Butchered Reason: May 2006

Sunday, May 28, 2006

An interesting Saudi Woman's blog

A Thought in the Kingdom of Lunacy

stretched neanderthal skeleton

Monday, May 22, 2006

The phony threat of Liberal Drug laws (From: The Baltimore Sun)

The phony threat of liberal drug laws. Baltimore Sun.com article.

Things to ponder, today.

May 21,2006- the fiftieth anniversary of one of the greatest poems of our time... HOWL; by Allen Ginsberg. Link to partial transcript

I saw the best minds of my generation, destroyed by madness...
Starving, hysterical, naked!

That has to be one of the Uber- "opening lines", of all time.

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The winner of the Kentucky Derby -Barbaro- just broke his leg, in the Preakness. His chances of survival are given at 50/50.

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Why would he cut down the Golden Spruce? To enrage us all. To enrage us out of the apathy, in the face of cutting down huge swaths of trees -entire forests. Why should we weep for one tree, when the world’s greatest forests are being destroyed?

(New Yorker article excerpt)

"They should see a person who is normally very respectful of life and has done a very disrespectful thing and ask why."

But this was asking too much. H***** had cut down what may have been the only tree on the continent capable of bonding loggers, natives, and environmentalists in sorrow and outrage. Meanwhile, newspaper and television reporters from across Canada were coming to the Queen Charlottes to cover the story, which also found its way into the Times and onto the Discovery Channel. "When society places so much value on one mutant tree and ignores what happens to the rest of the forest, it's not the person who points this out who should be labelled," H***** told a Prince Rupert reporter who questioned his sanity. H***** was charged with criminal mischief—damage in excess of five thousand dollars—and the illegal cutting of timber. There was no precedent for how a local judge and jury might compute the cultural damage to the Haida, the economic damage to Port Clements, or the loss to science."

Our response?: "What an asshole... pass me some of those delicious Mahogany chips and some Sequoia dip."

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The city of Loserapolis (pop. 3 456 376) has just renewed the incumbent mayor's mandate with 66% of votes cast (out of 34 635 votes cast, out of an estimated 1 987 364 eligible voters) and returned him to a record 34'th term; which no one seems to find a bit odd. The city council now consists entirely of Arabian steeds (from Mayor Pieter Bagmerde’s personal stable, of course).
"The business of Loserapolis... is business."

"Where are the angel-headed hipsters of Loserapolis?"
"There are no angel-headed hipsters left in Loserapolis."
"I think that you are incorrect. I know for a fact that Willie Murphy plays down in the Viking, every Monday night."
"Go fuck yourself, hippy. Wait... how's about I round up some Motorcycle club-members, to stretch you over the gas tank of their Harleys?"
"I think that Allen might’ve fallen in love with you; but I hate your grandparents for not being able to read the instructions on the condom wrapper."
"What... did you just say about my mother?!!!"
"I didn't say a damn thing about your mother... Idiot! (a là Napoleon Dynamite)."

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There were three of us, in on the treehouse. We liked to do the kinds of shit that kids in the country do to pass the time:
- Shoot at things; with slingshots, air rifles and the occasional firearm.
- Talk a lot about fishing, sports, music and girls.
- Bait, trap and torture the neighbours' pets.
- Trade candy at Halloween and steal booze from our parents' cupboards, the rest of the year.
- Shoot marbles and ride bikes.
- Vandalise the school and local churches. (Except for the Mennonite church: There was an unspoken understanding among us that those folks had their shit together and would track us down. The Catholics were too preoccupied with sodomy and drink... and the Lutherans were too boring and nice to worry about. The Mennonites were not to be fucked with, however.)
- Play road hockey.

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An unspoken Civil War is raging in Palestine and the body of Canada's first female combat death has returned to the soil from which she sprang; but there's a bucketful of her, in Afghanistan. The Taliban are evil shits*. Thank you Nichola Goddard.

*If you think that I'm being unjustifiably harsh, just remember... these are the same shits who destroyed the largest Buddha statues in the world. Those statues were not just an Afghani treasure, but a legacy for your isolated childrens' uniracial grandchildren. [I'm not speaking of your hopes for gated-community, whitebread great-grandkids. I'm talking about all our great grandkids being the same shade of cafe au lait; mourning and honouring all our ancestors and rebuilding the lost cities of Teotihuacan, Babylon, Cahokia, Great Zimbabwe and Detroit.]

