We were born to be pounded on.
Top of the morning gents,
I was reviewing a stack of bills and receipts from last year. I gotta pack 'em up and mail them to H&R Block, the tax preppers right on the corner of the Parks Highway and Main Street. Yup, you probably drove by it a hunnert times, downtown Wasilla. Right near the capitol of the fudge-packed Colon Peoples where the number one cause of death for ignorant white folks is rectal cancer and in-family anal sex. Colon-ists are the invading hillbilly inbred families that crashed the Indun Pow-Wow, forced the learning of the world's dorkiest dance steps, gaped the copper colored pussy with European Herpes, installed retarded religions killing everything potentially creative and dangerously genius. After their relocation from the redneck Midwest dust-bowl ghetto, to the Mat-Su Valley of Trash, the number one cause of death for First Alaskan Natives inexplicably became, yup, you guessed it: ignorant white folks.
Back to my pile of paid medical bills and receipts. What caught my eye, was the paperwork for some seriously high-dollar eye surgery I had done for detached retina. I was losing vision in my left eye and the eye doctor at the Denaina Native Clinic, Dr. Megan Lincoln gave me the diagnosis. Loose retina. I said to myself, this is just fucking great. The normal repair is to laser the membrane sheet back to the rear of the eye and is the recommended repair for boxers, race car drivers involved in high-impact collisions and incarcerated low-IQ intelligence retards that've frequently had their head beat in.
What I found witty during Dr. Megan Lincoln's diagnosis, proscribed treatment and referral to Alaska Retinal Specialists was she told me that when she was a student at Optometry School, her eye-care professor repeated cynical and shitty jokes about performing eye repairs upon old fuckers like us. He'd quote a cautionary phrase from William Blake about old men, dying police and broken veterans that seeing any longer, isn't always so great.
"The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the destructive sword, are portions of eternity too great for the eye of man."
I was dumbfounded. A kid from Krotchebue fucked my shit up. I've never been pitched such an easy softball, and been bruised and beaten upon the ground. She may be a Kotzebue Lincoln, but she aren't dumB. Don't tell Dr. Megan, but her clever wit fucked my shit up.
The reason I'm whining like a bitch is cuz I always get such good news from native clinics. After an EKG up at the Barrow Hospital, Dr. Sollenberg treated me for a slew of prison-specific respiratory infections, then showed me a scribble on a graph and asked me if I ever had a heart attack. I shrugged and denied any knowledge. He told me that it could be simply a twinge or a pinch in my chest and I wouldn't know any difference. I knew the difference. Some chest pains occurred after a beat-down. Before that, complex drug and alcohol hangovers I survived, yet would kill smaller adults.
Like you fuckers, I'm sick of hearing such cheerful fucking news and reports from dense rotating doctors and thick public health nurses at native clinics all over shit-hole Alaska. Doctors and nurses with a gift for saying shitty news, in such blunt ways. Lie to me, kiss me, don't tell me unvarnished truths. I think they've forgotten their patient is Scandinavian, not native, possessing only a small amount of pygmy blood in my stool. Digested leftovers from a healthy Viking breakfast, similar to the breakfast bar at the back end of native only Mat-Su Valley of Trash abortion clinics.
Another bit of wonderful fucking advice I received was that I could have plastic surgery to improve the scars on my chin under my beard, my abdomen and above my knee. With my wonderful insurance covering 50% of any cosmetic procedures, I'd only be on the hook for fucking $14K. Out of pocket. I think unsightly scars are lovely when concealed. Lethal disagreements with our cellmates, paints floors, stacks time and delays our release. We're more pleasant killers and intelligent murderers when we keep our mouths shut and put up our dukes and swing for the firing squad wall. I'm done talking.
Come on fuckers. Look back. Real life ain't nothing we'd choose. When driving blind, my life-path looks like a spastic was at the wheel, trying to jerk off, leer at girls and drive drunk. I look at your lives and see the same thing. Lots of collisions, lots of break-downs and lots of rest-stop sex and detours for beer and bong hits. Think hard and remember, I've asked each and every one of you how you ended up here. You fuckers just gave that look like I'm supposed to know the passages you did not take, towards the doors that never opened, and here we are, poorly healed 907 Negroes, window shopping ceramic urns. Our gait appears to be lacking proper alignment, worse if we're sober. Out in the parking lot, you'll find my ass sleeping in shopping carts, or under trailers and my beard smells like butt chunks.
That's a fucked up trail, following binges and hangovers, stumbling towards redemption. My fondness for alkaloid boogers, aromatic hydrocarbon-rich lung drainage and strange women has proved to be my downfall. One chapter I remember in a stupid textbook I was forced to digest, mental health is reflected in the quality of our long-term relationships. Yup, I'm fucked. Right when things stabilize, I fuck shit up and fail to resist sobriety and temptation.
"A woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke."
I've always thought Rudyard Kipling's arcane scribbling applied to my enjoyment of crystallized green bud and my appreciation for French cigarettes. Like any sex and nicotine addicted dumb shit, I increased my tobacco to include expensive cigars and evermore naked women speaking languages no drunken Finn deciphers. Fatally beautiful unclothed females, fine aged liquor and contraband cigars were my diet. The 3 banes of my existence. Of the stupid cops I befriended, imagine if I returned home and gave you foreign girls and expensive drugs, not illegal cigars. You'd be divorced and need a chiropractor.
I've got 3 nicotine stained teeth that've been replaced. Actually 3 molars the dentist ground down to stumps while I was ripped on Valium and mint flavored nitrous oxide gas, and capped with synthetic composites. They're called crowns and they are real fucking expensive. Don't forget, they're considered cosmetic and insurance only pays for 50% so the $3K nut buster, is out of pocket. In my old age, I've become insensitive to really bad news, but going through this paperwork and the prices I paid, I grit my teeth so hard, you can hear my denture glue cracking.
I'm good at getting my ass kicked. I excel at losing fights. I put my face in front of swinging fists and truncheons and by sheer will, I absorb impacts jarring my brain like jello having ejaculatory seizures, eyes battered to pieces and my teeth punched to fractures. The 3 teeth were broken and cracked many years ago, and since I aren't dumb, service to village, state and country is likely shit. We all suffer Inupiaq Alzheimer's, forgetting everything, except who pissed us off. I ain't bitter. Okay a little.
Dr. Sollenberg told me he likes to give special advice to fucked up, worn-out public safety maggots. After he gives you a terminal diagnosis, he'll also hand you a pair of automatics and a dozen loaded magazines. All he asks is that before snuggling yer dying bed, you visit his heartless colleagues at rural hospitals all over pygmy 907, and dispense some kinetic perforations around their head and neck. You know, go postal nigger and do his bidding. Ours too. Deal. Roger. Copy. Count me in. 10-4 Bravo Foxtrot (butt-fucker).
Doc Sollenberg was amused with my injuries and explained that when a skull receives an impact like a punch, kick or blow from a baton, we lose consciousness for a fraction of a second. When boxers are in the middle of exchanging hooks, jabs and upper-cuts and a glove lands a good connection, boxers go out cold for a fraction of a second. The only reason we don't drop to the ground is muscle memory in our arms, legs, abdomen and shoulders have learned to stay upright and keep us on our legs and in the fight.
Think back. You know this because when you try to recall some serious fights you've engaged, your memory has blank spots lasting fractions of seconds. We were momentarily out cold, but still in the fight taking hits. Body blows or bone impacts on the limbs and ribs don't have this same effect on our consciousness. When we get an asp baton or a PR-24 smack upon our knees and elbows, we get to enjoy the full agony experience and suffer no relief. It also explains why you dumb fuckers never laid down, took a dive and threw a fight, swinging for the fences, or prison wall. I got a headache just writing this shit.
A hunnert years ago, the State Troopers held a 6-week VPSO training academy in Kotzebue, I was nominated to the play the role of the hostile combatant. Yup, all the new VPSO recruits from Nome and Bethel got to try their best to subdue yer author on drugs. The goal was to deliver baton blows to the limbs, spray the arrested with pepper mace, then cuff the prisoner. On most of the exercises, I was to take it easy on them micro-nates and let them get the feel of getting control of taller dumber motherfuckers.
As the training progressed, I'd toss 'em around with simple shoves, hip tosses and flips all over the wrestling mats, but at no time could I deliver finger jabs beyond their eye sockets, palm pumps to their nose or stabs with the open hand to their grapes, nor throat. Lucky niggers. I couldn't even solar plexus their shit.
The combat instructor was the same trooper dude that trained all you coppers years ago at the Sitka Academy and would referee the matches with loud whistles and barked commands. He'd let us wrestle around while the VPSO candidates advised me I was under arrest, then yell for us to go easy or go full-on fight mode. That guy was one tough son of a bitch. He'd squat low on the mats watching closely and coached the VPSO recruits with commands whilst getting their asses tossed in the air or shoved back on their butts. What's a pity is that the hostile combatant, being me, couldn't reach for their tools and pound them to shit. That would come later.
We received coaching from this trooper instructor on how to take swinging arms and gain control, knee blows with the ASP collapsible baton to slow aggressive approaches and spray mildly irritating training pepper mace that was designed for practice, but not the full-on Methican eye-melting, Wet-Back ass-rash fry oil, nor Beaner pepper concentrated butt-spray. The training shit still stung the eyes momentarily, but wasn't nearly as deadly as the shit you fuckers carry next to your batons and pistols on duty.
After class, I'd hook up with Bun and Al Sanders at the Rec Center to lift weights, sauna and shower. Al was impressed with all the bruises on my arms from newbie green VPSO fuckers trying real hard to slap cuffs on me, and swatting my legs with collapsible batons. Al Sanders' joke was that if I was black (African Alaskan), the bruises wouldn't hurt as much. Them little native fuckers started getting smarter and more cunning in taking down my big dumb ass acting drunk or like a drug addled PCP fucker. What's worse, I didn't get no liquor nor drugs.
For weeks we'd dance all over the mats fighting under differing criteria: light impact, mace, batons and even me fighting with cuffs on behind my back, resisting arrest or fleeing incarceration. Being too tall, I could never pull the Delta Force Jump and tuck my feet over my cuffed wrists and get my hands in front of me. But, this'll make you smile, I was allowed to kick lightly and pitch little runt natives with my hips and shoulders.
Them little VPSO fuckers would jump on my back and put me in a headlock, so I'd head-butt 'em in reverse or leap backwards, land on 'em and blow the air out of those pesky little shits. You shoulda seen them brown midgets line up to dole out some whoop-ass on me. Pussies got tough and everyone of 'em eventually prevailed, leaving me fucked up, cuffed on the mat, beat to shit, breathless and winded like the crispy old geezer women we been fucking.
I did my best to play the part as an uncooperative arrested, but after a few hours with them boys, my shit was wasted tired. Every evening I worked out harder and harder lifting weights to keep up with them. Then they all started getting wise and showing up at the Rec Center to lift weights with me and Bun, and Al Sanders. Little fuckers got tough and fit pumping iron alongside an old native woman, a retarded Finn and a beefy nigger broadcaster from KOTZ 720 AM on your moron dial. Funny thing was, them little native boys learned to really like me. Stupid shits.
