Don't cry over spilled muktuk. Pussy neither.

Top of the morning gents,

Life can't be all shit. Bun was telling me about suicides that caused her a lot of pain. I had no idea what the fuck she was talking about, so I asked. She was talking her native jabber about some guy that I talked to on the phone. I shook my head. I had no clue. Besides, sometimes I have to decode NANA Regional Retard Dialect, which pisses me off. She got a million buxsh worth of teeth and still regresses to Front Street Languages. Meaning, normal stupid nate-lick no-teefer shlag-chalk (slag talk).

"You remember when you sent Bella (Clark) Woods those boxes of muktuk?" Of course I remember that mean old crippled lady. I'd phoned her to rent a house from her and she advised me, "I don't rent to no whites. They always gets me troubles." Fucking racist old dirt bag didn't remember who KarlnBun were. I wanted to walk over to her house and punch her old fossil head and crush it like a cardboard box filled with spaghetti. After phoning her, I dialed Bob Douglas for an apartment to rent. That turned into a real goddamned picnic. Folks get real creepy and grabby when I pay them to be the boss of me. We bounced from 894-D over to Jim Rood's duplex across from the KIC gas pumps, then finally came to a rest at 628 Fifth (of bourbon) Avenue. Finding lodging, housing and utilities in native communities has become such a piss off, I've forbidden our return. For ever.

Back to bun's lost native story. She was telling me about a native girl that'd killed herself. And her baby. I mistakenly thought she was talking about that Salazar chick that OD'd and let her baby die laying next her of starvation and dehydration. Shit still pisses me off. I had to clear my head and let my pretty wife explain that no, this was a different native woman that killed herself. And her baby. It was Bella (Clark) Woods' niece and Norman Clark's daughter. We'd shipped the family mondo muktuk tonnage and Norman was awestruck at bun's generosity (she got white man that kills many whales). Okay, back to the suicide and here's the grisly part. Norman's daughter first killed her own infant girl, then herself, with a kitchen butcher knife. I think. An ulu would've been a real workout sawing back and forth. I know, I've tried. What touched me was bun's eyes got real wet and shiny. I never learned to handle other men and women crying. Fucks my shit up. Life ain't all shit.

History is circular and confusing, so pay attention and follow my flawed memory. You've gathered from previous postings, memories can become corrupted from way too much hearsay, gossip and intentional bullshit. Far away from the vil and out here in the real world, me and bun have heard some real stink piles of bogus rumors and plain stupid made-up garbage about news, happenings and tragedies back home in rural monkey Alaska. So if my reporting and alliteration seems far-fetched or just dumb and wrong, call me on my repetition of whispered crap untrue.

Way back, many decades ago, I was sending tons of whale muk to the senior centers in Selawik, Kotzebue and Noatak, all free on Cape Smythe Air with Alice Hopson at the Barrow station and Solveig Naylor at the OTZ end, greasing the wheels for me. No charge. What the fuck, I was helping the Brower, Itta and Bodfish whale crews clear trails out on the ice, butchering giant 50 ton stinky black slugs, and shooting pesky, stubborn polar bears trying to kype chunkage from hard-working nuggers. In violation of the Lacy Act, I was punching .338 inch holes in 'em. I was instructed by bun's uncle Edward Itta to use full metal jacket ammo or even armor piercing if he had any on hand and shoot the bears through the neck. Nowhere else. The hide and skulls are too valuable.

In the middle of the butchering and hauling away whale sections, Edward would whistle, get my attention and point at an approaching polar bear, hold my fire with his hand held in the air until it was close enough to pose a problem, then he'd bark orders to shoot it. Polar bears always sniff the breezes from right to left, so my profile shots had to be timed just as the bear turned from one side or the other. Neck shots only. On whale kill sites, the whaling captain has complete control and everybody follows his strict orders. While dozens of locals disassembled his whale, he'd walk the perimeter with a couple seasoned old comrades and look for faults in the ice shelf. If any suspicious fractures appeared, he'd yell for men manning the block and tackle, to winch the monster further inland. I've watched as the Brower Crew finished loading and hauling away the last of the meat and muktuk with their snow machines as the stripped whale carcass and the ice under it, sunk slowly below the surface.