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I was watching an episode of House, M.D. last week and was captivated by an illness symptom that the main patient exhibited, while on the MRI slab; “reverse peristalsis”. A thick brown sludge of “digested blood and feces” oozed out of her mouth while she was awaiting an MRI scan (mercifully, perhaps, she was unconscious at the time). I often make fun of people by leveling an accusation of “shitting out their mouth” at them; it is increasingly upsetting to me that the condition is common enough to have a name.

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Not Utopia... Necessity.
We need to realise a post-capitalist world:

A place where everyone has the best medical care.
A world of limitless, free, ecofriendly electricity.
A world of universal, ad-free internet participation (post-adsense, post-spam, post domain-squatting, post-adware).
A world of universal “higher” education; without prejudice towards stay-at-home moms and full-time fly-fishermen.
A world where everyone is loved and respected as children and everyone finds someone to love; people do not blossom into serial killers and rapists. [There are no “perversions” when everything is accepted and nobody suffers from the need to hurt someone else, in order to feel powerful.]
A world where fuck-ups and mental disease still occur, but where real rehabilitation is possible; because everyone is possessed of empathy.
A world in which we do not need to destroy our shared history to build Walmarts, slums, mansions, slash and burn farms and shopping malls.
A world in which all children visit the four corners of the world and the moon... and pick up their garbage.
A world in which species are not extinguished by our hand; but by the hand of time, alone.
A world in which the lands are moist and fruitful; where none shall perish from starvation, save those lost to accident.
A world in which “the truth” is upheld, over the competing interests of personal reputation and religious belief.
A world in which people do not have to procreate prodigiously, as a matter of retirement planning.
A world in which hamburger is not allowed, but everyone has steak.
A world in which anyone can drink all day and smoke as much tobacco and weed as they can manage; with only a tiny chance of cirrhosis, cancer or emphysema. [Nobody drives drunk. Nobody goes to jail for drug-smuggling and nobody makes money from weed. [Nobody uses crack, mouthwash, spraypaint, Sterno or crystal-meth, because everyone has access to the good stuff.]]
Nobody gets Malaria, anymore and genital warts have almost disappeared. The last HIV-infected people live long and die well.
Everyone dies well except for natural disaster and accident victims... and there are few of those.
A world in which glaciers, permafrost and Antarctica can chill out and remain happy.
Everyone is required to spend three years in public decision-making; but no more than 10.
Everyone has a garden.
Everyone has a defibrillator and an excellent set of cooking pots.
Everyone has or shares: a boat, or an RV, or a cabin.

PS: This year marks the 250'th anniversary of Mozart's birth.

Friday, May 19, 2006

arrrrggghhhh!!!!!!

Those bastards arrested aqualeper!!!

The bastards arrested aqualeper!!!

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

The "Spear of Loser-Destiny", and its bearer.

Monday, May 15, 2006

Skulls know Native Tech

Tickle my skull for Native Technology, Bub.

Open Letter to Anonymous:

I wish to apologise for an action, you may not recall. A few days ago, we were speaking at our mutual community’s chatter; and you mentioned in passing that you did not get along with your father. I do not presume to know what that entails, but I felt that I did not respond in a thoughtful manner, or properly acknowledge your thought. Regardless of my current loss, I strive to conquer my innate selfishness. I have given this some thought and wish to offer a suggestion:

If it is not impossibility; go on a road trip with your father. You may argue the whole way, but if you both stick it out; you may find that one shared moment of beauty that can give you both strength. The strength that only family can offer.

My mother was not the easiest person in the world to love. She was pleasant and funny as well as strong and stubborn, on the outside. She could, however, be bitter and inexplicable on the inside. Part of the reason that I moved to Minneapolis for ten years was that I could be away from her (This is a realisation that I’ve acknowledged for some time.). The lion’s share of the reason that I moved back was the realisation that her achievements and struggles were worthy, in their own right and I had to acknowledge her in the time that we had left.
I can only begin to imagine the pit of despair that I would be in, now, if I had stayed away and become a bum, celebrated artist or factory loser, down in Minneapolis.