Years later I heard someone call out my name in the UAF cafeteria. I turned and didn't know who'd yelled at me. A tall native fellow approached and reached out to shake my hand, but I told him I couldn't recall who he was. He told me his name was Hank Anelon from Illiamna and he sure remembered trying to kick my ass at that Kotzebue Rec and Tech Center VPSO training program. A bunch of other students surrounding us looked up at us, worried we were drunken natives, fixing to fuck shit up.
He looked familiar, but he was much shorter when he started working village cop job duties rotating between Illiamna and Tyonek. Fucker had grown almost as tall as me, but was heavier and bulkier. Mr. Anelon stated that since lifting weights at the Kotzebue Rec Center, he'd never skipped a day, and when he told his mom about lifting weights aside an elderly native woman from Kotzebue named Bessie Tikik, she cried out and explained to Hank that his mom, Anisha was good buds with Bessie. Both these elderly native gals attended Chemawa Indun Boarding School together and that Bessie was "high manna." Meaning classy, distinguished and kind. I knew she was a devout sober Tikigaq from the Point Hopeless shit-village, spoke the language fairly well, but I couldn't imagine her being seen as all that sophisticated and snobby, in her younger wilder days. I must've missed seeing those qualities in my wife. Even as we speak, my head is snug between my ass cheeks.
I'd never mentioned any public safety career bull crap to a single soul in my UAF classes, dorms or lunch room, so Hank's stories regaling his bumps and bruises getting spun, tossed and flipped by a big fucking white asshole surprised my classmates. Hank was funny. He hated that tough-ass trooper coach and fighting referee, teaching the VPSO recruits a whole new world of combat. Mr. Anelon thought himself a bad-ass and beyond learning something from the Trooper instructors. You fuckers remember how little we know from elementary wrestling, boxing and judo, until we're beaten to shit by seasoned professional cops that make a living training recruits and whooping our shit.
Hank Anelon never let up on me. He was in the same dorm building complex as me (Moore, Bartlett, Skarland) and always chided me that I was an old fart that pounded natives. He complimented me for bouncing whole armies of darkie midgets on their asses all day long, take a lunch break, and continue getting my ass stomped. Then head to the weight room. My dorm mates thought that an old man like me was a worn out douche bag and couldn't even lift my own dick. One freshman student named Kevin Gee was full of funny shit and stated that geezers like me got one foot in the grave and the other foot on a banana peel. Yup, real funny pals I hang around.
Some kid, named John Trotter, from down the hallway asked us what we were talking about, so Mr. Anelon explained that "fucking Ewing" was nominated to play the role of angel dusted, cocaine infused, drunken asshole that was supposed to make it impossible for a bunch of native VPSO's to subdue, cuff and arrest. He laughed and told Trotter that he'd won all his wrestling matches during high school, but never in his village runt-life gotten pounded and winded trying to "kick this fucker's ass." Hank laughed and explained that even cuffed behind his back, Karl kicked his thighs and hips to bruising and head butted him so hard he almost quit the program.
John Trotter was a freshman and full of funny shit. He'd grown up in Anderson next door to Bill Murray, another announcer at KOTZ and then spent a few years in Met (Metlakatla), the scummy Indun vil. He'd chide me for the village girls I fucked with snarky quips like, "Karl will fuck anything with a uterus. And horns." That is pretty funny, but with good pals of any generation, ya gotta take it, and give it. My common retort was that "his mom had so many retarded hillbilly downer-syndrome vaginal barf-ups that she's just a snatch with a wagging tale and her pussy has become a slip and slide stinky water-park."
Joking aside and on a more serious note, Trotter asked me how in hell anybody could take on a big husky native guy like Hank Anelon. My answer was that Hank was much smaller, way back when, during the VPSO Academy. I would've sounded gay if I boasted that I'd earned the pussy level of green belt in karate at community college, basic judo in elementary, wrestled in junior high and boxed at the YMCA. Boxing was the only program-sanctioned way to settle school-kid disputes at elementary and junior high. Fighting got yer ass expelled. To add flavor and character to my hillbilly farm-tard cred, and rattle John Trotter, I added I was one of 7 farm kids that wrestled goats, dogs and pigs to the ground. And fucked 'em. Trotter shit his pants. He believed that goat part.
The boxing was a juvenile program our swim coach rammed down our throats. He stated that since we were Finns, Norwegians or Swedes, our parents were alcoholics that made us mean, abused, scrappy little shits. But, if we were caught fighting at school, we would be kicked out of school AND kicked off the swim team. Our swim coach insisted we invite bullies to join us at the YMCA, put on gloves and masks and pound each other to death. The bullies could even choose wuss wrestling, wimpy kid boxing or elementary pansy judo. The bullies that picked fights with us declined the invitation and left us alone.
Hank Anelon is still the VPSO for the Illiamna/Tyonek beat, but lost his leg below the knee to poorly managed diabetes a few years back. He wasn't fazed though, he kept walking his patrols and taking meager pay, but wears an expensive prosthetic that he's modified with tape and straps allowing him to deliver decent groin kicks, foot stomps and knee-cap shin peels with a steel shoe. He told me that he still laughs at how bad he got whooped by such a fucking old white guy. He also told me that he hasn't ever had an arrest that injured him as badly.
Hank Anelon kept clippings of the Arctic Sounder story about the Logan Bust in Barrow, and UAF Sun Star headlines about the date-rape narc job I did with Nush. Hank called my narc job descriptions racist and discriminatory, "cuz you only bagged pussy white bootleggers and never sacked any natives." He was joking of course, he knows that jiggaboos, niggers, white fuckers and tundra monkey natives never do any drug business together and to bust one of these groups, ya gotta get a narc the same color. And odor.
Now back to my whining. My composite injuries can be blamed on my career choices, but you coppers know that I've never laid a hand on any drugs, guns nor natives, so my bitching stinks disingenuous. So I blame my collection of scars on my drinking, drugging and accidents fighting young girls, snacking inflamed bush in effort to breed at any cost. Yup, that's a good excuse. Whenever a doctor starts getting nosy, I lie and tell 'em that I got hurt a lot during my years breeding TCBQ's. You ain't lived till ye cracked open a Trailer Court Beauty Queen's foul snatch and butt crack. And bust a nut fer lunch.
When I was 18 I got pinched for minor in possession of alcohol, when I was 19 I got pinched for minor in possession of marijuana. Sitting in court on the second offense, I was referred to the Drug Abuse Council in Lynnwood, Washington. Those courts don't fuck around. You get popped for any booze or druggy shit, yer ass is scheduled at any of a hunnert counseling services. I showed up for 1 meeting a week for 3 months with a review sent back to the judge for his examination.
What I wasn't expecting was that the judge notified me the clinical disclaimer stating I was "high risk of re-offending." Fuck me. The judge then sent to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings for another 3 months. I had to show up for a coupla meetings a week at the community center in Mountlake Terrace where I met Don Beuler. He was a sponsor and facilitator for the AA program and did roll call for us compulsory dildos that required him to sign off on our appearances.
I showed up for all the meetings and was startled at how old the group was. Like over 30 or some shit. Those fuckers all looked like Merle Haggard. And KPD cops. I was 19 years old and surrounded by ancient cripppled dried-up old guys, talking about their years of sobriety, numbers of relapses and I sat there listening to their personal stories. Some of their shit was really fucked up. I also started making startling realizations between these old codgers and myself. I just wouldn't admit it. Still don't, outside this white paper intellectual forum fer public service butt fuckers.
A lot of these old drunks in AA started out partying in their youth, but quickly had legal issues like drunk driving shit. Others had legal issues with domestic violence, beating their wives or slugging their kids. Some old dudes even beat their bosses and coworkers. I found these last personal offenses completely understandable. Come on, how many of our bosses and office mates really needed a beating, attitude adjustment and tune-up? Look at the fat Kotzebue city slobs that signed our paychecks, they sure as shit needed a thrashing and ass-kicking. Hell, we were already in jail fer pay, forfeiting our freedom once we set booted foot on retard patrol duty.
Our AA meetings started with them complimenting me on the coffee I brought, brewed and set up with big serving bowls of Coffee-Mate and sugar. When drunks drop their liquor, their replacement drug is substance called sugar. I was a coffee snob even then, and wasn't gonna drink shit-ass red-can coffee with worn out drunks. After greetings all around, and for my benefit, these beat-to-shit cripples would start their tales at roughly my age.
My face got hot when they started their personal testimonials glancing or nodding in my direction and proceeded to expound on their trail of tears. A lot of these old anonymous unnamed individuals (AA remember) tried to make connections between their parents', uncles' and grandparents' problems with alcohol, then drew a sketchy line to their own behavior. This was the moment when I would blank out and ignore their stupid retarded drunk talk. My partying was different and I still had 9 years until I ran out of options selling blow and running a crack house.
Some of their childhood tales would put you old coppers to shame. I heard tales of violent beatings, burns, rapes and sexual mutilations. I shrug off tales of beatings, but the burns, rapes and sex-mutilations got my attention, like right fucking now. Next time you beat, spank or paddle your children or grand children, aim right for the pubes. Yup, I heard tales of moms and dads, teachers and coaches flailing children with whips, belts and boards: landing blows right on girls' and boys' privates. That shit terrorized me, never left me, and I'm still thinking about it as I write to a bunch of fucking cops. Today, 40 years later.
I completed the nightmare Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and after the 3 months of mandatory attendance, Don Beuler, the AA facilitator and sponsor, signed off on my court papers. On my next probationary status hearing, I was released from court supervision, finally healed and completely rehabilitated. You buy that shit? I kept my nose clean insofar as to fly back up to Alaska two more seasons at Cold Bay and D-ham to earn decent bank, working construction gigs when needed, attending community college for the basics in karate, swimming, weight lifting, English (creative writing fer fuck sake) and Math, only dealing weed and blow at school part-time to maintain my living standards. I'm lying by omission of course.
One year later, I received a letter at my parents house. My folks sent smoke signals and farm-tard Morse code informing me that I should drop by and eat something called food, drink with my brothers and pick up my mail. The offer to drink with my brothers sounded pretty good, so I scavenged cleaner clothes and went to drink an entire house of all it's booze. I even sneaked a packet of blow in me pocket, you know, in case of emergencies.
My folks looked older and shorter, my sisters were nervous and spiteful that I stopped fucking within my family, and my brothers were already well into their cups, glowing, smiling and offering me seriously expensive liquors and dark European beers. So I did. I ate real food, drank a shit-load of liquor and beer, even sneaking downstairs to share chunks of sparkling coke with my brothers. We'd taken 3 or 4 breaks for sinus coagulator medications and repairs, then proceeded to empty the premises of a whole liquor cabinet, wine cellar and all the beer in the fridge.
