If I'd been employed at KPD, I'd volunteered to stand
guard duty on all those bundles of bones and small
rolling Inu-craniums.

No doing. If we'd mentioned all those damn artifacts
and ancient bucket corpses, the job is shut down and
Bish woulda had a annyerism bursting a vessel in his
body lordosis or spit bubbles of muke from his Winston
brand pneumonia aqua lungs.

Besides, I was employed by the Native Corp, if they
don't give a shit about buried natives from another
foul and foreign culture and race: why should this
Finn? Besides, even Eskimos got a major woody killing
First Alaskans. The most fierce and feared killers on
the planet ain't a bunch of Norsemen, it's Eskimos.

Nope, burying thousands of ethnically cleansed losers
ain't none my business. Ungodly deeds are of no
concern to one extraordinarily vicious pagan.

I'll attach a tale I wrote about the Nulato massacre,
real fine piece of work. Even the locals can't figure
how that team of killer Eskimos pulled off such a
coup. Rock on.

Okay kill onward Christian Soldiers.

Karl.

This was posted on a morning just like this, yet many
years ago.

---

Fair play? War Crimes Tribunals? Fuck you, we're
talking Eskimo battle tactics.

Top of the morning gents,

I've always been fascinated by the movements all of
you have made over the years.

We've seen lots of trashy and homicidal alcoholic bags
of shit work their way up north and out to the bush.
Exposure to precognitive domestic trauma seems to
yield the best character profile for absorption into a
community with unknown numbers of mass gravesites and
the place where the soils gone bad.

We've seen lots of 'save the natives' idiots try to
proselytize you savages away from Eskimo traditions of
historic violence and unparalleled breeding as a means
of offsetting the encroaching early deaths due to
habitual warfare.

Most archeological digs yield evidence of bodily wear
and tear like bronco busters, seriously lean years of
hunger, and from the pelvic bone data, girls oughta
get breeding early and frequent, lest we may never see
our best mates serving as police men in later lives.

What I'm trying to elucidate is the generally violent
tone absolutely necessary for a culture to survive a
hostile frozen ass subzero arctic environment, and
overtly hostile neighbors. Neighbors unheard of prior
to the year 800, when a huge fucking volcano shoved
bunches of Meso brained AmerInduns northward into
previously uncontested Eskimo killin' grounds.

Our dearly departed Grandma Mag told me a tale about
this age old battle over pussy, real estate, dead
meat, and slaves, when she was a child growing up in
the NANA Region during the 1920's and 1930's.

When she was a little girl, her mom would shush the
children at night with the threat of Induns sneaking
into camp and cutting your eyes out, so ya best keep
'em closed and go to sleep.

A smart Eskimo girl uses her Inupiaq intuition and
best knows to steer congenitally violent arctic men
towards the duties of collection of edible dead meat
and live slaves. Some slaves fulfilling dual
purposes.

The upriver triangle, Shungnak, Kobuk, and Ambler was
a defensible trio of settlements, most of the time.
Some hunting parties were extremely productive, but if
all the moms and kids were killed when the adult males
were away hunting, yer righteous homecoming return
with your delicious foods don't mean shit.

We may despise other cultures, but it sure fucking
pays to know and understand their idiotic hunting,
gathering and migration patterns.

Mind you, Grandma Mag relegated Induns to arrow
targets, food, and fertilizer. Moving aboriginal
targets are easier to hit, if ya gotta clue where the
fuck they're hiding. Eskimos may be short and
stubborn, but they are a quick study and rapid
learners my dear Dr. Watson. This is the catcher in
the rye.

Harvest time is also slaving time. So most hunting
parties performed a dual role; gather and stash mondo
meat and sneak over the mountains into Allakaket,
Huslia, Hughes, and perchance even Nulato to gather
shrieking woman for wives, and young men 'to help with
the work.'

Our distorted picture of history from inside the
culture may hinder in maintaining objectivity and
fairness, so fuck 'em, Eskimos are the good guys,
Induns are the pockmarked bad guys. Deal?

No matter the geography, religion, and pragmatic
history of migration and hardship, the application of
indentured servitude by force is evident throughout
all Native Civilizations; from South America to Camp
Kuwoanna, outside Pt. Hope, where I'll likely select
as the Mrs. final resting place. She deserves a
century of Sundays, near the creek, close to Whale
Watch.

Due to my ethnocentric and highly biased perspective,
my interpretation and faulty recall still don't paint
a picture that can escape the institution of slavery.
Every human is half slave, half dictator. Fuck all.

Grandma Mag went on to tell tales of warring parties
going back and forth across the permanent mountainous
divide between Eskimos and scumbag Induns. The slaves
never lasted long enough to see adulthood, due to
harsh treatment, minimal foods, and subInupiaq
standard lodging. Now that's a hellish life. A
slave's lot in life is truly worse if yer an Eskimo
slave.

Magdeline went on to elaborate that she's lost some
kin to slave raids of uninvited warriors from the
Indunvilles of the Yukon-Koyukuk Drainage Basin,
better known now as Leadville, actually Galena, the
Russian word for 'soft metal place.'

Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.

Conflict between Eskimos and Induns came to an apex
simultaneously as the Russians were relinquishing
residence in Nulato. Indun/Russian conflict was of
minimal irritation, just a matter of time till the
beaver pelt biz slowed, and the gold rushes were
reversing.

One gold panner grew weary of the dwindling Klondike
invasion, so he assembled a gnarly treaded bicycle and
pedaled all the way down the frozen Yukon River to the
McGrath-Unalakleet portage to the Pacific Ocean, then
pedaled and hiked to Shaktoolik and on to Nome.

What he witnessed on this bike trek is significant.
He claims to have seen hundreds of Eskimos camped
upriver from Nulato, measuring ice thickness, ambient
temperature, stashing kayaks and weapons, chipping
genius patterns in the frozen river ice, and
apparently, simply waiting.

He retold numerous folks about this, and nobody
believed such a large group of Eskimos would be so far
out of their territory, and so fucking close to the
central locus of Induns and packing Russians.

To add to their justifiable disbelief, Eskimos NEVER
went on warring or hunting raids during spring break
up. A stranded Inupiaq in Indun territory is a dead
Inupiaq.

When the bike trekking gold panner arrived in Nome, he
read the headline splashed across the Nome Nugget
claiming a new Indian War.

The hundred or so Eskimos were on a trip to finish
some unfinished business, namely revenge for a
horrific slave raid by the Induns just last fall.
True to first invader creed, revenge is a dish best
served cold. Break up keeps a body cool and
delicious.

In true Eskimo tradition, they performed an analysis
of their battleground, their foes and reciprocatory
weaponry, and the likelihood of escape and return to
their families waiting for them back at the upriver
triangle of Shungnak, Kobuk, and Ambler.

What happened is why we may never have any more great
battles between the Eskimos and the invaders from Meso
America. Eskimo history is now validated. Induns
NEVER crossed the Bering Land Bridge, these pockmarked
fuckers arrived from the lesser 48 and Canada, fixing
to exterminate any and all Inupiaq derivatives of the
Siberian Races.

Ain't gonna happen on this day.

True to the biker gold panners story, there were about
a hundred Eskimos camped upriver from Nulato,
measuring ice thickness, ambient temperature, stashing
kayaks and weapons.

As the predictable spring weather patterns emerged,
this gang of Eskimos started chipping large patterns
in the Yukon River ice, stacking small igloos and
weapons into low profile turrets. Dressed in their
white winter camouflage they climbed into their ice
turrets and layed low till break up.

As the frozen Yukon River started moaning and groaning
from the stresses of break up, this flotilla of
heavily armed Eskimos proceeded to float slowly
downriver towards the newly vacated Russian beaver
pelt fort, newly inhabited by Induns who never claimed
Alaska as their homeland, but a territory up north,
dominated by ruthless Eskimos; vast hunting grounds
for both moose, fish, and very edible Inupiaqs.

