Friday, June 01, 2007


I am re-running this because I feel like it. I'm TOTALLY OUTTA CONTROL, PEOPLE!!!!
she writes:

I went looking for pictures of women named Mary, as I've said. And you've seen what happened when my brain got all in a bunch and I typed in 'hairy' instead of 'Mary'.
But damn; it was such a great idea that I really put some effort into recapturing it; and so the search was once again on.

There are some really nasty women named Mary out there, ladies and gentlemen.

Returning to the search for Marys-sounds like an evening on Castro Street, doesn't it?-I continued to come up no tits on the images I wanted no matter what search engines I tried. But what I did come up with, in spades?
The Story Of Judith and Holofernes.

Now to my recollection there is nobody named Mary in the story of Judith and Holofernes. Judith and Holofernes is the story of how one of the few women in the entire Bible who wasn't a complete throw pillow defeated an enemy of her people; she went to his tent, got him completely passed out drunk and then took his sword, hacked his head off and brought it back to show the folks at home. Anyway, since I was having absolutely no luck with the whole 'Mary' thing, I decided 'Well, when life hands you a severed head, make lemonade.'

But before I get started on that, just to let the gentlemen know that I love them all (call me) heres a good solid shot for your team:
'Ha ha!!! Take that, Julia Louise Dreyfuss! Seinfeld sucked!!! Haahahahahahaha!!!!"
Ok. Pictures of the Judith and Holefernes story tend to fall into categories-comtemplation of the deed, the act itself, and the aftermath. Within these categories are some distinct subsets: eww, bigass head, and nice fish.
" Damn. Half a bottle and you're passed out like a little bitch? Man, my uncle Methuselah is 310 and he blows through the vino like it's Koolaid."

Judith: Dear God, I know this is going to be really disgusting and gross and sick, and I'm probably going to barf everywhere and probably cry and get hysterical, and totally just lose it and freak out, God, and maybe faint and..." Servant: Oh SUCK it UP already.


...For all the distress it seems to be causing her, Judith may as well be slicing a hunk off a salami. Meanwhile, the servant holding the candle obviously does not like this man at all; while Judith saws away she's dripping hot wax on the guy.

Old Testament CSI. Notice the blood spray? You take a couple hacks at a guys jugular and you bet theres gonna be some damn blood. Judith is mildly distressed by this, but she has obviously given some throught to the act and is keeping her nice blouse clean. The servant is ready with a bag. Holofernes is reacting about how you'd expect a drunk to act while his head is being severed...'Wha' th'FUCK, man, I uaaaaaghlllak, gurglegurgleackgagsplut" My nomination for best picture of the bunch.

Subset: eew
Subset: bigass head

Judith: " Yeah, mess with the Jews NOW, Holofernes.
Thats RIGHT. You CAN'T. Know why? Because I cut off your huge stupid HEAD, you stupid bastard."
Servant: "EEEEEW! His hairs' dirty! "

Goya knew his women.

" Did I mess up my hair? Really. Look at my hair. Is it coming undone in back? Because it feels like its coming undone in back. Just take a look."
"Judith, your hair is fine. Honest to God. Theres like one little piece coming out but thats it. It looks good. Really. It's cute. It's like that 'Belle Sauvage' look."
" Oh God, I have eighties hair? Are you kidding? I have eighties hair now? Well thats just great."

"Oh just DO something with it."

" Hey. Come here. You wanna see something really sick?
It's a cut off head. Come check it out.
You want to touch it? You can if you want. It's still warm.
Lookit...I can make him talk. 'Would you like a sandwich Holofernes?'
Uh huh, Uh, huh...see, he's saying yes. Lookit his tongue. "

I found at least five pictures chronicling Holofernes' hydrocephalic melon but this one takes the cake.
This is one bigass head.
Poor Judith and her servant seem to be about the size of first graders. Holofernes legs are like fricken telephone poles with feet.