The rest of the evening was a blur, but Cully and Toby agreed to meet me at my house (Lem's Mortuary) for a pile of cocaine nightcap and fumigate ourselves smoking Cully-bud. Don't get snarky, my drug addiction and alcoholism had nothing to do with my brothers. We just partied together, a lot. A whole lot. We could out-drink any smaller humans and with my brothers taller and bigger than me, I had to set a good example of tolerance. I must've forgotten to mention the fact that my brothers dwarfed my 6' 3" stubby frame by whole shoulders taller than me and whole native body weights heavier. Alcoholism only affects little people.
I awoke the following morning, sleeping on the floor with all the dogs, my face crunchy from dried drool and textured from the carpet. I put on coffee, put the dogs out back and filled their water and food bowls, then downed a packet of multivitamins and a big double dose of Alka-Seltzer (alcoholic-seltzer), then as I poured myself cups of coffee and started my chores, I also spied a big chunk of crystalline bud Cully left me.
So as I vacuumed, washed dishes and wiped windows and counters, I smoked a piece. A piece I smashed in cocaine for nutritional and health benefits of course. That's when I think I had my first heart attack. I felt a pinch in my chest. I breathed out the cocoa-puff smoke, sat down fer a spell and let the sharp pain fade, felt better and went back to my chores. Here's the weird part, the dogs came back inside, insisting on leaning against me and whining, looking at me like I was retarded and resting their chins on my lap and even climbing on the sofa, snuggling all over me. All 3 of 'em were such fucking worry-warts. Dogs are a pain in the ass.
I found the letter addressed to me at my parents house in my pocket, so I opened it. It was for a follow-up review and post-treatment analysis. Mail like that just makes yer fucking day. I phoned the number and was connected to the School District psychiatrist and she asked me to drop in this afternoon. I stalled, cuz I was still hungover like a motherfucker. She peristed and requested I "pop in tomorrow morning." I agreed, sat back down, drank more coffee, smoked another bowl of frosted bud flakes and petted my annoying dogs that still whined, nudged and leaned against me like I needed to be directed back to the sofa and sit with them. Dogs are worse than wives.
Fuck. A psych meeting. I completed my chores, stripped and took a real hot shower to clear my head. Here's the shit. I smelled funny. Like a brewery and tire manufacturing plant. I stepped out of the shower to dry off and those goddamned dogs were all sitting on the bathroom floor looking at me. I dressed, brushed my hair and beard, then booked out with the dogs to walk down to D&D Meats to pick up something to eat. The meal and over-indulgence at my parents house left my stomach stretched out and sore, and I thought it best I grab a bag of scraps and bones for the dogs. I bribe my dogs and girlfriends with treats. Just to shut the fuck up.
The dogs followed dutifully and sat outside on the sidewalk while I bought some mark-down steaks and a bag of meat scraps and bone treats for them. They got happy with that action. We walked all the way uptown to the Circle K and I grabbed another coffee for the short walk home. The clerk knew me, bought blow offa me occasionally, but sure liked the dogs and their super good manners. They sat like an army trio of canine body guards while I settled up and paid for the cup of coffee, then all 4 of us headed home. The meat scraps and bones were a special treat, but my impending meeting at the shrink's office worried me. The appointment was for some ungodly early time, like 8:30 or some shit, and I had a busy Thursday night's business to tend to. In the cocaine biz, Thursday's are always the busiest.
I had a hunnert customers, stayed wired all night and had Marto drive me to my appointment at the shrink's. I was instructed to piss in a cup. And my piss melted the fucking cup.
That meeting was the beginning of 3 more years of counseling. Dr. Marilyn Grey wasn't a dummy. She politely asked me how my sobriety was coming along and I blinked. I told her that I visited my parents and celebrated my sobriety with a near-death binge. Like a lot. She looked at me and asked me if it's normal for my parents to serve cocaine at a family get-together. My face got hot, so I told her it was an occupational hazard and that I might possibly be able to limit my intake, lessening my monstrous consumption down to a maintenance level.
She smiled at me, gave a thick textbook titled, "Guilt and Neurosis in Addiction." My orders were read the fucker, take notes and questions, and return that Monday morning. Fuck me in the goat ass. I had a weekend of business to attend to. Which I did, while reading this entire fucking book, taking notes and questions, in between customers and pals dropping by with money, beer and bong hits, picking up packets of blow.
My dudes looked at me just like my dogs. They all started thinking I was retarded and studied seriously weird whacking material. "Fuck dude, what's up with the book?" I told them I was under court orders to follow all the instructions from this goddamned shrink, and digesting this book was job 1. "Whoa dude, that sucks."
Monday morning I was ordered to give another piss test. The cup didn't melt, but the smoke detector erupted from my piss vapors. Dr. Marilyn Grey didn't make any comments about the crystallized urine sample. She simply offered me coffee and started questioning me about the psych book she gave me. I answered them all honestly and completely. She asked me if I had any insights and I told her that alcoholism and drug addiction don't happen in a vacuum, there's causation and materialization displayed in the patient's behavior and relationship skills that should be a fucking clue as to why these subjects suffered so much. Marilyn asked me if I suffered very much. I smiled and said that I truly thought myself to be a decent, kind person and that I radiated warmth and well-wishes. She smiled, then gave me another book and told me to return in 2 days.
Fuck! Being smart didn't pay shit.
The textbook was titled Child Abuse and Alcoholism. What the fuck is this shit? I read the whole fucker, took notes and scribbled questions, returning at the scheduled time and gave her my best dissertation on the literature she shoved up my ass. Between handling customers and partying with my tenants and beer guards at Lem's Crack House, I read the whole fucker and filled a note pad with smart alec notions. I was also starting to have real shitty dreams I was a little kid fighting big grown-ups, and losing badly. I woke up early, took the dogs for a walk, got coffee at the Circle K, returned home, showered, then hitched a ride with Marto to the shrink's office
I took a piss in a cup. No melting plastic, no smoke alarm and no crystals in my piss cup. I was also fairly sober, sharp and prepared for the grilling to come. Marilyn poured me a black coffee, made no comment about the nuclear piss tests and proceeded to ask me about the psych textbook. I answered her on every point, gave my opinions and thought I'd beaten her scheme. She smiled at me, stood up and reached for a really giant textbook, handed it to me and told me I had till the next Monday to repeat the same process.
This book was a doozy. It must've weighed 40 pounds and was over a thousand pages. The fucker was about repressed child memories and the echoes that manifest themselves years and decades later. Echoes that cause patients to have weird neurotic behaviors like bulimia, cutting, suicides, unexplained anger and mysterious rage. And chronic drug addiction and alcoholism. You see where this is going don't you. At that time, decades ago, I had no clue.
Reading about other Earthlings that didn't have to attend AA meetings and sober civilians that don't snort their nutrition while running a profitable crack house had a strange effect on my tactical optics. I started looking at my beers, bong hits and lines of blow like I was outside myself. The view became from across the room and I was watching myself at a distance. My perspective didn't do shit for my hangovers though. They were all right there, in front of me and radiated out my fucking eyes. As with all hangovers, more of the same is the best cure. Hair of the dog, fixer-uppers and just a touch of John Barley-corn with a side order of Frosted Flakes and bong hits. That's when I started to see that my tolerance was also a self-repeating loop of stupidity.
I finished the psych book and boat anchor. I made it to my scheduled early-ass morning meeting and gave a decent recitation of the points I found disturbing. I also told Marilyn about the shitty dreams I just can't seem to drink off my mind. All she said was "fantastic." She got out of her chair, reached way up and grabbed another textbook about more childhood trauma, distortions in adult behavior and more, you guessed it: addiction bullshit.
This book covered repressed childhood memories, their impact on our personality, our relationships, our careers and our chemical diets. My personality is fine, my relationships are best described as serial monogamy, and my chemical diet is delicious and crippling. I rotate through girlfriends like pages of a calendar. Even if girlfriends stick around, I'm overlapping their presence with new candidates and my love-life was crowded combative pussy claiming territory far worse than my possessive dogs.
The only long-term relationships I maintained effectively were with my younger brothers, my drug buddies, my dogs and my love-affairs with green bud, liquor and truckloads of cocaine. My infidelity involved females of the human kind and I was most faithful to the money. Money I counted, stowed and responsibly dispersed on bills, rent, gasoline and wages I paid my dudes for services that Lem's Mortuary and Crack House needed. Like organizing Cully's band equipment, set-up and keeping track of the hunnert arrivals. Every hour.
I'm being snide. One of the upsetting points that these textbooks illustrated was that we bond with and marry alcoholics, just like our parents. If you don't believe me, look at the drunk bitches our sons breed with. We may not look at our own wives that way, but damn, they've battled the side-effects of alcoholism and drug addiction in both their own families and their own bodies. Our wives also married drunks, just like their parents.
To understand that you'll never have a fucking clue about our children and their retard-palsy parents (us niggers), Dr. Marilyn Grey sunk my battleship by quoting George Bernard Shaw. "I tell you there's a wall ten feet thick and ten miles high between parent and child." No matter how hard your kids yell or gesture in mental midget semaphore, you'll never understand the subsequent generations we spawned and fucked over. Here kid, have a beer and a smoke. And a beating. Don't blame us for your fucking drug problems.
We're blind as a fresh steaming turd with goggles, deaf as a maggot infested cunt packed full of cotton plugs and if yer asked, remain silent and don't admit to ever sleeping with a hunnert liquored up girls half our age, twice as pretty as our wives with an 80-proof biscuit, cognac flavored labia and lips we still taste upon our faces, beards and mustaches. I ain't kidding, some highschool and college age girls are finger licking good and no, they don't live next door at your senior center.
We scoff and deny these valid points, but look at our brothers and half-brothers. We've watched them hump and impregnate some seriously fuckered-up skanky broads. Both native and non-native. Look at our coworkers. Westlake scrawged rotten old pussy and spooged nasty underage drinkers, and so did his offspring. Octuck pulled the same shit, insofar as to pump fat white blimpy bitches till they spawned children that suffer addiction and incarceration, or early death like Hildreth and his kin. Let's not give a pass on Nay. His alcoholism and tobacco addiction killed his ass way too early, leaving his wife at loose ends, bad odds and heartbreaking outcomes. His sons also knocked up booze hounds. See, it's easy to diagnose other asshole's kids, but not our own. Identical to our fathers and fathers in-law, our children are hungry to bone drunks. Comatose passed out niggers only invites quicker foreplay and insemination. Just like us.
Now that we're old and nearly boxed lunches of dirt, I've walked a narrow, sober drug-free existence. I underscore the phrase, "lonely are the brave." My brother Toby was a notoriously bigger than life drinker. He could down whole kegs of beer, punch out other drunks and pussies, even pounding his girlfriend Patty resulting her miscarriage, saving the world from hatching a carbon-copy drunk. She fled this combat union and likely made a healthy family free of drunks like us.