My front and back yard were stacked with frozen native foods but I refuse to eat the shit. It's gross like soul food chitlins (pig intestines), seal oil, stink flipper and smashed gook insect shit paste. Plus, I ain't yellow, black nor brown. I ain't red neither. So bun suggested I start a charity shipping big ass tons of pink and black whale candy to smelly old red farts, I mean proud, wise, ancient native elders back home. See? Life ain't all shit.

Mind you, despite my lobbying and soliciting all the air carriers in Barrow, only Cape Smythe volunteered to haul all these sawed whale blocks so that the smelly old farts, I mean cherished wise elders got their freight shipped for free. Cyrus Harris was the contact back at the Kotzebue Airport, he picked up the whale products with the NVOK truck (native village o' Krotchebue), sorted and shipped the boxes to the appropriate billage. I mean village. As appreciation for our whale generosity, he shipped me dozens of burlap bags filled with frozen Sheefish in return. These big fresh-caught monsters were the shit. Shrunken head Injuns at the Barrow Senior Center had never seen such big donkey sized frozen fish in their entire short lives.

Remember, native years are twice the normal, meaning 50 native years equals 100 of your sorry ass Euro-trash years. Regardless, I was quite popular with the old gals at both ends of my stinky freight gig. And no, I didn't tap that shit. Old biscuit is detachable, and I didn't want to awake, hungover like a great-grand-motherfucker with old pussy still wrapped around my fat bat and gray curly pubes tickling my nad bag.

The Northwest Arctic School District got wind of all this bowhead whale pussy stacking up in the NVOK freezers (white man sigluks) and Elmer Goodwin phoned me and asked how he could get in on it. I told him that Alice Hopson and Solveig Naylor are the freight bosses and you gotta ask them. He phoned me back and said that Cape Smythe wouldn't ship food to the school district for free, so he went and got TR's (transportation requests) for the muktuk. He was in charge of a native foods program for the elementary school and wanted as much as I could send him.

I smiled at that challenge, little old native men are so cute and adorable, so are they're midget flat head children. Like John Wayne, I went out front in -40 below temps and dragged 8 foot sections of premium skin and blubber on top of a large sheet of plastic, then slid the whole motherfucker into our apartment. In an hour, the Paul Bunyan 2-by-8 foot sized planks had warmed and softened enough for me to cut them up into manageable squares. That's when I went to town.

I shipped 625 pounds of rich and rare, fresh kilt whale blub to Elmer Goodwin at the elementary school. The TR numbers didn't specify a weight limit, so I tried to bury Elmer with more than he could handle. I was also secretly hoping to get his puny ass in trouble with the bill for $3.00 per pound. I didn't hear a peep. The school district simply paid the bill and fed a shit load of Mongolian descendants, giant blocks of cholesterol rich, greasy, smelly Inu-Pac Man candy.

Bun reminded me that we got stuck with some seriously expensive freight bills too. Denise Norton dug into her native secret down-low information directory and phoned bun at the Ilisagvik College and told her that Frank Norton had passed away and could she put in a request for muktuk to be shared and handed out at Frank's funeral. I don't know half these folks, but bun explained her brother Charlie always popped by Poppa Frank Norton's house, walked right in, yelled hello, and put on coffee for the old man. Every morning for years. Some things beyond my awareness are real important to Eskimo families back home in the neighborhood and old folks share fond memories and shit. Just not in my neighborhood though.

Back in Barrow, my whale crew mates trucked their harvested shit from butchering, across a mile or two of ice, right to our front yard. Most of the whale meat and fat is hauled in snow machine sleds, so the max length is 8-10 feet. I went out back and dragged 2 Captain's Belts around front and then did the same process of putting the heavy motherfuckers on plastic and dragging it all inside out apartment. I let the behemoth slabs thaw out enough to cut the fuckers up and then wrapped each block in plastic trash bags, then boxed all of it up. Captain's Belts are the PREMIUM fat strap of muktuk that whaling captains take for themselves, but being such a good bootlegger and smuggler of LSD, I was awarded approximately 500 pounds of filet mignon, butter-soft fat and skin from dead Bowheads. This heap big pile of grub was what I selected and sent back to Kotz for old man Frank Norton's funeral.