Eskimos used to dominate most of Alaska, as far inland
as The Volcano, as far south as Unalakleet, and all of
the Arctic Coast. Newly arriving Induns from the
other continent would eventually force Eskimos back
from the interior to the mountains separating Ambler
from the Koyukuk River, and it's new Indian
trespassers. From this time forward, Eskimos will
never reap the bounty of salmon from the Yukon River,
despite being it's previous landlord.

As the mighty Yukon began its break up, the Russians
packed the last of their possessions and departed from
Nulato, whilst the Induns were moving in. All busy
with frosty spring-cleaning and completely unaware of
a hunnert strength band of Eskimos floating silently
downriver, dressed in winter whites, concealed in the
low profile turrets.

Break up on the Yukon River is usually noisy with low
thuds, screeches, and crackling. Not one Indun soul
detected the huge flotilla of heavily armed Eskimos;
neatly concealed, bows taught, arrows set on target.

A small group of women instantly died where they
gathered clean ice from the river. 3 children sucked
arrows further up the beach. Not a peep. Nobody ever
expects arrows to fly from the ice sheets whistle into
their Indun hearts, necks, and faces.

From out of nowhere, a whole army arose from the ice
flow and proceeded to perform a traditionally perfect
alien life form eradication operation.

No war cries, no hoorahs, just silent cleaners
snuffing out nuisance life forms that nearly
exterminated all Eskimo life at the upriver triangle a
year before.

All told, nearly 500 souls departed the stinky sack of
Indun flesh they inhabited heretofore. So quiet was
this kill zone, that most of the evidence leads a
smart investigator to assume they died in their sleep.


Murder? No. Ethnic cleansing? Not even. Sending a
message to the world that a small band of stealth
fighters ain't gonna take shit off no scumbag Induns?
Most likely.

During the time of our happy slaughter hour, interior
Induns outnumbered Eskimos 4:1. Clovis detachable
speed loader armaments don't mean shit, if you ain't
awake to use 'em. Old school micro-edged arrows and
spears work just fine on unconscious and unsuspecting
foe. Superior tactics always prevail over larger
numbers and better weaponry. Chance favors the
prepared mind. Fuck all.

Next time you watch the Eskimo Olympics, superimpose
an image of glorious slaughter and slavery into each
of these events.

In the big picture of rising and falling empires;
examine the battles Eskimos had to endure, then tell
me its unfair to utilize camouflage, off season
engagements, and deadly trickery to save a small part
of Alaska from these northerly invading mix breed
Indun motherfuckers.

It don't mean shit that we have children of our own.
Genetic and racial success is only determined if your
own offspring have offspring.

Other words. He, who fucks last, fucks best.

Gentlemen, do you now understand your inherent
cleverness and congenital deviousness in the
expression of your hobby killing and leisurely
murders?

Most of these Eskimos settled the new villages of the
lower triangle; Kiana, Noorvik, and Selawik.

See your connection to some of the world's trickiest
murderers?

Killers, all of you. Carry on.

Karl.

Keep up the good work gents, miles to go before you sleep.

Top of the morning gents,

Never let ‘em grow up, never let 'em mature. Good
parenting always bites my fucking ass.

Ever get ragged out by your own bastard offspring
worse than a red headed stepsister leaking pink sperm?


I have.

I ain't talking about that buggering Peter Pan notion
dick heads, I get ragged out by our own daughter for
putting her in harms way on schizophrenic vigilante
narc jobs, 'turning my bedroom into a gun locker or
grow room', partying with sick native pedophiles and
walking dead wigger village trash.

Healthy children should pull away from their parents
in healthy ways. Bossy little fuckers oughta hang a
thumb and bitch-hike at puberty cuz they'll betray you
and turn on ye: snitching, stinking, sneaking little
cunts.

Wake up fucks and take a look at yer calendar, your
mortal date with Death is now less than half a yard
away. Thus your children should be pert near one third
used up also, "in native years Karl" (Mrs.).

Our daughter has grown. A lot. Imagine a tall native
gal, pert near 6 Viking feet tall, and with hips, ass
and hooters totally exaggerated from mondo sessions
camping on the bowl at the Anus (ANS Scraling Toilet
and Nursery).

Okay I’ll spell out my dumb ass out-of-date acronym:
ANS was the old native hospital, Alaska Native
Services. Bunnik enjoyed that anus pun cuz it
accurately reflected the odor of that wretched old
facility, and its occupants.

Our Magnum child now works at the ANMC campus, and of
course fails to appreciate my hospital humor, nor my
racy and sexy, racist and sexist old fart military and
public service humor.

She's a quarter century old now, big native gal yet
adorned with all the trappings of a well-paid Eskimo
DOPE-double offspring, paternity empty.

No shit, she’s now hatched 2 darling little minority
runts that I absolutely adore, spoil and play with all
the way to the liquor store and my secret smoke out
places ("stone grottos" in UW Greek Row upper
classmen's proper parlance).

Yup, good call. White punks on dope: these kids get to
see a well dressed handsome "appa Kye" chat loudly
with my dudes at Spenard Builders, smoke my French
ciggies with the Broken Legs (Oaken Keg Negroes) or
spark a number with the Party Time Liquor store
hombres.

Bun can always tell I took the grandkids to my hiding
places of ill business and reputable pleasure cuz the
kids’ hands and faces are stained yellow from tobacco
and bong resin. They're happy as shit from secondary
exposure to Grandpa's choke-loads and Viking’s thirst
for Jim Beam.

I stay up late at night watching the Hitler channel
with my midget buddies and explain why my grandparents
fled to America. I get all kind of goose bumps telling
‘em stories of ancestors fighting invaders in 40
below, Gulag sufferings and firing squads eventually
arriving here in Alaska and living long enough to fill
their heads full of shit.

Hence my overt exposure of the Grandfather Conspiracy:
all of you vicious old killers can become lovable old
men and not mean cunts like yer in-law’s descendants.

I did.

What’s so damn cool is seeing these little Eskimo
grandchildren shaking each other's little hands
mimicking old Northern European manners, yelling “Yes
sir!” or gasping loudly after drinks of juice cheering
loudly “Cheers mate.”

Just like GOD: Good ol' Dad.

Damn shame: I’m such Euro snobbery reaching across a
smelly cultural divide teaching these little Eskimo
kids good social skills and pissing drunk poddy
habits: inappropriate for the shitty native existence
I intend on leaving them in.

Like all of you, they can’t mullick appa Kye on his
last narc job to the bush or smuggling job on the dark
side of the moon. Ya see, Valhalla got a sign on the
door, No Natives. Else we couldn’t call it Heaven.

If you paid attention, I'd mentioned soiling brain
cells in the company of dirty white Frat Boys. I did
and excessively, yet with barely passing grades,
completed ONE whole year at UW.

Academic stress induced chronic partying? Yer fucking
right it was, just Seattle Frat Boys network and
cooperate better'n a trillion insect bees, high on
base, coffee or chron.

We drank everything and studied tough till my gonads
ached from laughter. I know when I'm in a good crew
cuz my grades go up, as with my bar tab. Some of my
fondest memories are of wrapping up BA325 finance
projects, locking up our computer lab and heading to
John Johnson's and his Norwegian roommate's dorm room
fer beers and Chivas Regal depth charges.

Surprised I remember those UAF mad genius output
epochs? *Inside chiding towards one of our readers.

These are blocks of life I treasure, cuz I had 5
different college careers. University of Warshington,
Edmonds Communism College, North Seattle Pen, and
Shoreline Comm/Col, lastly serving a hitch at Upchuck
U and UAF.

Shoreline is fru-fru campus fer rich kids too baked to
drive further than our parents' Jennair Ovens or
indoor hot tub ventilator ducts.

Nothing better than a rainy Puget Sound morning with
half a pot of strong and cannibal soup (hot tub)
blowing huge plumes of wake and bake into the turbo
exhaust hot tub fan, or cackling iron lungs full of
pine chron air pollution directly into those MONSTER
exhaust systems on Jennair stoves. Seattle kids are
such pussies, we bitch if we gotta sneak tokes in the
kitchens or hot tubs of lavish homes overlooking Puget
Sound.

Ouch, I sat down wrong and my silver spoon gouged me
colon.