My good brother Tobus went so far as to put a rifle round through his best friend DJ Forgaard's hand and thigh. All was forgiven because the culprit was the booze, not our best friends' and younger brothers' chronic inebriation. You see, we're not responsible for our actions. Liquor is the invisible 800-pound gorilla in the room causing such mayhem, not us drunks. Toby only sobered up after rolling his truck and horse trailer over Snoqualmie Pass, after delivering the horses and driving back across the pass, fucked up. Imagine the carnage and Mexican taco, burrito and tamale filling, with 6 horses all churned to highway burger and equestrian road-kill. After a serious DUI conviction and mandatory treatment, just like mine, he kept his snout outa liquor bottles. Those traumatic events were the defining moments of clarity and my younger, taller and larger brother Toby, has been sober ever since. It took only half a life longer for me to figure my shit out.
My older sister Moira Ann was an early innovator in women’s rights and employment opportunities. She just loved operating heavy equipment. She drove dump trucks and loaders of every kind and knew all the technical bits regarding their assembly and function. In Kirkland, Washington, right near the site of MicroSoft HQ, she was waiting at a traffic light and a handicapped gimper-dude, stumpy bitch-let, mini-limber drove her wheelchair through waiting traffic, between my sister's dump truck and trailer loaded with large 5-man landscape rock.
The light turned green and my sister clutched and rolled forward with traffic. Yup, you guessed it, behind all this commercial trucking machinery was a pile of clothes and red paint that was originally a stupid gimp and wheel chair that took a short-cut and got smashed flatter'n shit, pancaked like a juicy burger. My sister tested positive for my favorite drugs, the evil trinity (booze, weed and blow) and was convicted of involuntary manslaughter. And you think your family killed shit. Get this, she got another job at a Washington State Liquor Store and worked till 62, retiring with a fat public employees pension just like you coppers.
My other brother Cully seemed to have a 6th sense in his drinking and drugging. He avoided disasters and didn't became a biblical drunk and lunatic, where God saved us over and over. Cully could maintain numerous irons in the fire: full-time job, band gigs all over Seattle, pesky girlfriends and a love affair with fine marijuana and boat loads of booze. Alas, he kept his climate changing pot smoking and liquor consumption at an even keel, but died a bong ripper and drinker at the age of 59, from liver failure, just weeks ago.
My sobriety arose from living in native villages that greatly restricted my bar-hopping, wine-tasting and champagne breakfasts. As you are well-aware, my jobs were usually running interference on bootleggers and drug dealers, allowing me to indulge in state-sponsored terror-financed monstrous consumption of seized properties. The only way I avoided joining my coworkers and comrades in donning wooden jackets, feeding worms, maggots and flies, occurred as I passed the age of 40 by dropping all hard drugs like cocaine. My 50th birthday coincided with my grandpa's declaration that he abandoned all tobacco and liquor at that same age and succeeded in living well past 100. At the half-century mark in my life, I ceased all liquor and eased my marijuana habit to zero shortly thereafter. Now as I drive past legal marijuana stores, I deeply breathe in delicious smells. Fuck me.
My diabetes counselor at the Denaina Vagina, Susan Schaeffer, while filling out her questionnaire, asked me if I drank any alcohol, which I denied. Then she asked me if I consumed any tobacco products, which I reluctantly denied. Then she asked me if I felt safe at home. I looked at her like she was pulling some retarded Eskimo joke, so I asked her why she was asking. Susan stated that many of her patients were abused at home and it was her legally binding obligation to report it. I shook my head and answered no, but my wife demands we both go to the Kenai Rec Center and lift weights. Every fucking day.
Mrs. Schaeffer was impressed and told me that she remembered seeing me and bun walking to the Kotzebue Rec Center. She also told me that she heard at Manilaq that we spent every evening there because we didn't have running water and sewer and took our showers there. I smiled and told her another dirty bit of village gossip was that I was a Jew and that I didn't celebrate Christmas. She laughed and said she'd heard that one also, but wouldn't dignify that rumor with repeating. My response was that Sara only came home from Seattle for the Christmas holidays and we recommended she just take a credit card back to Washington with her, shopping after-Christmas Clearance Sales for clothes, make-up and hair care products upon her arrival way south.
Susan Schaeffer asked why we did this. I told her that Alaska Commercial and Hanson's sold retarded cold weather gear, irritating shitty make-up and overpriced female grooming products, whereas Sara could go shopping all over Seattle, saving money and purchasing far superior merch than what her pockmarked Kotzebue classmates smeared on their faces and roached their hair with. Besides, Sara's friends in Seattle could guide her to local beauty salons and more recent fashions that Eskimos will never, ever comprehend. Look at our coworkers wives' butt-ugly haircuts and outfits. Retarded.
Back to the meeting with Susan Shaeffer. She asked me if I steered clear of all alcohol, or if I drank wine or beer. I shook me head and told her that I've been a teetotaler (coffee totaler) since turning 50 and I even dropped my favorite habit: shiny, crystalline green bud. All I consume is coffee in the morning, tea in the afternoon, lifting weights 7 days a week. She asked about my sleeping patterns and if I suffer night-terrors. I looked at her and told her my memories came back and my mood swings went crazy. I'm an old man with a child's mind full of the smells of booze and tobacco. And beatings. Those never go away.
Susan Shaeffer ain't no dummy. She does Diabetes Coordination and intake for the Behavioral Health Department at the Denaina Vagina (Health Clinic) and knows all the key questions and triggers to unsettle the best of us. Even cops. She explained that what counseling aims at achieving is to break down the wall between subconscious and conscious and let us handle and treat memories and experiences we've blocked out. I thought of you guys and all the piles of stored garbage and sewage we call work history.
She also explained that she's seen alcohol used as an insulator between the images and sounds coppers conceal under the very sidewalks and floorboards we walk daily. My thought was to ditch the bitch and pay a visit to my favorite liquor store, marijuana outlet, or sit down and write another posting to a bunch of fucked up public safety and public health motherfuckers. But I didn't. I just sat there and feigned sincerity that I'd schedule an appointment over at the rubber gun squad. Here's the cool part, before she sent my referral over to the loony bin, Susan booked back to Kotz, fleeing some asshole alcoholic ex-husband. She's gonna run out of destinations if she keeps boning and marrying losers. Those Shaeffers huh? Boy or girl, they got teeth on their naughty bits, hungry for the hot in psychotic and the fun in dysfunctional. Man-junk and bitch-twat tastes much better with alcohol de-icing and seasoning.
The reason I was in a hurry to flee the Denaina Vagina was that I felt a tightening in my stomach and having flashbacks. Not LSD or alcoholic moments of clarity, but flashbacks to my meetings facilitated by Don Beuler, soon to be your boss. Beside public safety, Chief Beuler also volunteered efforts towards public health. I just double-checked to insure I didn't type "pubic health." My plan to drop hard drugs, soft drugs and alcohol, was working like a laxative, the sky darkened and the clouds looked heavy with loose stool. I wanted to relapse with a vengance.
Sobriety ain't no stranger to you coppers, but review the suffering of yer coworkers and pals. Race didn't play any part of these phenomenal miseries. Drunk, high, stoned, ripped, wasted or sober as a judge, we all found our way to houses of repute and ill, just for companionship. I joined Kim Nay, Ray Blanchard, Ken Jewell and Dean Westlake after long shitty shifts just to bullshit, drink a bucket of rum and cool down before I walked home. Sara and bun didn't deserve that shit, so structural drunkenness proved remedial. It also proved fatal. All those men listed are dead. I may also be dead too, but I missed the memo.
You see, sobriety ain't no fucking picnic, but it's better than stacked amalgamated hangovers. It also sure as shit didn't make me any happier. You coppers learned clean living as a prophylactic strategy, maintaining abstention with your genetically alcoholic Inuit spouses. What I mean by genetically alcoholic is an intolerance to heavy drinking. My wife oft tells her pals that she comes from a long line of violent alcoholics, followed by my contributory suffix that I come from a long line of tall alcoholics.
Despite a thirst for booze that'd kill an Englishman, your childrens' broken hearts didn't happen because they desired a shattered existence and torn youth, your child's heart was broken because it is easy and convenient. When fucked up or hungover, we bash children like low hanging fruit. Or a pinata. The candy that flies is the possibilities of marrying sober and not like us. In Alaska statute there's a clause that states it's legal to punch a woman, if she treats you like yer retarded children. Don't fret yer worried souls, our children married drunk-ass bitches, because we did the same.
My recommendation is that if you've gained chemistry free of tobacco and drink, cool. If we're still maintaining a substantial habit, walk like an Egyptian and stow a stash in the inner pockets of your cremation urn. All our ancestors stowed tools, snacks and treasures for us to make use of, upon our predetermined worm date, in the dark dirt beyond, under the dog-lot.
You see, you're supposed to be exactly where you are right now, doing these things exactly as you are. We've had families and friends pass away and left us here seemingly alone. But we're not alone, we're still surrounded by similarly lunatic imitators wearing masks of scars and bruises. Old men that withstood life to old age survived horrid lessons of mortality early in life. A counselor told me that I'm supposed to learn some painful lessons, then stay awake late at night communicating these lessons to smarter humans that understand mindless nonsense, and can make sense of a puzzle with pieces scattered all over fucking Alaska.
You've outlived tiny children, younger brothers and friends that suffered greatly abbreviated lives, passing on to you, messages that are important for you to later explain to the right person, at the right moment. This is a big fucking responsibility, cuz messages aren't in the speaking, they're in the hearing. And reading. So speak. Put on your thinking cap, your old man disguises and take a moment to explain to that human the message that truly needs to be said. And don't hesitate, not for a moment. It may be your child or another child that's outside, looking directly at you. Push aside the welfare parents and tell them exactly what's needed to be heard, right there.
Some time, in the next decade or century, that human will recall every word you told them, what you whispered and what they heard and it will make perfect sense. Of course, if asked for clarification, just explain you had a friend that ate too much Ex-Lax and blew shit all over this canvas and you ran to get a mop. Shrug and state you're just art critics and interpreters for the historically deaf, chemically dumb and genetically unread.
We've got a date to get together again. It's in roughly 10,000 years, camels will be back in Barrow, humans will look different due to micro-traces of goat, pig and dog DNA, because they're our descendants, yet still look like us. We'll all be only 100 years old. And holding. I'll check the phone book for an AA meeting, visit yer rest homes and pick you up. We'll get a chance to listen to these unnamed anonymous beings sharing testimonials about childhood beatings, broken teeth, torn eyeballs and bruised brains and how these memories returned with sobriety as they neared their graves.
We'll sit and drink my good coffee, listen to hairless beings, way in the future, that look like us, tell stories of their ancient ancestors' drinking and drugging, smoking and chewing. They'll nod in our direction, regress back to native languages we'll never decipher, with us forced to listen to them chatter aboriginal about prehistoric addictions and ancient traumas.
They will be talking about us.
Karl.