After calling a cab and lugging all this bounty down to Cape Smythe, I was presented with a freight bill for a cunt hair over a grand. This included a discount from my girls at the counter, but funeral feasts don't go free. Ouch, fuck me. I didn't even phone bun at work, I scribbled a check for the damage and handed it over. After getting home, I let her know the cost to ship the Nortons the finest strips of dead sea mammal lard, blood and skin. She was quiet for a few seconds, then said "That's okay. I get paid on Friday, I'll phone Alice at the airport and ask her to hold the check a few days." You boys need to realize something. I've always enjoyed the luxury of marriage to a pretty Eskimo woman, and despite my massive windfalls, she's always earned more than I. Put that in yer pipe and smoke it.

The freight made it to Kotzebue that same day and with plenty of time for the funeral. Denise Norton phoned and was ecstatic and thanked bun for such a overwhelming gesture. Bun just repeated her childhood stories about her brothers visiting and tending to Poppa Frank. Knowing how these high-dollar long-distance phone calls end, I made busy and let those girls laugh and cry and bid repeated farewells. In closing, Denise told bun that she'd send Pete down to pick up the boxes.

Pete Norton fired up his wheeler and booked down to the airport and was stymied by the pallet of boxes that exceeded a quarter ton. He was expecting something he could put under his arm and rally back home. He was chatting with Solveig and explained he didn't have a truck to haul all that food. Solveig told him not to worry about it. She phoned Wade Laws driving for Midnight Sun Cab and told him Karl dropped a megaton o' muk on Pete Norton and clan for their funeral. Wade arrived grinning like a motherfucker and explained that KarlnBun live in Barrow, help for a bunch of whaling crews and when it comes to shipping big ass freight, they don't fuck around. "Karl is trying to earn his way into Heaven and bun always busts his ass for old friends and family back on home turf." Because life ain't all shit, she refrains from calling home, "the rez."

Poor Pete Norton couldn't heft a single box, so Wade and the Cargo agent busted ass, flexed some big ass muscles and hoisted the palletized boxes of goodies onto the rear tail gate of Wade's Midnight Sun Ford Van. Apparently the front wheels drove real light and Wade was smiling and cheesing like a motherfucker. He ain't a cherry on these funeral food hauls and there was no charge to load, haul and unload the tasty tonnage. Wade's old hat on these missions and receives his gratuity hidden inside CD's of British music. That's code for acid paper you dildos.

Pete Norton phoned bun in Barrow and was almost angry, embarrassed and heart struck at all the frozen foods we shipped him. Bun just assured him not to worry about the big price tag ($1,000) he saw on the air-way-bill and that to share all the muktuk at the funeral. She further expressed to him that he's now in the possession of two entire Captain's Belts and that it's the softest and tastiest whale muk she's ever seen. She further explained the Captain's Belt gets saved for whaling festivals like Appuati or Nulukatuk. I think Pete was flabbergasted at such an honor and tribute for his dad's funeral. Those two old codgers cried together in stereo over a thousand miles of phone lines. He sobbed and wept and promised and swore he'd tell everybody at the funeral that Bun wished she could be there, but instead sent a near pornographic cornucopia of Eskimo food, compliments of her Uncle Edward Itta's whaling crew. I could hear Pete crying over the phone all the way out in the living room.

As stated before, I'm not so tough. In a bad mood, I'll pull the head off a child, but when I'm clean and sober, well fed, well rested and far from a prison, I have the same problems as you coppers. I get pulled into dark pits and lose my way, even driving or shopping. I use serious anger to find my way back and get on an even keel. Ya see, the weight of the world is on my shoulders and the history of all humanity's heartbreak is contained inside me. I been handcuffed, shackled and hooded and could hear impact blows and cellmates nearby crying in agony. It's called softening up a suspect. Hearing women cry is tough enough, but listening to men holler, wail and sob breaks my heart. In my old age, I can't seem to get that shit outa my head.

Years ago, I lost my license to drive. I was accused of being out of compliance and failing to follow traffic ordinances. I even got cited for driving with a suspended license and was threatened with jail time and forced to ride the fucking bus. At all the colleges in Washington, when registering for classes you can check the box for a bus pass and a cafeteria card. So I did. And put the expense on my parent's and grandparent's tab. I aren't dumb, life ain't all shit.