If I want to lose a stale girlfriend, I'd take her to
my parents mud farm and horse poop factory. If I want
her and her Eskimo daughter to stick around, I’d camp
'em at the Richmond Beach House, grand old palace back
in the day. Now it’s merely a giant vintage car,
antique and junk storage bin, albeit surrounded by
million dollar homes.

Growing old ain't fer pussies, and all of us will
honor the call of duty to wrap up our humping time
fiddle farts and business fucking around and return
home to play mommy to our mommies and daddies.

Here's the cool part, our mean ass fucking bossy nazi
kids will have to return home someday to wipe my arse
with diaper wipes. I'm planning on shitting
everywhere, except near my bar or smoking jacket.

Paybacks are bitch, I dread what my parents may be
scheming, but I’ve got a major woody fer repaying our
kids and grandkids every ounce of baby poop and
pitched food we’ve bought and paid for, thawed, cooked
and served: only to wipe half the shit offa the
fucking floor, the rest gorped in their laundry.

Moral of the story is take note of all yer wayward
scraling runt offspring’s short comings and
digressions, then imagine yer wife taking a huge
emergency room discharge crap smear and ass paint
butt-spray all over their new car or white carpets and
divan. We'll discuss nefarious ways to encourage
incontinence in yer wives on days yer at my place
taking bong rips, shooters and pouring beer foam down
yer wheelchair piss bag. The inside joke will be coded
as 'fucked ‘em in the goat ass.'

Sure, like all fairies, I too believe I'll live
forever and be the one prima-donna-biach attending all
of YOUR funerals.

It's only an illusion.

You nasty ass killers have always been the last man
standing after all the truly awful things you've
justifiably carried out: proofed in your breathing on
this blessed day so late in yer thankless lives of
service.

You’ll all be pulling assignments and narc jobs long
after Nolton and Nay back their patrol car up to the
incinerator out back of MMC and pitching my rancid
remains into a lake of fire like a baggie of mashed up
assholes.

As with all of our last missions prejudicial and
unconstitutional, your walking papers and termination
assignment is with a Mr. Reaper, location unknown,
dossier photo unavailable. Dudes, this target ain't
any of our kids or spouses.

Look in the mirror ass wipes.

I sure like composing curse-ridden prayers and
confusing affirmations of affection greased in gun
oil. Its just my way of giving thanks and saying
grace.

One author on drugs truly appreciates what you graying
gunslingers and uniformed felons have done for God’s
broken children, to hell with our own.

Fuck I'm funny.


Karluk.

Yost Park or Bust "Breaker breaker big dummy, this is the cotton mouth. We've got ourselves convoy." (a childhood should be filled with horse puckey)

Top of the morning gents,

FETS day dudes. Fuck everything tomorrow's Saturday.
Know what I mean?

I myself have a date way out in time and space:
borough destination beyond the Independence Mine and
the Lucky Shot Trail.

Yes, the coded language is intentional.

Need to know stuff, if you know these land and mile
marks, then you've visited my dumb ass safe house and
petted the patrol dogs: Dopey and Shep. By the grace
of God, and Nolton and Nay did those dogs breathe. The
Chief and 1D25's quick draw kid have shot each and
every dog I've ever owned and fed my hand too.

All you soldiers know of my hideouts. I even did a
basic finance project for Dr. Lindahl on the future
value of money etc, interest compounded on the unpaid
balance, with inputs for inflation (a good thing in
real estate). For simplicity on paper and in theory I
used my simple Willow property note-owner financed
with payments going to the Hubbard's: 10% note, 10K
down, 10 year term.

This is odd: I haven't plugged and chugged a physics
homework assignment in years, nor any Art Music
Theater Appreciation bull crap.

I always fucking figure percentages in my head,
intuitively listen to Master Greenspan's beautifully
descriptive terms like Irrational Exuberance,
Speculative Frenzy, and Froth in the Market.

Only at business school do we use what we learned
every fucking day for the rest of your life.

I even masturbate to CNBC, BBC World News and The
Voice of Russia. Detective Columbo has also been
infected with the finer shows such as Sell This House,
Flip This House, This Old House and Antiques Road Show
making me a widower for an hour each week.

Ain't we real PBS wankers?

Only geeks, dweebs and snobs enjoy Monty Python,
Brit-coms, and Listener supported art fag shows and
beg-a-thon fundraisers. I decant a bottle of Chateau
de Poopoo, incense and candles, and partake in
fascinating discussion and eye altering chief seshes
with me Chinese/Russo descendant, yet Native American
wife.

Hell, these high brow snob shows on PBS are what's
keeping us graying gunslingers learning new and
wonderful ideas, instead of composing curse ridden
prayers effectively promoting the lethal spread of ill
thoughts, bad words and hollow points.

One problem: my aching back. I can't sit in front of
the tellie or in a driver's seat without needing a
chiropractor bigger than me.

Which is what I started writing about: how my dubious
wisdom and bullet-proofed memories serve to teach
other morons beside myself. A wise man learns from his
mistakes, a genius learns from the mistakes of others.


When you see 2 little blond kids sliding down a ravine
whilst still on horseback, think of hip, leg and low
back pain and get a fucking clue.

It wasn't intentional we slide down a hill ass over
tea kettle with a horse crushing cully and me, just
sloppy trail conditions, poorly trained ScandicADHD
children ages 5 and 7 years old.

Despite her giant pregnant gut blocking our view of
her face, Mom still helped us cinch strap and saddle
up her favorite horse Tango, and pack sandwiches for
me and Cully for our all day trail rides and
expeditions throughout the Indian Trails, Pine Ridge,
Maplewood Park, or to Mike Callahan's house a few
blocks behind Maplewood School.

You guys were suck ass losers in the MOM Department.
As our hyperactivity flourished we advanced from
watching her on the sewing machine for 4-H and
typewriter for the Edmonds Herald, to riding horses
while she put clothes on the clothesline and rested
her pregnant burdens suffering more than we could ever
thank her for.

2 blond sids, John and George AKA Karl and Cully,
spent entire summers riding horses or pulling our
wagons powered by 1-goat power engines.

My mom indulged us with pet names after her deceased
uncles and brothers in Scandinavia and Canada: we
found it exciting. Make believe is way cool if yer mom
chimes in and don't poke fun at little boy daydreams
and imagination-laden adventures in the way back of
the Ewing farm. She even insisted we bring all our
goats with us when we went camping in and around Puget
Sound and Hood Canal.

I got scratches and gouges all over my hide when I
went swimming in Hood Canal with my goats. It may look
amusing and quaint in a Nordic pastoral theme, but
goats like to play dunk more than human boys. Me and
Cully ain't got no hooves nor horns, so the saltwater
bleedings really took all the fun outa playful
drownings with animals best for milk or steaks.

No shit, it was like a dog humping yer leg, but with a
playful yet horned and hoofed goat galloping up and
over yer ass with only downwards underwater for
escape. I wasn't laughing after they chased us bare
ass naked back up to my parents, soaking wet and
crying like fucking girls. Yer pets take on new
personalities when ye unleash 'em and let 'em go feral
in the ocean with yer sons.

All animals can out swim humans, learn that from a
dumb ass surrounded by dogs and goats as campground
and cabin patrols.

All animals will use their human masters as bumpers,
brakes and dozer blades whenever practical. Which is
why I still have to stretch and limber up every
fucking day till I kick it in a pine box.

From the years of 1967-1973 Me and Cully enjoyed
summer rainstorms on horseback trail rides within ear
shot of the Green River, Elbe and Bundy Creek. Until
we almost broke all 8 of our legs and 3 heads and
necks.

Both Cully and I were riding Tango through Catfish
Lake and The Indian Trails just below 5-corners
adjacent to Yost Park, cool as shit in the pouring
rain. We rallied all the trails and deep puddles
running Tango as fast and far as he pleased.

Those 2 blond kids weren't actually in charge, just
along for the ride. Horses gallop and leap when THEY
feel it necessary, why fuck with perfection?

Horses also trip, stumble and wipe out with furious
sounds, but no screeching tires or automobile crash
sound effects.