I was reviewing a stack of bills and receipts from last year. I gotta pack 'em up and mail them to H&R Block, the tax preppers right on the corner of the Parks Highway and Main Street. Yup, you probably drove by it a hunnert times, downtown Wasilla. Right near the capitol of the fudge-packed Colon Peoples where the number one cause of death for ignorant white folks is rectal cancer and in-family anal sex. Colon-ists are the invading hillbilly inbred families that crashed the Indun Pow-Wow, forced the learning of the world's dorkiest dance steps, gaped the copper colored pussy with European Herpes, installed retarded religions killing everything potentially creative and dangerously genius. After their relocation from the redneck Midwest dust-bowl ghetto, to the Mat-Su Valley of Trash, the number one cause of death for First Alaskan Natives inexplicably became, yup, you guessed it: ignorant white folks.
Back to my pile of paid medical bills and receipts. What caught my eye, was the paperwork for some seriously high-dollar eye surgery I had done for detached retina. I was losing vision in my left eye and the eye doctor at the Denaina Native Clinic, Dr. Megan Lincoln gave me the diagnosis. Loose retina. I said to myself, this is just fucking great. The normal repair is to laser the membrane sheet back to the rear of the eye and is the recommended repair for boxers, race car drivers involved in high-impact collisions and incarcerated low-IQ intelligence retards that've frequently had their head beat in.
What I found witty during Dr. Megan Lincoln's diagnosis, proscribed treatment and referral to Alaska Retinal Specialists was she told me that when she was a student at Optometry School, her eye-care professor repeated cynical and shitty jokes about performing eye repairs upon old fuckers like us. He'd quote a cautionary phrase from William Blake about old men, dying police and broken veterans that seeing any longer, isn't always so great.
"The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the destructive sword, are portions of eternity too great for the eye of man."
I was dumbfounded. A kid from Krotchebue fucked my shit up. I've never been pitched such an easy softball, and been bruised and beaten upon the ground. She may be a Kotzebue Lincoln, but she aren't dumB. Don't tell Dr. Megan, but her clever wit fucked my shit up.
The reason I'm whining like a bitch is cuz I always get such good news from native clinics. After an EKG up at the Barrow Hospital, Dr. Sollenberg treated me for a slew of prison-specific respiratory infections, then showed me a scribble on a graph and asked me if I ever had a heart attack. I shrugged and denied any knowledge. He told me that it could be simply a twinge or a pinch in my chest and I wouldn't know any difference. I knew the difference. Some chest pains occurred after a beat-down. Before that, complex drug and alcohol hangovers I survived, yet would kill smaller adults.
Like you fuckers, I'm sick of hearing such cheerful fucking news and reports from dense rotating doctors and thick public health nurses at native clinics all over shit-hole Alaska. Doctors and nurses with a gift for saying shitty news, in such blunt ways. Lie to me, kiss me, don't tell me unvarnished truths. I think they've forgotten their patient is Scandinavian, not native, possessing only a small amount of pygmy blood in my stool. Digested leftovers from a healthy Viking breakfast, similar to the breakfast bar at the back end of native only Mat-Su Valley of Trash abortion clinics.
Another bit of wonderful fucking advice I received was that I could have plastic surgery to improve the scars on my chin under my beard, my abdomen and above my knee. With my wonderful insurance covering 50% of any cosmetic procedures, I'd only be on the hook for fucking $14K. Out of pocket. I think unsightly scars are lovely when concealed. Lethal disagreements with our cellmates, paints floors, stacks time and delays our release. We're more pleasant killers and intelligent murderers when we keep our mouths shut and put up our dukes and swing for the firing squad wall. I'm done talking.
Come on fuckers. Look back. Real life ain't nothing we'd choose. When driving blind, my life-path looks like a spastic was at the wheel, trying to jerk off, leer at girls and drive drunk. I look at your lives and see the same thing. Lots of collisions, lots of break-downs and lots of rest-stop sex and detours for beer and bong hits. Think hard and remember, I've asked each and every one of you how you ended up here. You fuckers just gave that look like I'm supposed to know the passages you did not take, towards the doors that never opened, and here we are, poorly healed 907 Negroes, window shopping ceramic urns. Our gait appears to be lacking proper alignment, worse if we're sober. Out in the parking lot, you'll find my ass sleeping in shopping carts, or under trailers and my beard smells like butt chunks.
That's a fucked up trail, following binges and hangovers, stumbling towards redemption. My fondness for alkaloid boogers, aromatic hydrocarbon-rich lung drainage and strange women has proved to be my downfall. One chapter I remember in a stupid textbook I was forced to digest, mental health is reflected in the quality of our long-term relationships. Yup, I'm fucked. Right when things stabilize, I fuck shit up and fail to resist sobriety and temptation.
"A woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke."
I've always thought Rudyard Kipling's arcane scribbling applied to my enjoyment of crystallized green bud and my appreciation for French cigarettes. Like any sex and nicotine addicted dumb shit, I increased my tobacco to include expensive cigars and evermore naked women speaking languages no drunken Finn deciphers. Fatally beautiful unclothed females, fine aged liquor and contraband cigars were my diet. The 3 banes of my existence. Of the stupid cops I befriended, imagine if I returned home and gave you foreign girls and expensive drugs, not illegal cigars. You'd be divorced and need a chiropractor.
I've got 3 nicotine stained teeth that've been replaced. Actually 3 molars the dentist ground down to stumps while I was ripped on Valium and mint flavored nitrous oxide gas, and capped with synthetic composites. They're called crowns and they are real fucking expensive. Don't forget, they're considered cosmetic and insurance only pays for 50% so the $3K nut buster, is out of pocket. In my old age, I've become insensitive to really bad news, but going through this paperwork and the prices I paid, I grit my teeth so hard, you can hear my denture glue cracking.
I'm good at getting my ass kicked. I excel at losing fights. I put my face in front of swinging fists and truncheons and by sheer will, I absorb impacts jarring my brain like jello having ejaculatory seizures, eyes battered to pieces and my teeth punched to fractures. The 3 teeth were broken and cracked many years ago, and since I aren't dumb, service to village, state and country is likely shit. We all suffer Inupiaq Alzheimer's, forgetting everything, except who pissed us off. I ain't bitter. Okay a little.
Dr. Sollenberg told me he likes to give special advice to fucked up, worn-out public safety maggots. After he gives you a terminal diagnosis, he'll also hand you a pair of automatics and a dozen loaded magazines. All he asks is that before snuggling yer dying bed, you visit his heartless colleagues at rural hospitals all over pygmy 907, and dispense some kinetic perforations around their head and neck. You know, go postal nigger and do his bidding. Ours too. Deal. Roger. Copy. Count me in. 10-4 Bravo Foxtrot (butt-fucker).
Doc Sollenberg was amused with my injuries and explained that when a skull receives an impact like a punch, kick or blow from a baton, we lose consciousness for a fraction of a second. When boxers are in the middle of exchanging hooks, jabs and upper-cuts and a glove lands a good connection, boxers go out cold for a fraction of a second. The only reason we don't drop to the ground is muscle memory in our arms, legs, abdomen and shoulders have learned to stay upright and keep us on our legs and in the fight.
Think back. You know this because when you try to recall some serious fights you've engaged, your memory has blank spots lasting fractions of seconds. We were momentarily out cold, but still in the fight taking hits. Body blows or bone impacts on the limbs and ribs don't have this same effect on our consciousness. When we get an asp baton or a PR-24 smack upon our knees and elbows, we get to enjoy the full agony experience and suffer no relief. It also explains why you dumb fuckers never laid down, took a dive and threw a fight, swinging for the fences, or prison wall. I got a headache just writing this shit.
A hunnert years ago, the State Troopers held a 6-week VPSO training academy in Kotzebue, I was nominated to the play the role of the hostile combatant. Yup, all the new VPSO recruits from Nome and Bethel got to try their best to subdue yer author on drugs. The goal was to deliver baton blows to the limbs, spray the arrested with pepper mace, then cuff the prisoner. On most of the exercises, I was to take it easy on them micro-nates and let them get the feel of getting control of taller dumber motherfuckers.
As the training progressed, I'd toss 'em around with simple shoves, hip tosses and flips all over the wrestling mats, but at no time could I deliver finger jabs beyond their eye sockets, palm pumps to their nose or stabs with the open hand to their grapes, nor throat. Lucky niggers. I couldn't even solar plexus their shit.
The combat instructor was the same trooper dude that trained all you coppers years ago at the Sitka Academy and would referee the matches with loud whistles and barked commands. He'd let us wrestle around while the VPSO candidates advised me I was under arrest, then yell for us to go easy or go full-on fight mode. That guy was one tough son of a bitch. He'd squat low on the mats watching closely and coached the VPSO recruits with commands whilst getting their asses tossed in the air or shoved back on their butts. What's a pity is that the hostile combatant, being me, couldn't reach for their tools and pound them to shit. That would come later.
We received coaching from this trooper instructor on how to take swinging arms and gain control, knee blows with the ASP collapsible baton to slow aggressive approaches and spray mildly irritating training pepper mace that was designed for practice, but not the full-on Methican eye-melting, Wet-Back ass-rash fry oil, nor Beaner pepper concentrated butt-spray. The training shit still stung the eyes momentarily, but wasn't nearly as deadly as the shit you fuckers carry next to your batons and pistols on duty.
After class, I'd hook up with Bun and Al Sanders at the Rec Center to lift weights, sauna and shower. Al was impressed with all the bruises on my arms from newbie green VPSO fuckers trying real hard to slap cuffs on me, and swatting my legs with collapsible batons. Al Sanders' joke was that if I was black (African Alaskan), the bruises wouldn't hurt as much. Them little native fuckers started getting smarter and more cunning in taking down my big dumb ass acting drunk or like a drug addled PCP fucker. What's worse, I didn't get no liquor nor drugs.
For weeks we'd dance all over the mats fighting under differing criteria: light impact, mace, batons and even me fighting with cuffs on behind my back, resisting arrest or fleeing incarceration. Being too tall, I could never pull the Delta Force Jump and tuck my feet over my cuffed wrists and get my hands in front of me. But, this'll make you smile, I was allowed to kick lightly and pitch little runt natives with my hips and shoulders.
Them little VPSO fuckers would jump on my back and put me in a headlock, so I'd head-butt 'em in reverse or leap backwards, land on 'em and blow the air out of those pesky little shits. You shoulda seen them brown midgets line up to dole out some whoop-ass on me. Pussies got tough and everyone of 'em eventually prevailed, leaving me fucked up, cuffed on the mat, beat to shit, breathless and winded like the crispy old geezer women we been fucking.
I did my best to play the part as an uncooperative arrested, but after a few hours with them boys, my shit was wasted tired. Every evening I worked out harder and harder lifting weights to keep up with them. Then they all started getting wise and showing up at the Rec Center to lift weights with me and Bun, and Al Sanders. Little fuckers got tough and fit pumping iron alongside an old native woman, a retarded Finn and a beefy nigger broadcaster from KOTZ 720 AM on your moron dial. Funny thing was, them little native boys learned to really like me. Stupid shits.