As I said, earlier, I do not presume to know what level of relationship that you share with your father, but: If it’s not impossible, do something together, for no reasons other than: to be together, without a TV, alone, for a period of time.
Even if it just overnight, in an RV, in some cheesy state park. Set some ground rules, like: both of you have to stay, and agree not to fight, etcetera.
Listen to public radio.
Argue over politics.
Get a little drunk.
Watch a sunset.
Fish from a dock.
Say you are sorry, once (so make it count).
Find the person, inside him, if you can.

That is my prayer. That is my unfulfilled fantasy. I only got a taste of that with my mother.
I am so... in need, of knowing my father and hope to make shared experience with him an even larger part of my mind.
I was only beginning to know my mother and feel the loss, all the more.

OMG.
Me, me, me, me, me again.
LOL

:Reason Butcher

Minneapolis stuff

The Rake, MPLS free-paper.

Pulse, MPLS free-paper.

Cliquot Club; new in Minneapolis since I was there. Seward Neighbourhood.

Mississipi

Waittresses and Barmaids are my weakness.

[The last airstrip.]

One of the thoughts that go through my mind whenever I see a waitress or barmaid is:

How many customers has she banged?

It's a simple and obvious mental game, meant to gauge my own chances of bedding the aforementioned waitress or barmaid. My tally of waitresses and barmaids bedded so far = 0; but, I feel that I have been pretty close, so the urge never quite goes away.

I was in a bar, earlier tonight. One that I have only gone to, a few times before. Normally my tastes in women slides toward brunette white women; as my mental slide show of exes confirms. I don't normally lust after Indian women and have never had one as a girlfriend, but this bar's got a cute young Indian chick waitressing there. So, naturally, I'm interested. I must admit, the same thing happened to me at the Bingo. There's a young, delicious-looking little Indian bit working the floor there, distracting the hell out of me while I'm trying to play my bonanza cards. There must be something about men being served by women that pushes some ancient mating buttons. It sure explains the ratio of waitresses versus waiters at bars. I've seen Bingo Girl at the bar, so she's at least nineteen (Ontario). You have to be at least eighteen to serve at a bar, so the waitress at my new haunt is legal, too. (Gotta keep my legal ducks in a row.)

Perhaps it's just because I've spent most of my sexual life in towns and circumstances where there were relatively few Indian women who were available that I find myself craving some of them, more, now.

Wait... There was the daughter of that Ojibway/Lakota playwright. And her sister. And that Aztec-punk runaway. And the daughter of the Lakota gallery owner.

And the Ojibway poet/scholar who helped me pity the pilgrims. And the cokeded-out Lakota painter whose beauty peeled off her in layers so fast and thick that you would swear that her shadow left men weeping when they stepped on it. And the Lakota author who went to New York to get famous and now made Indian fags swoon with her presence and swear to try again, in vain.

What about the redheaded Irish/Chippewa girl on the rendezvous circuit who had the friendliest tent on the Yellow River? And "Dammit!"; Irene Bedard is married. (I met her husband at the Shakopee Powwow after saying something slightly provocative about her. It was only then that he mentioned he was her husband. Ooops.) Oh, yeah: There were also a couple of coworkers at that Native-run shelter I used to work at. But, other than that, I don’t go for Indian women. Where was I?

Barmaids and waitresses are my fantasy weakness. Crazies, sluts and nurses are my reality.

No, wait!... I almost completely forgot; I lived with a girl that I met while she was a waitress, in Wisconsin. Hell, I was engaged to her. For a while.

Yes, I did bag a waitress; nearly cost me my fucking sanity.

[Waiting on a train.]

Friday, May 12, 2006

Captain Cook amongst the Haida

When last we looked... Captain Cook had been imprisoned for crimes of gross sodomy amongst the Haida slave-youths, who’d been assigned to help him "gather berries for his crew".

How had this come about?...

The Chief had grown increasingly suspicious about this claim, because he could clearly see the Captain’s underlings labouring down the coast (where the Chief had allowed them to harvest clams and fish) and the tribe had presented the ship with enough fruit and tea-leaves to alleviate their meat sickness. The Shaman said it was the worst mass-case of stupidity and illness he'd ever seen.