One of the upper trails had a steep drop off where me
and Cully would race Tango the super horse over the
top, hanging on tight while Tango put his flying and
four-wheel drive to work, landing and sliding in a
gallop full speed without a blip on the speedometer.

Rain, mud and unsafe speed rules apply to all of us
used to wheeled transp, unless your a horse, then it's
broady action all over fallen trees and through rain
soaked branches and bushes. Hence why it's called
break-neck speed.

One time we really fucking bit it.

Our super horse lost traction as we flew over the top
of that steep bank. Tango was already sliding as we
tumbled over the steep muddy cliff and on his riders
sliding fast as shit. Me and Cully were ridden by a
horse for a change of skeletal integrity and groinular
structure.

You can really tell when one species absolutely loves
another, cuz the 3 of us carry bonding capabilities
that are still shared with similar little boys, now
with kids of their own: that as their twig bends, so
grew their tree.

You can tell me and Cully were basically permanently
attached to that horse, and Tango did amazing things
in order to protect his precious fair haired cargo.
He'd stomped vicious dogs for us and chased mean older
kids that bullied and pounded on us too, we just aimed
Tango, then punched it.

On that miserably sloppy and wonderful day almost 40
years ago Tango rode two blond kids all the way down
the embankment crushing them at the bottom. As we
crested the peak, Tango fucking bit it royal, flipping
and sliding on his side, kicking his legs skyward in
counter balance pressing the air outa his 2 little
buddies. We slid all the way down backwards and
sideways, using me and Cully as brakes and adhoc dozer
blades. He fucked us up.

I awoke to Cully crying and yelling as he recovered
the air that was knocked out of him and Tango coated
in mud nudging and pushing Cully around in the water.

That poor horse was one worried unit, hyperventilating
and wheezing spit on us as we cried and walked broken
all the way home with a sullen and bleeding horse a
few paces behind, reins dragging untended in the mud.

Both our right legs were bum, our little spinal discs
were herniated and bulging and my hip was outa whack
half way through third grade.

My mom couldn't make sense out of us while she tended
to us with Band-Aids and hugs, but no chiropractor nor
x-rays. Both of told differing lies, yet zero mention
of our 'cowboy racing.' Mom would've jerked our 3rd
grade riders license had she seen us racing Tango at
full gallop through ponds and over downed trees.

The cliff jump woulda meant Death, so it never
happened and my morning stretches and calisthenics are
from 'other accidents' like 'falling down' in an
Estonian jail cell.

Tango was truly upset for the rest of the day,
standing in the rain by the back door of the that
decrepit farmhouse on 200th street, bleeding, soaked
and saddled. When mom or dad tried to remove his
saddle and reins he booked out of reach yelping in
pain only returning to check up on the busted up
little guys clinging to their dicks and parents.

Dad didn't have to ask us, he knew. Ya see, my dad
also grew up on a farm with a favorite horse too. And,
as you'd expect, he too awakes crippled and hobbled
from each and every glorious yet heart breaking
character building injury.

Except he was without a mom, and reminded us often.

His mum was cross generational bunkmates with Rachel
Craig at Ferndale or Firdale in North Seattle, sucking
mucous and iron lung bong rips sans any combustible
hydrocarbons and foamy beverages: TB Ward from hell.

When you see my Mom, sit with her over good coffee and
merlot and tell her about me and cully's longstanding
lie. She'd prefer to hear from you anyways, her boys
break lots of her nice things, which includes Volvos,
horses, hearts and antiques.

My irrational fear is that she herself might break if
either John or George fessed up to 'cowboy racing' a
truly wonderful horse over steep cliffs better'n any
TV show or western. She don't know anything about the
6-month stay at state expense on yonder former Soviet
soil, moms needn't concern themselves with criminal
class offspring.

Me bunnik promised to clear the slate of all that
crap, only if me mum and Eskimo wife outlive your
author on drugs.

This evening, right before you phone yer mums, take
note of the God awful pain and suffering she endured
the day all you naked and bald gunslingers arrived
here with me in my cat box and starting searching the
world over for heroes, heroines and friends angelic.

Un-winged friends, yer fucking right: but not unarmed.

This morning, I gotta really limber up. I got a date
with my past, way up Hatcher Pass Highway. A mere
hunnert miles away on the odometer, but a million
miles away from the smoking section of this cat box I
staked off in yer mind.

Phone yer mums you pussies. She's no crazier than you
bastards, just older and non-masculine, pity.

I've got 2 Eskimo grandchildren, things have change in
pert near half a century. It's us that are the
impudent bitches, good mothering is supposed to hurt
all of us. She's merely sharing her pain with ye: via
the back of her hand, her tears and our knowing she
still worries about us.

My mom's easy to find. Head to the way back of the cat
box, past that beat old farmhouse. She's in back
hurriedly removing fresh laundry from the clothesline
before the downpour, worried sick when her favorite
horse will arrive: with or without her broken boys.


Karl.

In rural Alaska and Estonia, NEVER take a drink served by stranger or from an open bottle.

Top of the morning gents,

Some of my sins are funnier'n shit. So long as none of
us are the random victim surprised with such violent
gastric or behavioral disturbances out of our control.

I'd mentioned previously how I tried to gag down a
sandwich the Sgt and K7 Garroutte had prepared for me,
trying desperately to hide my burning red face, salty
gullet and peppered puss.

I fucking had to spit it out, I ain't that tough. The
sheer volume of salt, pepper and hot sauce fried my
dick.

You should have seen the expressions on their faces as
they waltzed into the squad room handing out free food
from the jail kitchen. Fuckers broke up an otherwise
boring fucking day, better'n forcing my dick through
the ears of a native infant.

Kotzebue Skull Buggery mates: "mud, bugs and drugs, my
'skimo sutures are tighter'n a baby's butt" (S. Wade).
Obvious derivation from Bundy, Dodd and Ewing.

Paybacks are a bitch and kick my ass for eternity.

Years ago, back in the late 70's, I lived with a motor
head dude named Steve Schlett. Looking back I now also
deduce he was a chronic alcoholic with secondary
addictions to nicotine and cocaine, and a real fucking
dumb asshole.

Y'all know me; I love knocking back rounds with my
best mates in any fucking bar that's open. I truly
hate 'instant assholes: just add beer'.

My roommate Steve: fridge pilferer of my Euro trash
dark beers and bane of my existence every fucking time
he kick starts long benders.

From Thursday to Monday every week, this knucklehead
pounded brewskies, snarfed down fat caterpillars offa
my glass coffee (cocaine) table, and then snitched all
my spendy imported beers.

On a Saturday evening, he and his white trash nigra
bitch whore stumbled in the front door, mooched more
free blow and bong rips, then fetched a HUGE Baskin
and Robbins ice cream cake they'd stashed in the
freezer.

Steve and BitchHo then staggered back into their red
neck Jeep and headed to his parents house for a
backyard red neck fucking picnic.

Here's where the story gets interesting.

You know I couldn't let that cake leave the premises
without additional ingredients. Ever hear of syrup of
Ipecac?

Yup. That's me, the blond kid barely out of his teens,
pushing indentation holes into that ice cream cake
with his pinky finger, then filling these holes with
sweet and delicious cherry flavored syrup of Ipecac.

By replacing the cake back into the freezer, this
poisonous medicine soaked in looking like color
seepage from all the replaced sugary decorations on
top.

Fuck I'm good.

Me and Spanky, Troy and Rubbish (rob frost) and 240
Gordy played chess all night with minimal beers and
lots of Morning Thunder or Celestial Sleepytime tea
awaiting to hear the butt/gut bomb explosions or see
the puklear assblowing mushroom cloud.

Heck of way to spend a Saturday evening in Edmonds,
WA. Even with the addition of chron toke, us kids from
the Killing Fields of the Pacific Northwest exercised
moderation. A lad only got a 'penalty bong hit' when
he snagged one of yer men off the board.

You play me a game of chess and you'll remain sober as
shit, I'll smoke yer fucking ass all over the
chessboard.

Some dweeb kids played D&D (dungeons and dragons),
others played guitar and piano all fucking day, then
booked to Karl's or Franky's for chess, or build a big
bonfire way in the wayback of the farm.