Years later I heard someone call out my name in the UAF cafeteria. I turned and didn't know who'd yelled at me. A tall native fellow approached and reached out to shake my hand, but I told him I couldn't recall who he was. He told me his name was Hank Anelon from Illiamna and he sure remembered trying to kick my ass at that Kotzebue Rec and Tech Center VPSO training program. A bunch of other students surrounding us looked up at us, worried we were drunken natives, fixing to fuck shit up.
He looked familiar, but he was much shorter when he started working village cop job duties rotating between Illiamna and Tyonek. Fucker had grown almost as tall as me, but was heavier and bulkier. Mr. Anelon stated that since lifting weights at the Kotzebue Rec Center, he'd never skipped a day, and when he told his mom about lifting weights aside an elderly native woman from Kotzebue named Bessie Tikik, she cried out and explained to Hank that his mom, Anisha was good buds with Bessie. Both these elderly native gals attended Chemawa Indun Boarding School together and that Bessie was "high manna." Meaning classy, distinguished and kind. I knew she was a devout sober Tikigaq from the Point Hopeless shit-village, spoke the language fairly well, but I couldn't imagine her being seen as all that sophisticated and snobby, in her younger wilder days. I must've missed seeing those qualities in my wife. Even as we speak, my head is snug between my ass cheeks.
I'd never mentioned any public safety career bull crap to a single soul in my UAF classes, dorms or lunch room, so Hank's stories regaling his bumps and bruises getting spun, tossed and flipped by a big fucking white asshole surprised my classmates. Hank was funny. He hated that tough-ass trooper coach and fighting referee, teaching the VPSO recruits a whole new world of combat. Mr. Anelon thought himself a bad-ass and beyond learning something from the Trooper instructors. You fuckers remember how little we know from elementary wrestling, boxing and judo, until we're beaten to shit by seasoned professional cops that make a living training recruits and whooping our shit.
Hank Anelon never let up on me. He was in the same dorm building complex as me (Moore, Bartlett, Skarland) and always chided me that I was an old fart that pounded natives. He complimented me for bouncing whole armies of darkie midgets on their asses all day long, take a lunch break, and continue getting my ass stomped. Then head to the weight room. My dorm mates thought that an old man like me was a worn out douche bag and couldn't even lift my own dick. One freshman student named Kevin Gee was full of funny shit and stated that geezers like me got one foot in the grave and the other foot on a banana peel. Yup, real funny pals I hang around.
Some kid, named John Trotter, from down the hallway asked us what we were talking about, so Mr. Anelon explained that "fucking Ewing" was nominated to play the role of angel dusted, cocaine infused, drunken asshole that was supposed to make it impossible for a bunch of native VPSO's to subdue, cuff and arrest. He laughed and told Trotter that he'd won all his wrestling matches during high school, but never in his village runt-life gotten pounded and winded trying to "kick this fucker's ass." Hank laughed and explained that even cuffed behind his back, Karl kicked his thighs and hips to bruising and head butted him so hard he almost quit the program.
John Trotter was a freshman and full of funny shit. He'd grown up in Anderson next door to Bill Murray, another announcer at KOTZ and then spent a few years in Met (Metlakatla), the scummy Indun vil. He'd chide me for the village girls I fucked with snarky quips like, "Karl will fuck anything with a uterus. And horns." That is pretty funny, but with good pals of any generation, ya gotta take it, and give it. My common retort was that "his mom had so many retarded hillbilly downer-syndrome vaginal barf-ups that she's just a snatch with a wagging tale and her pussy has become a slip and slide stinky water-park."
Joking aside and on a more serious note, Trotter asked me how in hell anybody could take on a big husky native guy like Hank Anelon. My answer was that Hank was much smaller, way back when, during the VPSO Academy. I would've sounded gay if I boasted that I'd earned the pussy level of green belt in karate at community college, basic judo in elementary, wrestled in junior high and boxed at the YMCA. Boxing was the only program-sanctioned way to settle school-kid disputes at elementary and junior high. Fighting got yer ass expelled. To add flavor and character to my hillbilly farm-tard cred, and rattle John Trotter, I added I was one of 7 farm kids that wrestled goats, dogs and pigs to the ground. And fucked 'em. Trotter shit his pants. He believed that goat part.
The boxing was a juvenile program our swim coach rammed down our throats. He stated that since we were Finns, Norwegians or Swedes, our parents were alcoholics that made us mean, abused, scrappy little shits. But, if we were caught fighting at school, we would be kicked out of school AND kicked off the swim team. Our swim coach insisted we invite bullies to join us at the YMCA, put on gloves and masks and pound each other to death. The bullies could even choose wuss wrestling, wimpy kid boxing or elementary pansy judo. The bullies that picked fights with us declined the invitation and left us alone.
Hank Anelon is still the VPSO for the Illiamna/Tyonek beat, but lost his leg below the knee to poorly managed diabetes a few years back. He wasn't fazed though, he kept walking his patrols and taking meager pay, but wears an expensive prosthetic that he's modified with tape and straps allowing him to deliver decent groin kicks, foot stomps and knee-cap shin peels with a steel shoe. He told me that he still laughs at how bad he got whooped by such a fucking old white guy. He also told me that he hasn't ever had an arrest that injured him as badly.
Hank Anelon kept clippings of the Arctic Sounder story about the Logan Bust in Barrow, and UAF Sun Star headlines about the date-rape narc job I did with Nush. Hank called my narc job descriptions racist and discriminatory, "cuz you only bagged pussy white bootleggers and never sacked any natives." He was joking of course, he knows that jiggaboos, niggers, white fuckers and tundra monkey natives never do any drug business together and to bust one of these groups, ya gotta get a narc the same color. And odor.
Now back to my whining. My composite injuries can be blamed on my career choices, but you coppers know that I've never laid a hand on any drugs, guns nor natives, so my bitching stinks disingenuous. So I blame my collection of scars on my drinking, drugging and accidents fighting young girls, snacking inflamed bush in effort to breed at any cost. Yup, that's a good excuse. Whenever a doctor starts getting nosy, I lie and tell 'em that I got hurt a lot during my years breeding TCBQ's. You ain't lived till ye cracked open a Trailer Court Beauty Queen's foul snatch and butt crack. And bust a nut fer lunch.
When I was 18 I got pinched for minor in possession of alcohol, when I was 19 I got pinched for minor in possession of marijuana. Sitting in court on the second offense, I was referred to the Drug Abuse Council in Lynnwood, Washington. Those courts don't fuck around. You get popped for any booze or druggy shit, yer ass is scheduled at any of a hunnert counseling services. I showed up for 1 meeting a week for 3 months with a review sent back to the judge for his examination.
What I wasn't expecting was that the judge notified me the clinical disclaimer stating I was "high risk of re-offending." Fuck me. The judge then sent to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings for another 3 months. I had to show up for a coupla meetings a week at the community center in Mountlake Terrace where I met Don Beuler. He was a sponsor and facilitator for the AA program and did roll call for us compulsory dildos that required him to sign off on our appearances.
I showed up for all the meetings and was startled at how old the group was. Like over 30 or some shit. Those fuckers all looked like Merle Haggard. And KPD cops. I was 19 years old and surrounded by ancient cripppled dried-up old guys, talking about their years of sobriety, numbers of relapses and I sat there listening to their personal stories. Some of their shit was really fucked up. I also started making startling realizations between these old codgers and myself. I just wouldn't admit it. Still don't, outside this white paper intellectual forum fer public service butt fuckers.
A lot of these old drunks in AA started out partying in their youth, but quickly had legal issues like drunk driving shit. Others had legal issues with domestic violence, beating their wives or slugging their kids. Some old dudes even beat their bosses and coworkers. I found these last personal offenses completely understandable. Come on, how many of our bosses and office mates really needed a beating, attitude adjustment and tune-up? Look at the fat Kotzebue city slobs that signed our paychecks, they sure as shit needed a thrashing and ass-kicking. Hell, we were already in jail fer pay, forfeiting our freedom once we set booted foot on retard patrol duty.
Our AA meetings started with them complimenting me on the coffee I brought, brewed and set up with big serving bowls of Coffee-Mate and sugar. When drunks drop their liquor, their replacement drug is substance called sugar. I was a coffee snob even then, and wasn't gonna drink shit-ass red-can coffee with worn out drunks. After greetings all around, and for my benefit, these beat-to-shit cripples would start their tales at roughly my age.
My face got hot when they started their personal testimonials glancing or nodding in my direction and proceeded to expound on their trail of tears. A lot of these old anonymous unnamed individuals (AA remember) tried to make connections between their parents', uncles' and grandparents' problems with alcohol, then drew a sketchy line to their own behavior. This was the moment when I would blank out and ignore their stupid retarded drunk talk. My partying was different and I still had 9 years until I ran out of options selling blow and running a crack house.
Some of their childhood tales would put you old coppers to shame. I heard tales of violent beatings, burns, rapes and sexual mutilations. I shrug off tales of beatings, but the burns, rapes and sex-mutilations got my attention, like right fucking now. Next time you beat, spank or paddle your children or grand children, aim right for the pubes. Yup, I heard tales of moms and dads, teachers and coaches flailing children with whips, belts and boards: landing blows right on girls' and boys' privates. That shit terrorized me, never left me, and I'm still thinking about it as I write to a bunch of fucking cops. Today, 40 years later.
I completed the nightmare Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and after the 3 months of mandatory attendance, Don Beuler, the AA facilitator and sponsor, signed off on my court papers. On my next probationary status hearing, I was released from court supervision, finally healed and completely rehabilitated. You buy that shit? I kept my nose clean insofar as to fly back up to Alaska two more seasons at Cold Bay and D-ham to earn decent bank, working construction gigs when needed, attending community college for the basics in karate, swimming, weight lifting, English (creative writing fer fuck sake) and Math, only dealing weed and blow at school part-time to maintain my living standards. I'm lying by omission of course.
One year later, I received a letter at my parents house. My folks sent smoke signals and farm-tard Morse code informing me that I should drop by and eat something called food, drink with my brothers and pick up my mail. The offer to drink with my brothers sounded pretty good, so I scavenged cleaner clothes and went to drink an entire house of all it's booze. I even sneaked a packet of blow in me pocket, you know, in case of emergencies.
My folks looked older and shorter, my sisters were nervous and spiteful that I stopped fucking within my family, and my brothers were already well into their cups, glowing, smiling and offering me seriously expensive liquors and dark European beers. So I did. I ate real food, drank a shit-load of liquor and beer, even sneaking downstairs to share chunks of sparkling coke with my brothers. We'd taken 3 or 4 breaks for sinus coagulator medications and repairs, then proceeded to empty the premises of a whole liquor cabinet, wine cellar and all the beer in the fridge.