I was riding those buses all over the Pacific Northwest. I'd ride out North to visit my stoner buddies, down too much beer, then sprint to catch the last bus home at midnight. I used the bus pass for every conceivable destination and also used the cafeteria card to snag meals as I booked on to campus or between lay-overs on bus routes that had at least a half hour between connections. I'd grab coffees to go and sack lunches, then hoof out and catch the next bus all the way up to the Skagit River and restock on weed or further up to Bellingham to purchase blotter paper LSD. Looking back, I see patterns of moronic futility and ingrained stupidity that followed me north of the Arctic Circle. Call me a dumb ass, but I think I just revealed to a bunch of stupid cops where all my best acid comes from too. I snatched a shit load of blotter paper 'cid, ran down the hill to the bus stop and waited for my return trip to Seattle.

Arriving at the bus stop, I sat down next to an old man who looked distraught. He was trying to wipe his face with the back of his hand and his sleeve, so I acted like I wasn't watching. He looked at me and asked where I was going and I told him all the way back south to the transfer station in Lynnwood, then onward to my basement apartment on Capitol Hill in Seattle. We chatted a bit and I consulted the schedule inside the bus station and noticed I had almost 45 minutes till my bus arrived. The old man was upset that his son killed in a car crash nearby. I'd read about this pile-up and was struck with how many cars were tangled up on I-5. I'd no clue who the deceased were, but his son picked up the old man and took him to go shopping, errands or appointments. Today, was his first day without a son and was catching a bus. At a bus station next to me. Poor old man was heartbroken.

I told him to hang on a second and ran up street to a bodega that sold newspapers, cigarettes, beer and liquor. I grabbed all four, returned and again sat next to my newly minted bus rider and old friend. I handed him a bottle of beer and told him my tale of losing my license. I felt like such a pussy. I was whining about losing my license and he'd lost his boy. We toasted our beer, drank them down, then I opened a pint of Jim Beam and asked if he needed a snort. He said he'd take one if I had another beer fer chaser. I did. When you coppers find yourself a stranded widower with zero transpo, you better hope I sit next to you at the bus stop.

He refrained from cigarettes, although he stated, "I sure miss smoking." I thought of sharing my LSD purchase with him, but he seemed a lot like my dad, so we just clinked bottles and split the pint o' bourbon, old school. My bus riding partner seemed to cheer up and we chatted until his bus came. I helped him aboard the bus and told the driver that his son was killed in the big pile-up on the freeway a few days back, no longer had a ride and is now taking the bus. The bus driver, a tall black man who looked like a Navy Seal, shook my hand and told me "He's gonna be looked after. We gonna take care of this ol' boy. I'll make sure he makes his stops. You don't gotta worry none suh." The old man sat down directly behind the driver, smiled and waved to me and the bus driver reached across and shook my hand again, winked, saluted, closed the door and drove off. My bus was only minutes behind, so I assembled and stowed my mini-bar and booked back South. All I have to keep in mind, is find the good and praise it. Life ain't all shit.

Sometimes, life is a bittersweet mix of tender moments, surrounded by pain, violence, unhealed injury and crap. While I was working in Russia, my buddy Dwayne Weleschuck told me about an audition and rehearsal at the St. Petersberg State School. He told me they serve liquor and you can smoke there too. I smiled and said, "Sure, sounds good to me." So we got dressed up in slacks and sport coats, snagged packs of our favorite French drinking cigarettes and hiked a couple blocks in the super cold -25 below to watch big women battle it out for a spot on some opera. In Russia, it's customary to wear fur hats, long black wool top-coats, black leather gloves and expensive silk scarves. That is, if yer going to live performances.

We handed our heavy black top-coats, scarves and gloves to the Russian gals at the coat-check, handed them an American fiver for a tip, which converts to 200 rubles, took our numbered tokens and headed for the bar. We both toasted big shots of Stoli Vodka to get primed and limbered, then two fisted large bottles of beer and headed towards our seats. Seats that still have fucking ash trays. I'm cool with that. See? Life ain't all shit.