Smart lot of sids, just none of my pals had both
parents so they all adopted farm boys and partied in
the horse pasture for beer and bonfire.

These abandoned kids didn't require any more
parenting, just the high level of Scandinavian group
think in the company of exceptionally smart
conversationalists AND party animals.

The horses just stood around blocking yer heat from
the fire and pushed yer beer cup around with their
noses and slobbered and lapped yer suds. The goats
ditched into their barn after everyone let 'em gulp
enough brew and blew bong tokes in their faces, all
the dogs just roamed perimeter protecting remarkably
vulnerable kids from intruders of any species: humans,
coyotes and raccoons, all rabid.

The bad humans were fed poisoned ice cream cakes,
sharing these same cakes with their crazy motor head
coke whore families.

Days later, Steve asked all of us culprits: Spanky,
Troy, Rub, and me if we'd gotten the same flu.

Seems when morons party on Ipecac, everybody heaves.
Spanky admitted he too had been puking ass sick, only
to cackle aloud right in Steve's face saying "it was
something in the cake." Steve's dull ass retarded look
of confoundment only busted us up louder, cuz he knew
we wouldn't touch that suspicious cake.

Whole bottle of vomit inducing medicine effectively
chuked everybody at Steve's parent's place with long
lines of white nigra biachHos at each toilet and fat
white dudes chuking all over the back porch. Now
that's a party.

Here's a trick the bar staff has used for decades:
Visine 86.

When a patron is stupid shit ass drunk, zap his credit
card for his last round, then cut the top off a bottle
of Visine and pour the whole fucker in his beverage.
Tasteless and powerful ass blaster or puke hurler
clearing the aforementioned dick head in under 10
minutes. No shit, you gotta shove yer fist up yer ass
to stop the storm drain from flooding.

His buddies will be dragging his nasty fountain filled
trousers out the door quicker'n shit cuz they can't
help but feel sorry for such a mop up shit ass
disaster they thought was their friend.

Like I said, out in the bush and the final frontier,
be real careful what you drink and from whom.

You also might steer clear of the bottled water
dispenser next to Joyce Whitehorn's desk, upstairs in
the Bunnell Building at the UAF School of Management.

Part of my scholarship was the duties of moving files,
cabinets, copiers, paper and computers, including
lugging a 5-gallon carboy jug of water from the
downstairs loading bay upstairs to old lady Joyce's
desk.

A real prick of a professor made sure I got my hands
dirty, and out of my spendy suits: Brett Simmons.

SMS fag boy. Short man syndrome to the ninth degree.
I've never been beaten up by anybody bigger than me,
dudes over 6 feet tall are sweet as shit. I've taken
some life altering ass whoopings and mutilations from
shorter chaps though. If Mr. Simmons had me in cuffs,
I too would have his high voice and light loafer
stride.

I never knew what concoctions Yauney brought from his
mom's medicine chest, but when I added a chiplet of
GHB outa John Paliwoda's packets and poured it into
every full carboy of distilled water we lugged over a
2 month period, even my breasts starting getting
tender and my pussy really fucking hurt.

All us computer lab rats avoided that water cooler
like the plague but the menstruating Brett Simmons
drank from that fountain of puke relishing every
single drop.

Fuck me in the goat ass, he had Karl right where he
wanted him, under his fucking thumb. Albeit a thumb
flush with a variety of dissolved pills and
prescription garbage both pharmaceutical and street
grade adulterants.

Professor Simmons no longer works at UAF, pity.

After Sam's anonymous reports of drug use, Internet
porno on his computer and paper bindles with residue
in his desk, he promptly returned to Texas.

He weren't from Alaska, but Alaska loved him anyway.
Native love hombres: black eye and a hickey, and
hallucinations on Brett's ass with a hot piss test and
blood analysis to boot.

I tried to kill him, he just got sick instead.

Malicious fuckers ain't we? Passive aggressive, ADHD,
PTHD, whatever dickheads: armed and dangerous, ya'll
got it.

God bless each and every one of ye. I learn from the
best.

Karluk.

Clouds to the left of me, chokers to the right, here I am. Stuck in the piddle with you.

Top of the morning gents,

*Quick data set check: Bush alcohol stats

20: Number of damp communities, which ban alcohol
sales but allow possession and importation

82: Number of dry communities, which ban possession,
sales and importation

Wet communities do not impose restrictions.

51: Number of communities with village public safety
officers

Sources: The Department of Public Safety and the
Alcoholic Beverage Control Board.


*Y'all remember the Billy Howarth murder trial?

Shit, even a full shred guitar song was written about
that cadavre pork and crap smear, "Billy Howarth is
gonna fry" (S. Wade).

Turds don't fall too far from the abby, and Billy's
boy is now incarcerated for crimes disturbuingly
similar to dead stump porking he himself is famous
for: stabbing native trash.

Inbred dude man Atoruk from Kiana, and cross-eyed
dullard Kingeak from Kotz. are now breathing through
new holes in the chest and neck, comps Billy Howarth
Jr. AKA poop dick.

My favorite clerk at the Carr's liquor store on
Boniface and DeBarr, an elderly chunky white gal from
the South, asked me what in God's name is up this
week. These last 3 days, Mon-Wed, March 20-22, she's
sold more fucking booze than any day since last
Christmas and New Years.

Also, during these same 3 days, she's had a "shit load
of natives arrested for shoplifting, concealing merch,
and chugging 40's in the back of the cooler." "If they
ban the sale of alcohol in their home villages, why
can't I ban the sale of alcohol these 'people' here in
town?"

God bless that woman. Hey fuck you, I'm aware of
candid racism, you oughta be aware of it too.

If we can chuckle at Quentin Tarrantino and Spike Lee
movies, you can chew a little on my daily am cop talk
newsletters rife with language only yer grandpa would
bust a gut over, perchance even cough up his uppers.

All day long I drive around Anchoragua visiting white
trash, native trash and avoiding Nigerian Candidates.
Me bunnik and I have dropped in on all black dude drug
houses only to be greeted with stereotypically cold,
hard and dead negro stares all us non-niggars know all
too well.

"If looks could kill they probably will in games
without frontiers, war without fears" (P. Gabriel).

Best way to track drug biz is too simply provide
transpo between crack houses and package delivery
between good people. We're also awaiting a harvest of
chronic camouflaged right in the heart of Little
Galena, Mountain View: camouflaged only to non-members
of this cluster of buddies, pals and new-found
friends. Yuck.

Coinciding with this run on the liquor commodities
markets is an equivalent run on the less harmful
commodities: cocaine and bud. Buzzy as a bee, sort of.

March is the month of madness, so we should be sure to
leave lots of 20 foot sections of rope around. Most of
my targets kill themselves before this torpedo is
fully armed and functional.

Fuck, even before I get good and warmed up, yet saves
us a fortune in prosecutorial and jail storage costs.

Gentlemen, start yer engines but no racing for team
Bacardi. In other words, don't be going native on me.

Karl.

*Take a read, you may know these fudge packers.

---

Officers respond to multiple violent crimes

Tuesday, March 21, 2006 - by Sean Doogan

Anchorage, Alaska - A rash of violence kept Anchorage
police officers busy last night. Officials had to deal
with two shootings and two men were stabbed.

It began in Muldoon at around 7 p.m. and it ended in
downtown at 11 p.m. But for many officers with the
Anchorage Police Department, the four hours in between
kept them busy.

At a trailer park on the 7500 block of the Glenn
Highway, Anchorage police say 33-year-old Kristie
Weaver and her husband got in an argument. Officers
say Weaver shot her husband in the stomach with a
hunting rifle.

Weaver is being held at the Anchorage Jail, charged
with first-degree assault and fourth-degree misconduct
involving weapons. Her husband, whose name has not
been released, was operated on last night and is
listed in fair condition at an Anchorage hospital.

Three hours later, a teenaged boy was shot in the
ankle after leaving a hip-hop concert at the Alaska
Center for Performing Arts.