The rest of the evening was a blur, but Cully and Toby agreed to meet me at my house (Lem's Mortuary) for a pile of cocaine nightcap and fumigate ourselves smoking Cully-bud. Don't get snarky, my drug addiction and alcoholism had nothing to do with my brothers. We just partied together, a lot. A whole lot. We could out-drink any smaller humans and with my brothers taller and bigger than me, I had to set a good example of tolerance. I must've forgotten to mention the fact that my brothers dwarfed my 6' 3" stubby frame by whole shoulders taller than me and whole native body weights heavier. Alcoholism only affects little people.
I awoke the following morning, sleeping on the floor with all the dogs, my face crunchy from dried drool and textured from the carpet. I put on coffee, put the dogs out back and filled their water and food bowls, then downed a packet of multivitamins and a big double dose of Alka-Seltzer (alcoholic-seltzer), then as I poured myself cups of coffee and started my chores, I also spied a big chunk of crystalline bud Cully left me.
So as I vacuumed, washed dishes and wiped windows and counters, I smoked a piece. A piece I smashed in cocaine for nutritional and health benefits of course. That's when I think I had my first heart attack. I felt a pinch in my chest. I breathed out the cocoa-puff smoke, sat down fer a spell and let the sharp pain fade, felt better and went back to my chores. Here's the weird part, the dogs came back inside, insisting on leaning against me and whining, looking at me like I was retarded and resting their chins on my lap and even climbing on the sofa, snuggling all over me. All 3 of 'em were such fucking worry-warts. Dogs are a pain in the ass.
I found the letter addressed to me at my parents house in my pocket, so I opened it. It was for a follow-up review and post-treatment analysis. Mail like that just makes yer fucking day. I phoned the number and was connected to the School District psychiatrist and she asked me to drop in this afternoon. I stalled, cuz I was still hungover like a motherfucker. She peristed and requested I "pop in tomorrow morning." I agreed, sat back down, drank more coffee, smoked another bowl of frosted bud flakes and petted my annoying dogs that still whined, nudged and leaned against me like I needed to be directed back to the sofa and sit with them. Dogs are worse than wives.
Fuck. A psych meeting. I completed my chores, stripped and took a real hot shower to clear my head. Here's the shit. I smelled funny. Like a brewery and tire manufacturing plant. I stepped out of the shower to dry off and those goddamned dogs were all sitting on the bathroom floor looking at me. I dressed, brushed my hair and beard, then booked out with the dogs to walk down to D&D Meats to pick up something to eat. The meal and over-indulgence at my parents house left my stomach stretched out and sore, and I thought it best I grab a bag of scraps and bones for the dogs. I bribe my dogs and girlfriends with treats. Just to shut the fuck up.
The dogs followed dutifully and sat outside on the sidewalk while I bought some mark-down steaks and a bag of meat scraps and bone treats for them. They got happy with that action. We walked all the way uptown to the Circle K and I grabbed another coffee for the short walk home. The clerk knew me, bought blow offa me occasionally, but sure liked the dogs and their super good manners. They sat like an army trio of canine body guards while I settled up and paid for the cup of coffee, then all 4 of us headed home. The meat scraps and bones were a special treat, but my impending meeting at the shrink's office worried me. The appointment was for some ungodly early time, like 8:30 or some shit, and I had a busy Thursday night's business to tend to. In the cocaine biz, Thursday's are always the busiest.
I had a hunnert customers, stayed wired all night and had Marto drive me to my appointment at the shrink's. I was instructed to piss in a cup. And my piss melted the fucking cup.
That meeting was the beginning of 3 more years of counseling. Dr. Marilyn Grey wasn't a dummy. She politely asked me how my sobriety was coming along and I blinked. I told her that I visited my parents and celebrated my sobriety with a near-death binge. Like a lot. She looked at me and asked me if it's normal for my parents to serve cocaine at a family get-together. My face got hot, so I told her it was an occupational hazard and that I might possibly be able to limit my intake, lessening my monstrous consumption down to a maintenance level.
She smiled at me, gave a thick textbook titled, "Guilt and Neurosis in Addiction." My orders were read the fucker, take notes and questions, and return that Monday morning. Fuck me in the goat ass. I had a weekend of business to attend to. Which I did, while reading this entire fucking book, taking notes and questions, in between customers and pals dropping by with money, beer and bong hits, picking up packets of blow.
My dudes looked at me just like my dogs. They all started thinking I was retarded and studied seriously weird whacking material. "Fuck dude, what's up with the book?" I told them I was under court orders to follow all the instructions from this goddamned shrink, and digesting this book was job 1. "Whoa dude, that sucks."
Monday morning I was ordered to give another piss test. The cup didn't melt, but the smoke detector erupted from my piss vapors. Dr. Marilyn Grey didn't make any comments about the crystallized urine sample. She simply offered me coffee and started questioning me about the psych book she gave me. I answered them all honestly and completely. She asked me if I had any insights and I told her that alcoholism and drug addiction don't happen in a vacuum, there's causation and materialization displayed in the patient's behavior and relationship skills that should be a fucking clue as to why these subjects suffered so much. Marilyn asked me if I suffered very much. I smiled and said that I truly thought myself to be a decent, kind person and that I radiated warmth and well-wishes. She smiled, then gave me another book and told me to return in 2 days.
Fuck! Being smart didn't pay shit.
The textbook was titled Child Abuse and Alcoholism. What the fuck is this shit? I read the whole fucker, took notes and scribbled questions, returning at the scheduled time and gave her my best dissertation on the literature she shoved up my ass. Between handling customers and partying with my tenants and beer guards at Lem's Crack House, I read the whole fucker and filled a note pad with smart alec notions. I was also starting to have real shitty dreams I was a little kid fighting big grown-ups, and losing badly. I woke up early, took the dogs for a walk, got coffee at the Circle K, returned home, showered, then hitched a ride with Marto to the shrink's office
I took a piss in a cup. No melting plastic, no smoke alarm and no crystals in my piss cup. I was also fairly sober, sharp and prepared for the grilling to come. Marilyn poured me a black coffee, made no comment about the nuclear piss tests and proceeded to ask me about the psych textbook. I answered her on every point, gave my opinions and thought I'd beaten her scheme. She smiled at me, stood up and reached for a really giant textbook, handed it to me and told me I had till the next Monday to repeat the same process.
This book was a doozy. It must've weighed 40 pounds and was over a thousand pages. The fucker was about repressed child memories and the echoes that manifest themselves years and decades later. Echoes that cause patients to have weird neurotic behaviors like bulimia, cutting, suicides, unexplained anger and mysterious rage. And chronic drug addiction and alcoholism. You see where this is going don't you. At that time, decades ago, I had no clue.
Reading about other Earthlings that didn't have to attend AA meetings and sober civilians that don't snort their nutrition while running a profitable crack house had a strange effect on my tactical optics. I started looking at my beers, bong hits and lines of blow like I was outside myself. The view became from across the room and I was watching myself at a distance. My perspective didn't do shit for my hangovers though. They were all right there, in front of me and radiated out my fucking eyes. As with all hangovers, more of the same is the best cure. Hair of the dog, fixer-uppers and just a touch of John Barley-corn with a side order of Frosted Flakes and bong hits. That's when I started to see that my tolerance was also a self-repeating loop of stupidity.
I finished the psych book and boat anchor. I made it to my scheduled early-ass morning meeting and gave a decent recitation of the points I found disturbing. I also told Marilyn about the shitty dreams I just can't seem to drink off my mind. All she said was "fantastic." She got out of her chair, reached way up and grabbed another textbook about more childhood trauma, distortions in adult behavior and more, you guessed it: addiction bullshit.
This book covered repressed childhood memories, their impact on our personality, our relationships, our careers and our chemical diets. My personality is fine, my relationships are best described as serial monogamy, and my chemical diet is delicious and crippling. I rotate through girlfriends like pages of a calendar. Even if girlfriends stick around, I'm overlapping their presence with new candidates and my love-life was crowded combative pussy claiming territory far worse than my possessive dogs.
The only long-term relationships I maintained effectively were with my younger brothers, my drug buddies, my dogs and my love-affairs with green bud, liquor and truckloads of cocaine. My infidelity involved females of the human kind and I was most faithful to the money. Money I counted, stowed and responsibly dispersed on bills, rent, gasoline and wages I paid my dudes for services that Lem's Mortuary and Crack House needed. Like organizing Cully's band equipment, set-up and keeping track of the hunnert arrivals. Every hour.
I'm being snide. One of the upsetting points that these textbooks illustrated was that we bond with and marry alcoholics, just like our parents. If you don't believe me, look at the drunk bitches our sons breed with. We may not look at our own wives that way, but damn, they've battled the side-effects of alcoholism and drug addiction in both their own families and their own bodies. Our wives also married drunks, just like their parents.
To understand that you'll never have a fucking clue about our children and their retard-palsy parents (us niggers), Dr. Marilyn Grey sunk my battleship by quoting George Bernard Shaw. "I tell you there's a wall ten feet thick and ten miles high between parent and child." No matter how hard your kids yell or gesture in mental midget semaphore, you'll never understand the subsequent generations we spawned and fucked over. Here kid, have a beer and a smoke. And a beating. Don't blame us for your fucking drug problems.
We're blind as a fresh steaming turd with goggles, deaf as a maggot infested cunt packed full of cotton plugs and if yer asked, remain silent and don't admit to ever sleeping with a hunnert liquored up girls half our age, twice as pretty as our wives with an 80-proof biscuit, cognac flavored labia and lips we still taste upon our faces, beards and mustaches. I ain't kidding, some highschool and college age girls are finger licking good and no, they don't live next door at your senior center.
We scoff and deny these valid points, but look at our brothers and half-brothers. We've watched them hump and impregnate some seriously fuckered-up skanky broads. Both native and non-native. Look at our coworkers. Westlake scrawged rotten old pussy and spooged nasty underage drinkers, and so did his offspring. Octuck pulled the same shit, insofar as to pump fat white blimpy bitches till they spawned children that suffer addiction and incarceration, or early death like Hildreth and his kin. Let's not give a pass on Nay. His alcoholism and tobacco addiction killed his ass way too early, leaving his wife at loose ends, bad odds and heartbreaking outcomes. His sons also knocked up booze hounds. See, it's easy to diagnose other asshole's kids, but not our own. Identical to our fathers and fathers in-law, our children are hungry to bone drunks. Comatose passed out niggers only invites quicker foreplay and insemination. Just like us.
Now that we're old and nearly boxed lunches of dirt, I've walked a narrow, sober drug-free existence. I underscore the phrase, "lonely are the brave." My brother Toby was a notoriously bigger than life drinker. He could down whole kegs of beer, punch out other drunks and pussies, even pounding his girlfriend Patty resulting her miscarriage, saving the world from hatching a carbon-copy drunk. She fled this combat union and likely made a healthy family free of drunks like us.