When a group of warriors were sent to ~~inspect the situation~~ protect the good Captain from bears and cougars, they found him skewering one of the slave-boys, over an ancient cedar log. Now that, in itself, wasn’t a great crime; but the good Captain hadn’t acquired the proper permissions to bugger the help. It was just damned impolite and a serious breach of Haidan protocol. Especially for such an honourable and morally-unimpeachable host.

The warrior crew dragged him back to the village, through the forest; so that the engorging louts on the beach and in the ship couldn't see. Of course, the Captain's entire crew assumed he was off buggering some of the locals. Indeed; the cabin boys and first mate were glad for the break.

Meanwhile...

The good Captain was not bound; he had been sequestered in a large house composed of thick, sturdy cedar planking that he could not break by sheer effort, or tunnel under. There were two vicious-looking guards at the open door, armed with large, mallet-head-like stone cudgels known as "slave-killers". The Captain’s normal modus operandi, in similar situations wouldn't work here: He could not pass himself off as a local woman; they hardly wore anything. He couldn't hide himself in a rubbish pile or crawl through the sewer; these people were far too clean in their habits.

One of the violated youths entered, carrying a bowl of cooked fish and a bag of water. The Captain started to salivate at the thought of a little slap and tickle.

"Eat." The boy dumped the steaming whitefish on the hardened dirt floor and tossed the bag along side of it; so that it began to spill and turn the dirt under the fish into a thin mud. He then turned and walked away.

"Wait boy!..."
The Captain straightened himself up and dusted himself off.
"You've got to help me escape."

The boy spoke and understood ten words of English, by now and the only one that he recognised was "boy". The learning of it him really pissed him off; his face didn't show it, though.

He did recognise desperation and the desire to leave. The time to put the Chief's plan into effect had come. He gestured for the Captain to be quiet and wait, conspiratorially, and then left.

Captain Cook was overjoyed. Obviously he had made a deep impression on the lad. Perhaps his luck was changing. His crew should be suspicious, shortly; when he had not returned to the ship in a timely manner.

Aboard the ship, much feasting and draining of the rum-stores (in the Captain's absence) had taken place; the officers had locked themselves in the Captain's quarters. The men were passed-out, scattered about the filthy deck; or gang-raping the cabin boys, below. Nobody was missing the Captain, or worried about him. The crew preferred their own company to that of the village, anyway.

The slave-boy quietly reentered the plank-house, through a loose plank that the Captain had not found. He was very quiet, but made a retching noise when he caught the Captain eating the whitefish. He was down on all fours, sticking his face in the muddy pile, swallowing gobs of hot, flaky fish meat and cold foot-gravy in equal measure. The Captain jumped at the sudden noise, smashing mud off his face with furious sweeps of his lacy sleeves. The slave-youth indicated the escape hole and gestured for the Captain to undress. A thrill-shiver went through the good Captain as he ditched his hat and loosed his tunic and britches. The boy made it absolutely clear through quiet gestures that there was to be no funny-business. After realising this, the Captain refused to surrender his codpiece, which had been a present from his mother.

In the spirit of haste and quiet, the slave-boy gave up trying to wrest the cod-piece off the Captain. He remembered very little of his childhood, far to the south, but even the hard life of servitude for the villagers had never revolted him in such a fashion as had the last three weeks of interaction with these filthy monsters. He pulled away in quick disgust and vowed to endure any punishment coming. The Captain had such a greasy sheen to him, anyway, that it was impossible to get a grip.

The boy slipped between the planks, first, then held it open for the good Captain to pass. Despite his excess bulk, he extruded himself through the hole quite easily. Again, the boy gestured for quiet, then pointed at a large, moldy bear-skin bag.

At first, the Captain could not fathom what was being asked of him. After a few moments, though, he figured it out. The slave wanted him; a Royally-commissioned officer of the world’s greatest military and economic power, to ensconce himself in a rotten old green-hide.
The stench of it, from ten feet away, was hardly bearable.

"Ah, well... Here we go again."
It wasn't as bad as he remembered, but the maggots were just as ticklish. He knew they would become maddening if he had to spend more than a couple days in it.

The boy bound the top of the skin with a rare and valuable Basswood rope, then dragged it a little ways into the bush, before whispering something reassuring. Then he was gone. Sir Cook was nearly free... he could almost taste it.