“There were multiple persons involved in a
disturbance. We don’t have any real clear indication
as to who started the altercation. We do know that
someone pulled a gun out and fired towards the
direction of the crowd and striking one person in the
ankle,” said APD Lt. Paul Honeman

The boy was treated and released from the hospital
last night. No one has been arrested in this incident.
As police investigated that shooting, they received
another call. This time a man was stabbed at the
downtown bus depot, located just a few blocks away.

Anchorage police and emergency medical technicians
aided 28-year-old John Kingeak. Kingeak and another
man, 45-year-old Charlie Atoruk, were both stabbed in
the chest while drinking with a third man at the
Valley of the Moon Park. Atoruk made it to a friend’s
house in Penland Park before calling an ambulance.
Kingeak and Atoruk were listed in stable condition at
an Anchorage hospital.

Police say William Howarth Jr. was found by an officer
looking in downtown bars shortly after they responded
to the bus depot. Now the 30-year-old is being held on
two charges of first-degree assault in connection with
that case. Howarth is being held in lieu of $25,000
cash bail.

“Alcohol played a big factor in all the violent
incidents from last night,” said Honeman.

For four hours last night, it was a booze-fueled
evening that kept Anchorage police busy. According to
Honeman, Atoruk was fighting with Howarth. When
Kingeak intervened, Howarth stabbed him and Atoruk in
the chest. Honeman says all three were heavily
intoxicated.

---

Study finds safety linked to liquor bans
VILLAGES: Study finds prohibition significantly trims
assaults, accidents.

By ALEX deMARBAN
Anchorage Daily News

Published: March 22, 2006
Last Modified: March 22, 2006 at 03:14 AM


Remote villages that ban alcohol are significantly
safer than those that don't, with fewer serious
assaults resulting in death or hospitalization,
according to a new study. Those same villages are even
safer when they have law enforcement officers, said
co-author Darryl Wood, of the University of Alaska
Anchorage's Justice Center.


The study, which examined death certificates and state
trauma records for 132 off-road villages between 1991
and 2000, comes as cash-starved communities fight to
keep local safety officers and grapple with questions
over alcohol policy.

The dry-versus-wet debate has long nagged rural
villages, but some residents say local law enforcement
is more important than whether a community is legally
wet or dry.

Key among the report's findings:

• Dry villages had 52 percent fewer serious assaults
than damp or wet villages.

• Dry villages with a police presence had 36 percent
fewer serious assaults than dry villages without a
police presence.

Alcohol has a long and troubled history in the Bush.
It has been linked to the large number of village
suicides, domestic violence, homicides and accidents
-- among the highest in the nation.

To stem the tide of liquor flowing to the Bush and to
decrease alcohol-related deaths and injuries, about 80
villages have capitalized on state laws passed in the
1980s allowing prohibition through local elections.

But villages often waver. Residents in Togiak and
Nulato, for example, are considering rolling back
local prohibition and permitting alcohol sales.

A citizens' effort to take Angoon from dry to damp
recently failed by a close margin.

Studies on American Indian reservations in the Lower
48 add to the uncertainty. They've shown that
suicides, homicides and motor-vehicle collisions are
higher on reservations that ban alcohol.

There's a reason for that, Wood said. People on
reservations have a relatively available supply of
alcohol from highway bootleggers. And when they get a
shipment, they binge-drink.

But prohibition is effective in Alaska's rural
communities, Wood said. In part, that's because
alcohol is harder to get -- it must be smuggled in by
plane or boat.

Also, residents in tight-knit communities like those
in the Bush take on bigger watchdog roles, said
co-author Paul Gruenewald with the California-based
Prevention Research Center. The center studies alcohol
and drug misuse around the nation with a focus on
prevention.

Still, many Alaska communities remain skeptical, and
only a handful of new villages have gone dry after the
big rush of the 1980s and 1990s, said Doug Griffin,
director of the state's Alcoholic Beverage Control
Board.

The beverage control board agrees that going dry
doesn't end a community's alcohol problems, Griffin
said. People who want a drink will find a way to get
it.

Still, prohibition is a step in the right direction,
he said. Communities that ban alcohol have tough
punishments for bootleggers and are generally safer
and healthier, he said.

Bethel's George Nicholai, who runs the village public
safety officer program in the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta,
said making alcohol possession against the law is
almost meaningless with so few lawmen in the Bush.

The VPSO program, the face of village law enforcement,
has dwindled over the last 12 years as the state has
scaled back money for the program. The number of
officers has fallen from 100 in 1994 to 51 today.

The shortage is especially acute in Western Alaska.
For example, there are 56 villages scattered across
the delta, but the state pays for only 20 officers
there, said Nicholai, who works for the Bethel-based
Association of Village Council Presidents.

Worse, because of low wages, only 14 villages have
filled their VPSO slots, Nicholai said. As a result,
bootleggers in the delta easily slip through the
chasms in the law enforcement net, he said.

The state is trying to improve the program and
recently gave new recruits a raise. They now make
$16.55 an hour. Regional Native nonprofit corporations
which administer the program can also chip in $2.50 an
hour to increase the pay to $19.05 an hour.

The state's median wage in 2004 was about $20 an hour,
usually for less demanding work.

The shortages are not just in Western Alaska. Only
about 75 of the state's 180 or so off-road villages
have a local police department, a public safety
officer or a troopers post, Wood said.

About 15 additional villages have a tribal officer,
but they may not be trained and can only make
citizen's arrests if they witness a crime, he said.
Wood and Gruenewald did not examine injuries or deaths
in those villages. They said records there were
inconsistent or nonexistent.

The remainder of the state's villages have no local
law enforcement. When major crimes occur, they wait
for state troopers to fly in from regional posts. That
can take hours and be extremely dangerous, Nicholai
said.

Last fall, troopers from Bethel chartered a flight to
Nunam Iqua, an unpoliced village near the Bering Sea,
to arrest a drunken man who terrorized residents with
a shotgun and raped a 13-year-old, Nicholai said. The
troopers didn't arrive for four hours.

Capt. John Glick, who coordinates the statewide VPSO
program for the Alaska State Troopers, said the state
has increased its law enforcement presence in Western
Alaska in the last two years. It has boosted trooper
numbers from about 40 to 48 and added two drug
investigators.

He said the state provides money for 59 VPSOs. But the
vacancies need to be filled before the division can
request money for more positions, he said.

The increased pay should help reduce turnover in the
VPSO program, said Valent Maxwell, who heads the
program for the Kodiak Area Native Association.

The association oversees six VPSO positions on Kodiak
Island and in Northwest Alaska, but only three are
filled, Maxwell said.

Whether communities go damp or dry is less important
to public safety than having a local officer, he said.

"The ordinances are only as good as your ability to
enforce them," he said.

In addition to fighting crime, village public safety
officers douse fires, coordinate rescues and
administer medical aid. They also encourage new safety
initiatives and enforce them, he said.

Maxwell speaks from experience. Until he was promoted
to the Kodiak office last May, he served as the public
safety officer in Old Harbor, a village of about 200
on the south side of Kodiak Island.

Community residents created a tribal court and passed
laws requiring children to wear helmets and life
jackets. Maxwell made the laws stick, but his efforts
unraveled after he left.

Kids in Old Harbor aren't wearing their helmets now
and they're speeding down trails on ATVs and
snowmachines, he said. Residents there are ecstatic
that a new safety officer will start April 10, he
said. But they're crossing their fingers that no one
gets hurt before then.

The only reason I don't fuck women my own age is cuz they look just like my grandmother.

Top of the morning gents,

I've been scolded for being too nosy and asking too
many questions. Grandma Magdeline used to frequently
bitch at me, "Adii, shut up you!” “You ask too much."

Like I give a shit: as long as the beer is cold and
free, my attitude was eat shit and die, and answer my
fucking questions you mean old Inu-runt bitch.

This went on for years. That nasty old lady absolutely
hated my shit, yet happily let me pay her phone bills,
airline tickets to our Willow safe house and booze
orders hidden at house 420 behind Mt. Gallahorn gravel
pile.