My good brother Tobus went so far as to put a rifle round through his best friend DJ Forgaard's hand and thigh. All was forgiven because the culprit was the booze, not our best friends' and younger brothers' chronic inebriation. You see, we're not responsible for our actions. Liquor is the invisible 800-pound gorilla in the room causing such mayhem, not us drunks. Toby only sobered up after rolling his truck and horse trailer over Snoqualmie Pass, after delivering the horses and driving back across the pass, fucked up. Imagine the carnage and Mexican taco, burrito and tamale filling, with 6 horses all churned to highway burger and equestrian road-kill. After a serious DUI conviction and mandatory treatment, just like mine, he kept his snout outa liquor bottles. Those traumatic events were the defining moments of clarity and my younger, taller and larger brother Toby, has been sober ever since. It took only half a life longer for me to figure my shit out.
My older sister Moira Ann was an early innovator in women’s rights and employment opportunities. She just loved operating heavy equipment. She drove dump trucks and loaders of every kind and knew all the technical bits regarding their assembly and function. In Kirkland, Washington, right near the site of MicroSoft HQ, she was waiting at a traffic light and a handicapped gimper-dude, stumpy bitch-let, mini-limber drove her wheelchair through waiting traffic, between my sister's dump truck and trailer loaded with large 5-man landscape rock.
The light turned green and my sister clutched and rolled forward with traffic. Yup, you guessed it, behind all this commercial trucking machinery was a pile of clothes and red paint that was originally a stupid gimp and wheel chair that took a short-cut and got smashed flatter'n shit, pancaked like a juicy burger. My sister tested positive for my favorite drugs, the evil trinity (booze, weed and blow) and was convicted of involuntary manslaughter. And you think your family killed shit. Get this, she got another job at a Washington State Liquor Store and worked till 62, retiring with a fat public employees pension just like you coppers.
My other brother Cully seemed to have a 6th sense in his drinking and drugging. He avoided disasters and didn't became a biblical drunk and lunatic, where God saved us over and over. Cully could maintain numerous irons in the fire: full-time job, band gigs all over Seattle, pesky girlfriends and a love affair with fine marijuana and boat loads of booze. Alas, he kept his climate changing pot smoking and liquor consumption at an even keel, but died a bong ripper and drinker at the age of 59, from liver failure, just weeks ago.
My sobriety arose from living in native villages that greatly restricted my bar-hopping, wine-tasting and champagne breakfasts. As you are well-aware, my jobs were usually running interference on bootleggers and drug dealers, allowing me to indulge in state-sponsored terror-financed monstrous consumption of seized properties. The only way I avoided joining my coworkers and comrades in donning wooden jackets, feeding worms, maggots and flies, occurred as I passed the age of 40 by dropping all hard drugs like cocaine. My 50th birthday coincided with my grandpa's declaration that he abandoned all tobacco and liquor at that same age and succeeded in living well past 100. At the half-century mark in my life, I ceased all liquor and eased my marijuana habit to zero shortly thereafter. Now as I drive past legal marijuana stores, I deeply breathe in delicious smells. Fuck me.
My diabetes counselor at the Denaina Vagina, Susan Schaeffer, while filling out her questionnaire, asked me if I drank any alcohol, which I denied. Then she asked me if I consumed any tobacco products, which I reluctantly denied. Then she asked me if I felt safe at home. I looked at her like she was pulling some retarded Eskimo joke, so I asked her why she was asking. Susan stated that many of her patients were abused at home and it was her legally binding obligation to report it. I shook my head and answered no, but my wife demands we both go to the Kenai Rec Center and lift weights. Every fucking day.
Mrs. Schaeffer was impressed and told me that she remembered seeing me and bun walking to the Kotzebue Rec Center. She also told me that she heard at Manilaq that we spent every evening there because we didn't have running water and sewer and took our showers there. I smiled and told her another dirty bit of village gossip was that I was a Jew and that I didn't celebrate Christmas. She laughed and said she'd heard that one also, but wouldn't dignify that rumor with repeating. My response was that Sara only came home from Seattle for the Christmas holidays and we recommended she just take a credit card back to Washington with her, shopping after-Christmas Clearance Sales for clothes, make-up and hair care products upon her arrival way south.
Susan Schaeffer asked why we did this. I told her that Alaska Commercial and Hanson's sold retarded cold weather gear, irritating shitty make-up and overpriced female grooming products, whereas Sara could go shopping all over Seattle, saving money and purchasing far superior merch than what her pockmarked Kotzebue classmates smeared on their faces and roached their hair with. Besides, Sara's friends in Seattle could guide her to local beauty salons and more recent fashions that Eskimos will never, ever comprehend. Look at our coworkers wives' butt-ugly haircuts and outfits. Retarded.
Back to the meeting with Susan Shaeffer. She asked me if I steered clear of all alcohol, or if I drank wine or beer. I shook me head and told her that I've been a teetotaler (coffee totaler) since turning 50 and I even dropped my favorite habit: shiny, crystalline green bud. All I consume is coffee in the morning, tea in the afternoon, lifting weights 7 days a week. She asked about my sleeping patterns and if I suffer night-terrors. I looked at her and told her my memories came back and my mood swings went crazy. I'm an old man with a child's mind full of the smells of booze and tobacco. And beatings. Those never go away.
Susan Shaeffer ain't no dummy. She does Diabetes Coordination and intake for the Behavioral Health Department at the Denaina Vagina (Health Clinic) and knows all the key questions and triggers to unsettle the best of us. Even cops. She explained that what counseling aims at achieving is to break down the wall between subconscious and conscious and let us handle and treat memories and experiences we've blocked out. I thought of you guys and all the piles of stored garbage and sewage we call work history.
She also explained that she's seen alcohol used as an insulator between the images and sounds coppers conceal under the very sidewalks and floorboards we walk daily. My thought was to ditch the bitch and pay a visit to my favorite liquor store, marijuana outlet, or sit down and write another posting to a bunch of fucked up public safety and public health motherfuckers. But I didn't. I just sat there and feigned sincerity that I'd schedule an appointment over at the rubber gun squad. Here's the cool part, before she sent my referral over to the loony bin, Susan booked back to Kotz, fleeing some asshole alcoholic ex-husband. She's gonna run out of destinations if she keeps boning and marrying losers. Those Shaeffers huh? Boy or girl, they got teeth on their naughty bits, hungry for the hot in psychotic and the fun in dysfunctional. Man-junk and bitch-twat tastes much better with alcohol de-icing and seasoning.
The reason I was in a hurry to flee the Denaina Vagina was that I felt a tightening in my stomach and having flashbacks. Not LSD or alcoholic moments of clarity, but flashbacks to my meetings facilitated by Don Beuler, soon to be your boss. Beside public safety, Chief Beuler also volunteered efforts towards public health. I just double-checked to insure I didn't type "pubic health." My plan to drop hard drugs, soft drugs and alcohol, was working like a laxative, the sky darkened and the clouds looked heavy with loose stool. I wanted to relapse with a vengance.
Sobriety ain't no stranger to you coppers, but review the suffering of yer coworkers and pals. Race didn't play any part of these phenomenal miseries. Drunk, high, stoned, ripped, wasted or sober as a judge, we all found our way to houses of repute and ill, just for companionship. I joined Kim Nay, Ray Blanchard, Ken Jewell and Dean Westlake after long shitty shifts just to bullshit, drink a bucket of rum and cool down before I walked home. Sara and bun didn't deserve that shit, so structural drunkenness proved remedial. It also proved fatal. All those men listed are dead. I may also be dead too, but I missed the memo.
You see, sobriety ain't no fucking picnic, but it's better than stacked amalgamated hangovers. It also sure as shit didn't make me any happier. You coppers learned clean living as a prophylactic strategy, maintaining abstention with your genetically alcoholic Inuit spouses. What I mean by genetically alcoholic is an intolerance to heavy drinking. My wife oft tells her pals that she comes from a long line of violent alcoholics, followed by my contributory suffix that I come from a long line of tall alcoholics.
Despite a thirst for booze that'd kill an Englishman, your childrens' broken hearts didn't happen because they desired a shattered existence and torn youth, your child's heart was broken because it is easy and convenient. When fucked up or hungover, we bash children like low hanging fruit. Or a pinata. The candy that flies is the possibilities of marrying sober and not like us. In Alaska statute there's a clause that states it's legal to punch a woman, if she treats you like yer retarded children. Don't fret yer worried souls, our children married drunk-ass bitches, because we did the same.
My recommendation is that if you've gained chemistry free of tobacco and drink, cool. If we're still maintaining a substantial habit, walk like an Egyptian and stow a stash in the inner pockets of your cremation urn. All our ancestors stowed tools, snacks and treasures for us to make use of, upon our predetermined worm date, in the dark dirt beyond, under the dog-lot.
You see, you're supposed to be exactly where you are right now, doing these things exactly as you are. We've had families and friends pass away and left us here seemingly alone. But we're not alone, we're still surrounded by similarly lunatic imitators wearing masks of scars and bruises. Old men that withstood life to old age survived horrid lessons of mortality early in life. A counselor told me that I'm supposed to learn some painful lessons, then stay awake late at night communicating these lessons to smarter humans that understand mindless nonsense, and can make sense of a puzzle with pieces scattered all over fucking Alaska.
You've outlived tiny children, younger brothers and friends that suffered greatly abbreviated lives, passing on to you, messages that are important for you to later explain to the right person, at the right moment. This is a big fucking responsibility, cuz messages aren't in the speaking, they're in the hearing. And reading. So speak. Put on your thinking cap, your old man disguises and take a moment to explain to that human the message that truly needs to be said. And don't hesitate, not for a moment. It may be your child or another child that's outside, looking directly at you. Push aside the welfare parents and tell them exactly what's needed to be heard, right there.
Some time, in the next decade or century, that human will recall every word you told them, what you whispered and what they heard and it will make perfect sense. Of course, if asked for clarification, just explain you had a friend that ate too much Ex-Lax and blew shit all over this canvas and you ran to get a mop. Shrug and state you're just art critics and interpreters for the historically deaf, chemically dumb and genetically unread.
We've got a date to get together again. It's in roughly 10,000 years, camels will be back in Barrow, humans will look different due to micro-traces of goat, pig and dog DNA, because they're our descendants, yet still look like us. We'll all be only 100 years old. And holding. I'll check the phone book for an AA meeting, visit yer rest homes and pick you up. We'll get a chance to listen to these unnamed anonymous beings sharing testimonials about childhood beatings, broken teeth, torn eyeballs and bruised brains and how these memories returned with sobriety as they neared their graves.
We'll sit and drink my good coffee, listen to hairless beings, way in the future, that look like us, tell stories of their ancient ancestors' drinking and drugging, smoking and chewing. They'll nod in our direction, regress back to native languages we'll never decipher, with us forced to listen to them chatter aboriginal about prehistoric addictions and ancient traumas.
They will be talking about us.
Karl.
posted by Alaska: Local And State News. at 1:37 PM
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