Monday, July 03, 2006

Busy day for the undertaker.

Top of the morning gents,

Me and bunnik gotta be careful when we stop and chat with Squish's sister in law. She was undertaking the duties of landlord turning around House #634A on fifth avenue, and took a breather to chat with us and catch up on muktuk business, our relocation to Kotzebue and who we have renting our duplex in Barrow.

In the middle of our chat, we seen No-dick Mike Kramer lose control of his Manure-lick truck, driving far too fast for his particularly slow neuron frequency. His endeavor to appear professional whilst multi-tasking with radio and vehicle controls albeit ineptly: would be amusing had he not been on company time, public right of ways and company liability automotive insurance coverage.

Never give a boy a man's job.

In direct contrast in ability and professionalism I seen the Sgt blast me and the Mrs. in the opposite direction behind the wheel of the Narc wagon stressing the coefficients of friction capabilities of all four tires, exceeding the travel limits of the Jeep's chassis and suspension, and visiting engine temperatures not seen heretofore.

What a contrast. First we see a complete dweeb slip and slide all over the road DWI: driving while Inupiaq, then we see a cool professional wheel man push a municipal vehicle surprisingly beyond my wildest performance expectations.

After the dust settled, we continued our pleasant chat, then leisurely strolled home for crumpet and tea.

Then the phone rang.

Our aboriginal informant explained that a 19-year-old Snyder kid had just eaten a rifle. With suicides commonplace amongst elderly white men and native youth, I shrugged my shoulders and proceeded forth with my evening activities of cleaning and husbandly duties only a man would understand.

Ya see, where I come from, it’s quite normal for septuagenarian gents to eat a gun after a chronic health diagnosis, whereas, it’s abnormal for an elderly gentleman to jump from a high rise building utilizing deceleration trauma from the pavement instead of lead poisoning from a gun.

Some things are all part of life, and some things aren’t.

Old European dudes don’t eat poison they eat guns. Any time you discover poison inside an aging lad’s corpse, ye best pull the Mrs. in for questioning, and quickly: she’s likely the cause of the toxic ingestion. It’s a sure bet she’s a black widow, or the old gal is sucking shit and puke from her own cyanide tablet chewing the moment you knock and talk with her.

Some behaviors are distinctly ethnic and racially predictive: right down demographic lines. This Native youth that kilt himself is also ethnically and racially predictable.

So is the correlation to the young Mr. Snyder’s suicide to his own cousin killing himself just last year: similarly equipped hominids behave similarly, hence familial and cluster based suicides. I’ve yet to draw any conclusions if Mr. Snyder’s suicide is remotely related to Mr. Booth’s suicide up in Kivalina last week. Alas, in fine Eskimo tradition, expectation and realization: all blessings and tragedies come in threes.

Another tragedy I could never predict is the death of Benny Hensley Jr. He was too old to qualify for Native youth suicide, and too young to receive news of chronic illness. Sadly, there isn’t any age categorization in my quantitative abilities explaining and predicting violent accidental deaths despite my scouring countless tables and charts I’ve copied, pasted and attached in my daily missives to all you graying gunslingers.

All the charts and graphs in the world won’t aid me in understanding plain facts of life such as why Benny Hensley Jr. got busted to pieces in a 4-wheeler accident and died on the way to Anchorage for treatment. All that remains of the wreckage is now sitting in jail: sobering up and failing to comprehend the fatal outcomes he’s now burdened to pay for. How can David Melton shoulder irresponsible motorized vehicle sins if he can’t even remember them?

Through the exaggerated fog I dubiously claim from decades of chronic drinking to my health, I remember this Benny Hensley Jr. He was what I loathingly called a Fetal Alcohol Poster Monkey from way back in the day when Brian Higman and I used to frequent local bootleggers to drink, smoke and stagger home to our blessed Microdot domicile: House 321 bong hit.

All FAS children stand astronomically increased risks of death from accidents; suicides and externalities common to everyday violence hunter-gatherer cultures take for granted. This blatantly simple fact of life was lectured and absorbed during a visit and sleepover at Agent Octuck’s Fairbanks residence. Smart man, ye ought to listen to him when he’s talking.

Benny Hensley's sister, Paula Hensley married and spawned with David Burnor. She also drank heavily with her husband David and Danny Burnor, ‘cept she weren’t designed for such genetic alcoholism as us Euro-trash dudes. The Burnors could drink like no other. Even after me and Brian stumbled our way home and David Melton passed out, them dirty white boys from Long Island, New York could carry on in fine Scottish tradition whilst my Mick fuck roommate and this Finn were either heading home, or under the table. Combat drinking of a village and “almost human nature: this will not do” (Pink Floyd).

Rational emoting isn’t included in the ownership manual I received when I arrived out here to serve the rest of my life in isolation. I read and memorized all of the Inupiaq values, even so far as to assimilate these values into my behavior, my marriage and my existential epistemologically based structural modifications atop my pagan Nordic codebook. There are no outlets for adult males to express morbid depression, save self-inflicted expression such as suicide.

I read, write and express my sufferings by means of detached humor, objective data summaries and embarrassingly touching analysis of needless human trauma omnipresent and ongoing in every remote village I’ve shit and pissed in. But none of it adds up to a hill of beans in ceasing or reducing this unstoppable carnage we must witness, endure and shovel dirt upon.