Only you elder Kotz maggots can attest to the volume
of surplus crap I sent that old lady. Every house we
tore up: 369, 711, 676 and our Mat-Su properties, had
treasure troves of sewing machines, household items,
subsistence tools like stolen guns I would never sell
to any of ye. AND all the hides me and Kramer stripped
offa our dead dog bait trap line surrounding the
Kotzebue K-Mart. The same dump and Eskimo scavenge
site that me and the Burnors torched every year, for
decades.

Amidst the scattered ashes of thousands of dogs and
blown propane canisters, you oughta find micro bit
mortals remains of higher life forms, yet still
subhuman. Gone missing is just what you're told.

Shot, burned and buried in the dump is the less
romantic truth how lots of shitty dicks and stinky
nuggers done disappeared.

Don't worry, nobody liked them anyway, just banishment
costs half a grand on Mark Air. A shot in the dark and
a decent bonfire describes best how I mixed my whiskey
and drugs with Kikiktagruk spit, and disgusting
gunplay.

Fuck y'all, you were there too.

Despite massive memory loss due to alcoholic amnesia,
I can't delete peak experiences of absolute joy mixed
with gun smoke, sperm and burnt meat. Fuck I'm feeling
that good all over lynch party klan feeling again. I'm
gonna reach down between my brains, ease my seat back.
Yup, look at me: hard nipples and drippy dick. Guys
like us have to grow old and die. Real soon.

Our generation of violent Alaskans ain't needed round
these parts no more. The magic of the frontier lies
yonder, our squats and claims are all dried up, and so
are our squaws.

Ain't none of yer cross-eyed and colored spouses could
hatch any more little scralings, menopause will be
your wretched curse unless you spike yer wives bong
hits and Jameson's double shots with LOTS of estrogen.
Just don't drink from the same bottle, seeing tits
under a uniform and gun belt on any of ye will turn my
eyes, skin and hair gray.

From 35-50 years of age, a healthy woman's blood
increasingly and rapidly fails to carry 2 important
items: oxygen and calcium. Thus the bone loss and
fractures, piss poor thermo-regulation with hot
flashes that can fry an egg and torch a phone book if
you press it against her fucking face hard enough with
a hammer.

Like my advice to monitor your blood pressure,
cholesterol and blood sugar levels, you'll also ignore
my advice to put yer darky bitches on Prem-Pro hormone
replacement therapy (HRT). Only a real cunt prefers to
suffer us all to hell, if she refuses meds, shoot the
old bitch and get a new one. Your kids will thank you
and so will we.

Try this late at night. Just sit still for a few
moments and watch yer wife real close: you can see her
grow old right in front of ye. Put on yer bifocals you
dumb ass.

Oxygen deprivation leads to senility and dingy wives
and calcium loss makes a vicious bitch frail and
fragile, yet screaming and begging to be killed with a
bat. Accelerated aging processes ain't in the marriage
contract, but death do us part (in pieces) means
shotgun dudes.

So "Kill your partners Max" (VideoDrome). Fuck it,
I'll do it. Upon request, I'll defrost the biach, then
season it with pellet pepper. Besides, ain't no living
with a killer, nor his/her host body and competing
demons. FemiNazi Mystique my ass, a woman’s God is
also female, hence their divinity and wretchedness.

Alaska's wealth arises from plow, not sickle. To
extract resources from this fucking colonial outpost
we gotta displace a shit load of natives and git busy
with heavy equipment mobilization. Which is why all
you killers were so important, yet now obsolete and
marked for surplus (pine boxes full of rotting
gunslingers). You guys were needed most long ago, back
when we needed shooters to lighten ambient skin color
via rape with all the abby dudes shot full of holes
and pitched into 3 mass graves directly underneath
Kotzebue.

Despite all yer boners and cartridges, killing
aboriginals ain't cool or hip no longer. Neither is
lynching folks back into lower class systems. In this
century, minorities ain't sick and feeble no more,
they're on the path towards health, wealth and wisdom
with blond folks on the way out.

We don't need to kill 'em any longer; they have
Mozarts of their own to offer the world. They're
capable of being far more than mere welfare trash and
reservation rejects and I got money on a bet that an
Eskimo will pilot a space shuttle or sit next to
Einstein in lecture and library. I only expect you
boys to be good at one thing: staying alive and
healthy and continue your hobby killing long into
retirement, just like your author on drugs.

One Native of honorable mention is our dude Manillaq.
From centuries back he was tripping fucking balls on
visions of iron roads to the biggest city in Alaska:
Ambler.

The reason he's mentioned in the smoking section of
this cat box hideout I staked out in the far recesses
of your brain is cuz he's simply fucking radical and
would get banished or lynched again if he returned.
Just like Jews, Eskimos kill their own carpenters
better than fucking indvading mobs of Vikings on
crack.

Similarly, Jan Shackles, AND our dude Manillaq both
iconoclasts far out of the reach of most minorities.
Shit, out of the reach of most real humans too.

I'll continually introduce and remind you lads of good
folks battling skin hue disapproval. Just like all of
you.

With language and irrelevant word usage counter to
complexity and sentence structure and my affirmations
of affection shielded in gun oil, I play a damned
confounding game of context interfacing and
deliciously inappropriate language. Fuck ye.

We simply gotta stop killing good Induns, yet bulldoze
Shishmaref into the drink.

Despite chronic impairment and toxicity, have gun will
travel. Ain’t that a comforting image of us out of
date Alaskans?


PS. You could learn a lot from a dump. And 3 mass graves too. My name is nobody, yers is Jack Bourigard. Gentlemen, start killing.

Karl.


---

Article Published: Sunday, March 19, 2006

Rails, diamonds focus of talks

Mining trade show covered lots of ground

By STEFAN MILKOWSKI, Staff Writer

The Arctic International Mining Symposium, which
included a trade show, talks and even a tour of the
Pogo gold mine, wrapped up Friday. Here's a sampling
of the subjects discussed.

Arctic iron horse

Steven Borell, P.E., executive director of the Alaska
Miners Association, has been thinking about a 400-mile
railroad through the arctic since before Bill Clinton
became president.

The idea is to bring some of the massive coal and
metal deposits of Northwest Alaska to the port in
Nome. By some estimates, the area could contain about
a quarter of all the coal in the U.S., Borell said,
with underground seams 100 feet thick or better.


"It's a concept," he told the hardy few who came early
Thursday morning for hard-boiled eggs, pancakes,
sausage and a PowerPoint presentation. "There's a lot
of problems with it."

Here's how it could work. A couple of coal mines, each
producing 10 million tons per year for 30 years, ship
their coal by rail to the port at Nome. A coal-fired
power plant at one of the mines provides power to Teck
Cominco Ltd.'s Red Dog Mine north of Kotzebue, which
in turn can process its zinc on site rather than
shipping out zinc concentrate because electricity from
a coal-fired plant would be a lot cheaper than
electricity from a liquid fuel-fired plant.

A rail spur could link up with the Ambler region
southeast of Red Dog, which could contain about 3
billion pounds of copper, according to one of the
companies exploring there.

Borell first explored the railroad in depth for a
class at the University of Alaska Anchorage in 1992,
when he received an assignment to come up with a
systems approach to a project. Now he calls it "kind
of an avocation."

The mineral resources of the area are so great even
extreme measures of retrieving them become somewhat
logical economically. One company considered using
Boeing 747s to get copper out of the Ambler region,
Borell said.

So what's so crazy about a 400-mile railroad from the
Brooks Range to Nome?

Borell is the first to admit there's a few hurdles.

One is getting across or around protected federal
lands. Permission to put a railroad through federal
conservation land is hard-won at best.

There is a way to skirt the federal conservation land,
involving a multi-mile crossing of Kotzebue Sound.

"He cheated," said Clarke Milne, P.E., who works for
the state's Department of Transportation and Public
Facilities and came to the talk. "He went across the
water."

Borell swears the water's shallow enough to walk
through. OK, maybe there's a few spots where it's 30
feet deep, but that's just a challenge for the
engineers.

The Jones Act, which bars foreign-made ships from
transporting goods between U.S. states, could also be
a sticking point. Because American-made and licensed
ships are rare and expensive, any minerals shipped out
of Nome would probably have to go to foreign markets.