Moments later, the boy (presumably) returned and began dragging the bag with renewed vigour. So much so that the Captain’s ribs and head began sustaining bruises from logs and rock outcrops in the trail. Then the surface he was being drawn over changed to a soft, mushy, earthy texture; the air in the bag suddenly had a background stink of shit. Then the trail changed again.

This new surface clattered with light, brittle ringing sounds. The bag was lifted entirely off the ground and flung down a slope of the same brittle surface. It came to rest, unopened, at the base of the hill. For a brief moment, the Captain wondered how that skinny, frail slave had lifted the bag, so easily.

The Captain heard the last, fading footsteps of the youth. Then... nothing but the dashing of waves on a pebble beach.
Freedom!

All he had to do was get outta that bag. At this point, what had been a background odour of human excrement began to pervade the skin bag. He was pretty sure that he hadn’t soiled himself, but it was fairly difficult to attain that for certain, since there were many textures in the bag to confuse his fingers.

He began to free himself from the bear-skin, struggling to rend it from inside; but the rope and the seams were strong. After a minute's contemplation, he began to chew on a particularly rancid patch of hide, green with decomposition. He knew it should be fairly weak at that point; besides, it almost tasted sweet.

Shortly, the captain had eaten through the hide and spat a wad of fur (matted with human excrement) out the hole and breathed deeply of the salt-stink of rotting bits of clam. He could see that he was at the base of a large shell midden, which he knew to be on the outskirts of the village, between the village and his ship. By prying his fingers through the hole, he gained enough leverage to tear the hide further; then forced his arms through.

Meanwhile, down the beach, the Chief sat in a large, ornate chair, surrounded by large copper plaques and shields. The entire village stood behind him, silently watching the obscene rebirth. The Chief's mum leaned over and whispered something into the Chief's ear... and he nodded. Then she stepped back to watch.

What she said, translates roughly as: "That's some nasty shit. I hope those fuckers don't come back."

Suddenly, the Captain exploded out of the bag in a nauseating, steamy pile; like someone cut open the gut of a rotten shark. He flopped on his back and laughed at the sky. He then stood up and flung some of the sweaty, moldy, putrid slime off his hands and wiped his face. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw the whole village arrayed in front of him, with the chief in the centre.

Shiny things surrounded the Chief and the Captain took a couple of stupefied steps towards them. Several well-armed men rushed forward and the Chief stood up from his chair, with a 550 year-old, jade Slave-Killer in hand.

The Captain wheeled about and began to stumble across the broken shells, barefoot. Clearly, invitations had been revoked. When he reached the beach opposite his ship, he piled into the lone rowboat and began to row out to the ship, abandoning three sleeping crewmembers on the beach.

One would escape the villagers and be mostly-eaten by sea lions within a month.

One would be killed, outright, by the Haida.

The last lived a long, laborious life; traded down the coast for mountain-goat wool. Eventually, he was allowed to marry and live free. He died fairly satisfied; fluent in Salish, living in Catholic sin, liked by his friends and respected by his enemies.

Once the Captain reached the ship, he moored the rowboat and climbed up the rope mesh (Which had been left hanging overboard, in clear violation of the rules.). He picked his way through the sleeping drunks and made his way to his cabin. He briefly scrubbed on his balcony with unwatered rum, and then dressed in his second uniform.

This stop in port had been less than fruitful, but it had one boon other than new provisions. The night before, he’d gotten drunk with the Chief and was told of a fabulous land of riches, to the West: "Way, way... to the West."
That would be his next goal.

Captain Cook left his cabin with a brace of loaded pistols and walked towards the stern. He shot the crewman nearest to the hanging rope mesh, to wake people up and to start making points of order.

The ship was under sail in less than five minutes and the Captain retired to his cabin, to recuperate with the reclaimed kegs of unwatered rum. The officers were kicked out; finally sober and newly armed. None of them had heard the tale of the Captain's "last night in port", but they knew the signs and none figured on being invited to dinner soon.

No one missed the three guys on shore until the only sights of land were mountaintops, hanging in the sky behind them. The men were forced to scrub the deck until the job was done; late into the night. Only then were they allowed to sew their friend into his hammock; but, there would be no funeral until the Captain was in a better mood. Obviously... the party was over.