My first thought folly was following orders from an investigator from Mountlake Terrace and enjoin you graying gunslingers in the service of our public health and safety, but the burn out factor was impossible to outrun. I then seized the opportunity to work with Alaska’s best spook handlers employed in the battle to target, torpedo and eliminate illegal bootleggers and drug dealers wrecking havoc upon our blessed Native villages. Such targets are easy to spot when they are characters identical to yer author on drugs: suburban white devils immune to the products they distribute. To quote the infamous 6Killer, “It takes one to know one.” Amen?

Overwhelming conflicting emotions burdened with overwhelming guilt are personal aspects that make my vigilante schizophrenia so overly stressful, we’ll never know if we should pat me on the back, or arrest me along with my compatriots I’ve double-crossed and betrayed. Long hair hides a redneck and my red coat tails are occasionally visible under my traitorously dapper blue coat uniform. Make sense?

The way I look at it: one way of preventing native youth suicides and native male violence, trauma and accidental death is to remove distilled spirits from the modern aboriginal diet: leaving fermented beers and wines on the dinner table. Notice I specified leaving malt beverages and table wines “on the dinner table.” That isn’t a joke or oversight on my part.

The preferred drink of choice out here in the bush is whiskey, rum and high-proof vodkas. These are the same preferences I witnessed whilst working in Inari, Finland: another arctic region that suffers needlessly from the ills of excess drink, violence, suicide and death. In the Southern ports such as Helsinki etc, the choice of beverage is simply beer: and lots of it. Finns drink just as hard, perchance even harder than their aboriginal counterparts elsewhere, but the preference of beer dilutes their inherent susceptibilities to acute intoxication and alcoholic psychosis we witness in our blessed villages north of 70 lat.

If you browse the top shelves of the Vodka section in your local liquor store, you’ll see Viking brands such as Gray Goose and Absolut, with Kettle One a Danish import. All of these super premium vodkas are low in congeners: toxins associated with fermentation and distillation: the same toxins responsible for most alcohol withdrawal symptoms. Meaning, you won’t go native crazy or suffer much of a hangover. It also explains why they’re called “Finnish White Wines”, due to their palatability and drink ability unequal to all other brands and types of hard liquor.

Single malt highland Scotch contains slightly higher levels of congeners due to the barrel aging, with the triple distillation and triple charcoal filtering processes omitted because the caramel coloring and oak smoke flavoring would get stripped out. The characteristic color and flavor we enjoy in whiskey is yet another cultural preference inherited from the UK.

This strikes me as odd, because the highest population demographic in America is German-Americans who traditionally enjoy premium beers and malts, and wine producing nations such as Spain and France traditionally enjoy wines and wine-based distills such as brandy, port and cognac.

Nowhere in my alcohol based preamble do you see my mentioning of ‘traditional’ consumption of alcohol by our native brethren.

Did Eskimos or Athabascans ever produce fermented beverages besides ‘stink flipper’ or ‘mikiuq?’

Siberians from the Mongol-Asian Steppe have enjoyed fermented horse milk and fermented goat’s milk. Both never exceeding 12-14% alcohol by volume due to the alcohol being a waste product of yeast and killing itself in its own shit: the first alcohol related death.

Analogous to the Africans with sickle cell anemia being immune to malaria, Eskimos possess stomach and liver enzymes allowing them the digestive capability to consume sea mammal blubbers, aged fish, ripe land mammal meats and rendered fats in the form of oil delicacies serving as both nutritional and flavorful digestive supplements to everyday meals.

Did this historically and genetically advantageous digestive capability prove to be a disadvantage in the digestion and enzymatic breakdown of ethanol alcohol?

I don’t have to answer that: my iconoclastic Mrs. with her Siberian liver enzymatic complex already has.

“Adii Karlukmun, I can’t drink any liquor cuz I’m Eskimo.” “An eater of fish and meat can’t also be an eater of refined grains and grapes.”

I couldn’t have put it any better.

Ya see, she is one of very few Eskimos that abstain from all alcoholic beverages, thus leaving lots more booze for me: the Viking in yer midst that refrains from his own culturally habitual violence. At least until I finish this article.

Common sense sure as hell ain’t all that common. Neither are expert drivers like the Sgt.

It’s a real pleasure to watch such expertise in the handling of a speeding automobile. We could all learn a few tricks from the lead-foot and trigger-happy kid from Janton, California.

Someone ought to take the car keys, radio and bullets from Kramer: he’s a danger to the community behind the wheel. No amount of training will teach that FAS poster monkey to drive or shoot like any of you graying gunslingers.

I’m apt to start calling him Barney Fife, or Barney Reuters, except neither of those characters display even subtle traits of Fetal Alcohol Exposure like Mikey. I guess it’s best he’s working for Manure-Lick: good place for FAS monkey fuckers.

If we don’t do something about aboriginal ready access to distilled spirits, we’ll only get more and more of these medical and health crises, and no dick dumb shits like Mikey that are too retarded to kill themselves.

I dare say we need another assisted native suicide job. Do any of you know of such a killer skilled in creative crime scene Masterpiece Theater? I do, and he’s due to arrive in town any minute now.

Hey man nice shot.


Karl.

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