But the biggest hurdle might be winning over the
Alaska Native residents of the area.

"The acceptance of the Native people is essential,"
Borell said. So far, the Arctic Slope Regional Corp.
is not exactly on board, but he does have plans to
meet with the corporation's new president.

If anything, he said, they're only interested in
building one mine, which wouldn't make the project
worth it.

"I don't know if five mines will do it," he said.

There's a lot Borell doesn't know, like what it would
cost.

"Oh, who knows?" he said.

Estimates of other rail projects put the cost of a new
railroad at between $2 million and $4 million per
mile, so a conservative estimate could be $1.6
billion.

What might be road-blocks become speed bumps under
Borell's enthusiasm.

Ocean crossing? No problem.

Mountains?

"I won't strictly call them mountains," he said of the
terrain tracks would cross, "but you have some
significant topography."

The Canadians have done amazing things getting trains
past mountains, he said.

Diamonds in Alaska?

Are there really diamonds in Alaska?

Well, yes. There are at least three.

In the summers of 1982, 1984 and 1986, three diamonds
were found around Crooked Creek in the Circle mining
district. One was a dodecahedron, pale yellow, 1.4
carats.

Experts found markers that make them believe the
diamonds aren't complete flukes, either, said David
Szumigala, a geologist with the Division of Geological
and Geophysical Surveys, an arm of the state's
Department of Natural Resources.

Szumigala said at the start of his talk Thursday
morning that he was hardly an expert on diamonds.

He wasn't alone. No one in the room raised a hand when
he asked if anybody had explored for diamonds before.
Alaska is hardly a big producer of the precious gems.

The impetus for the talk was more simple curiosity, he
said. "Let's just take a look at something here."

Turns out, a few dozen others were curious, too.

The three diamonds found in the 1980s were the first
documented occurrences in the state of full-size
diamonds, he said, but micro-diamonds have been found,
and the list of rumored or poorly verified discoveries
is long.

Reports have trickled in from Jack Wade, California,
Jarvis and Canyon Creeks, Goodnews Bay and the Koyukuk
River.

The most promising site, at least the most explored,
is around Shulin Lake near Talkeetna. "Micro- and
macro-diamonds occur in interbedded volcaniclastic and
tuffaceous rocks containing olivine and pyroxene,"
reads the DGGS's 2004 report on the mineral industry.

Golconda Resources Ltd. found three micro-diamonds in
a drilled-core sample. They also found garnets of the
type that occur in or around diamonds.

A good amount of money has been spent checking out the
Shulin Lake property, Szumigala said.

In order for diamonds to form, rock needs to be
deep—about 100 miles deep—and about a billion years
old.

In order to get the diamonds up from the depths of the
earth, there needs to be some geological formation to
escort them towards the surface, such as a kimberlite
pipe.

Alaska doesn't really have any of those, Szumigala
said.

The eclogitic model, involving a descending ocean
crust, could also result in sources of diamonds in
hard rock near the surface, which would better explain
what has been found already, he said.

Szumigala showed a map of the spots where diamonds
have been reported, stopping short of declaring a
diamond belt like the wide belt of gold deposits
running across the state.

But "stepping outside the box" and taking a look might
not be a bad idea, Szumigala said.

After all, he said, people doubted there would ever be
a big gold deposit in the Fairbanks mining district,
until Fort Knox became the biggest gold mine in the
state.

Fort Knox heap leach

Fairbanks Gold Mining Inc., which operates the Fort
Knox gold mine northeast of Fairbanks, is considering
using a completely different technique for getting the
tiny bits of gold out of its crushed rock.

The method being considered, called heap leaching,
involves saturating a pile of crushed rock with a
chemical solution containing cyanide and letting the
chemicals dissolve the bits of gold into a solution
that will leach out of the pile and be caught in
receptacles, then processed to remove the gold.

Fort Knox currently uses a method called vat leaching,
in which gold is retrieved from ore through chemical
solutions contained in a series of tanks.

John Hollow of Fairbanks Gold Mining said mine
operators have been talking about heap leaching since
1992, before the mine was even developed.

"It seems to make more sense right now," he said
during a presentation Wednesday that also boasted of
the mine's safety and environmental record and
exemplary reclamation projects.

Nothing small happens at Fort Knox—the mine removed
more than 300,000 ounces of gold from millions of tons
of rock last year—and the heap leaching project would
be no different.

It would disturb a total of 310 acres, Hollow said.

The company did a pre-feasibility study in 2005 and
will work on planning and permitting in 2006. By 2007,
they hope to begin operation, he said.

Last year, Fairbanks Gold Mining began reclaiming
sections of the True North mine. The company mined
True North, which is about a dozen miles northwest of
Fort Knox, between 2001 and 2004. Community Affairs
Director Lorna Shaw, who teamed up with Hollow for the
talk, said the company won't mine there in 2006 and
hasn't decided yet about 2007.

---

March 21, 2006


Alaska native village suffering meltdown
As earth's temperature rises, villagers' island loses
buffer zone of ice and snow

Smithsonian Magazine

Shishmaref, a native village on an island off
northwestern Alaska, is falling into the ocean.

SLIPPING AWAY: Sunshine at 3 a.m. on a mid-July day
shows the fallen retaining walls and eroded coast in
Shishmaref, Alaska. The villagers voted in 2002 to
move to the mainland. - Associated Press 2002 file
photo

Giant storm surges have so battered the place -- once
well protected by sea ice -- that villagers voted in
2002 to leave their ancestral home for the mainland.
They are being called some of the first refugees from
global warming.

"We tend to describe climate change in terms that are
abstract -- a 1-degree rise in temperature, an
increase in greenhouse gases -- but when waves wash
away a village, that's concrete and very emotional,"
Igor Krupnik, an anthropologist at the National Museum
of Natural History and curator of a new exhibition
about global warming's effects on Arctic peoples,
tells Smithsonian magazine.

"When they lose a piece of their land, they aren't
just losing a certain number of square miles. They are
losing part of their history and their memory. They
are losing childhood events and grandparents' tales."

Shishmaref sits on an island only a quarter of a mile
across and two-and-a-half miles long, north of the
Bering Strait off Alaska's Seward Peninsula.
Before temperatures began to rise there about 30 years
ago, 20 to 30 miles of hard sea ice buffered
Shishmaref from powerful fall storms. But natives and
scientists alike say the ice doesn't freeze as solidly
or as soon as it used to and now stretches only six or
seven miles, leaving the community of 600 people more
exposed. Storms have swept away houses and a
playground.

The villagers' plan is to relocate to Tin Creek, a
site on the Alaska mainland 12 miles away, and they
have appealed to state and local authorities to pick
up the estimated $180 million cost. Residents hope
that in their new community they'll be able to
maintain their close ties and continue hunting seals
and walruses, and keep fishing, much as their
ancestors have done for centuries.

"People are asking why (the government) should be
spending so much money on so few people," said
Shishmaref native Tony Weyiouanna. "But people here in
Alaska are like everyone else. We want to keep our
culture alive."

Residents have received $4.25 million for a road to
Tin Creek, but Weyiouanna says he is not optimistic
that the community will get all the funding it needs
to rebuild.

NASA says the year 2005 was the hottest in a century,
and though some experts disagree over how much carbon
dioxide emissions contribute to global warming, they
agree that the Arctic is feeling the burn more than
anyplace else.

And the Arctic's problems are worsening. As rising
temperatures melt ice and snow, newly exposed land and
seawater absorb even more sunlight, increasing
temperatures further, and so on.

NASA climatologist James Hansen, who has publicly
accused Bush administration officials of trying to
suppress evidence of global warming, says most of last
year's record heat reflects increases in the Arctic,
which was 3 degrees warmer than usual.

Anthropologist William Fitzhugh, director of the
Smithsonian's Arctic Studies Center, says Shishmaref's
plight is bad news, if only because Arctic ice and
snow help air-condition the planet. "They are canaries
in the coal mine," he says of the town's soon to be
displaced residents.

For his part, Weyiouanna says, "The annihilation of
our way of life due to global warming is something we
would like to avoid. Nobody wants to be the canary."