Dwayne translated all the details and info about the singers and which particular symphony being played. I told him that I knew the material because I suffered a million fucking years of orchestra as a kid and also attended years of advanced drug training too. He told me that I was just a low level field grunt, cork my loud English and to keep my dick in my pants.

The performances were top shelf. On some parts, we just watched big bosomed gals sing next to a grand piano player and others had a quartet of stringed instruments in support. On a couple pieces, I noticed some of the well dressed men nearby were crying silently as the ladies sang. At first I didn't give a shit and attributed this to all the booze, but as them dames proceeded to belt out their hearts on stage, me and Dwayne started getting teary eyed too.

I hate these moments. I had zero idea what was being sung, because all opera is Italian, regardless of venue. The content was tragic and the suits around me were deeply touched and it was rubbing off on me. I lit another French cigarette and washed my blubbering down with my German ale, watched the Russian women belt out tragedies in Italian and soon I'm dabbing my American eyes with the sleeve of my sport coat. This is such bullshit. As a particular poignant performance came to an end, all the suited men around me stood and applauded. And each one was sobbing wet and clapping like cry baby oligarchs.

Me and Dwayne stood and clapped too, and since we were surrounded by well dressed and groomed Soviet dudes, we played along and wiped our eyes unabashed and cheered. This is a weird notion of cool. As the show concluded, all the ladies that performed in the audition walked across the stage and bowed, greeted with giant bouquets of flowers, then sent air kisses to the audience's standing ovations. The last lady that caused the most sobbing and water works finally came on stage to take her bravos, bravissimos and cheers was crying too. What happened to men behaving like Lee Marvin or Clint Eastwood? Not a dry eye in the house and I was fumigated with horribly expensive cologne, cigarettes and foreign men dressed in hand tailored dinner attire I could never afford, and we're all blubbering and cheering like a pack of faggots at a gay fucking AIDS funeral. I oughta get my head examined, cuz even the biggest mobsters were sobbing out loud.

Dwayne and I clapped our hands sore, then headed back out to grab a couple more shots of Stoli Vodka. What I mean by shots is metric drunk-speak. Shots in Russia are called drams, and they're roughly 3 or more American pussy shooters. We down a bunch, chased them with German Ale that'd strip paint offa patrol car, then went to claim our coats and shit at the coat-check. With our prior American $5.00 tip in mind, the gals descended on us with smiles and busty cleavage and helped us with our outer winter gear for the walk home. These gals were total fucking babes and after their warm fitting, adjusting and affectionate attentions to our outer wear dressing, my expanding Mr. Wobbly wrecked the fit of my slacks. Dwayne laughed at me and whispered that the leggy, overly busty pretty one asked in Russian if we needed help walking home. Figure it out.

I smiled, blushed and couldn't recall the last time I'd been kissed, loved, fucked and tossed by such pretty women, but Dwayne gave me a look and a subtle shake of his head that was interpreted that I may be falling into a honey trap or stepping on professional turf that is coveted by the well-dressed oligarchs and mobsters we sat next to. I demurred politely, thanked the gorgeous ladies and tipped them my last bill: a twenty. Yeah, I know, I just paid for fine pussy and didn't get my dick wet. My beard neither. The money was furnished by my paymasters and they usually expected receipts, but twenty dollars is 800 rubles, yet chump change to Americans. Fuck, that money is more than a month's rent to these delicious foreign babes. Their pretty Russian faces, heavenly cleavages, dangerous round hip curvatures, legs and perfume breaks my heart even today. I'm really retarded you know.

As me and Dwayne walked back to the dorm building, he turned and looked at me asked what I thought of the evening's performance. I told him I didn't see a dry eye in the place. I conceded that after being tended to by such pretty Russian women, walking home alone, I thought I was gonna cry like a girl too. He laughed and chided me that I was whining like a bitch cuz I just bought and paid for an evening with some of the world's most beautiful women, and now I gotta go home and beat my Johnson with a claw hammer.

Which is what I did. I do my best work alone.

Despite us men having 3 brains, we can't think fer fucksake. Alas, life ain't all shit. I wouldn't have lived this long if I only TWMD.

Only thought with my dick.

Karl.