You cannot tell me that this painting is about anything else than sweater steaks. You see how they reflect the glow given off by Judith's elbow? These, the painter is saying, are the boobs of an angel.
Servant" Damn, Judith, that is one bigass head. Lookit this thing; its like a watermelon with a nose! "

See, this plumb eludes me. My search returned 45 pages and here this was on page 24.

Aftermath subset: nice fish
bait: silver daredevil on 20lb. test

"My God," thought Judith's servant "I've known her since she was a little child...but I never really knew her at all until now."

One of the very few Judiths who manage to look the least bit Middle Eastern. She has a great attitude.
"Hell yes it's a head. I cut it off, too. Damn right."

So, I was walking down the road, right, and I see this chick with something over her shoulder? So I want to be friendly, and I said 'Would you like some help with that?' But then I saw that it's a sword, right? Anyway, so she looks at me and, you know, she seems nice, and that's when I look down and see this, like, I thought she was carrying one of those'Sixties-type purses? Except its not, man. It was a head.
A real one.
A real tiny one.
It was a fuckin' HOBBIT HEAD.
Dude, I booked.

See, this is just wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
First we have this gross, gross woman who's grossness defeats all attempts at description, who TOOK OFF HER SHOE to oog her TOES around on the face of this decapitated head
Next we have Queen Elizabeths Hat woman displaying her prizewinning entry...taken on natural bait using a split cane pole and silk line.
Fianlly we have Julia Child and her blue ribbon entree', taken with a #6 brass spoon on a treble hook.

"I don't want to carry the head anymore. You carry the head. Come on. Please?"
"Hey, I'm not the servant here; you are. You carry the head."
"But the head stinks."
"So? It's a warm day. It's not a basket of roses, it's a head."
"But it's heavy. And it's leaking down my back."
" Oh right, and now I'm going to carry it after you just said that?"
" Oh come on. carry the head, please?"

"All right, yes, we said bring the thing back but I thought you'd have enough sense not to go waving it in peoples faces like a Hermes bag. Now look at poor Rabbi Jackman; he's passed out. For the love of Mike, Judith, you know the man has a heart condition."

"I got a head! A dead ol head! A head on a Stick! A pointy ol stick! I can make this head twiiiiirl like a propeller! Whee!
Hey Mr. Head, lets go look over this hedge! What do you see? oh, I see a girl sitting on a bench! Oh wow, Mr. Head!
Lets look through this second story window! What do you see? oh, I see a lady screaming! Oh wow, Mr. Head!
I can wave! this! head! Back! and! forth! Like! a! flag! Back! and! forth! Like! a! f...whoopsie...."

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Heap Big Crackin' Up!

OO, it finally happened! Someone came here and got their stereotypes all fucked with!
Remember the tit fucking post? About a week ago? it was on 5-7-07. Scroll down to it. Read the comments. Feel the disapproval!

I know I am supposed to be serious. Even noble. Stony faced, impassive, simple and direct.
I am not, not all the time.
Not even most of the time.
I know I have failed you, anonymous, and not only you but all Native Americans everywhere. I have not fulfilled your expectations.
I am sorry.
So very, very sorry.

I know I was supposed to pass my days crapping out kids in a government portable and drinking Buckhorn Beer until I shit myself and passed out with the stove on. Instead, I grew up in suburbia, worked a job, attended school, learned to drive a car, raised a family and avoided substance abuse issues and incarceration.
I admit that instead of walking stealthily through the forest primeval, making fire with two sticks and chewing hides I received a college education....while all I was ever expected to do was know where to sign my 'X' on the tribal benefits application and 'drunk and disorderly' citations.
I know I have a sense of humor. It is often inappropriate. It is often expressed in crude terms. I know I have written crudely and in a lighthearted manner about things that Native Americans should not know of and should never mention... like tit sex, fist fucking, homosexuality, twat depilitation, and Tim Footmans book on Radiohead.

Lets not forget the gravy recipe.


All I have to say for myself is that I genuinely hope with every fibre of my chubby red being that you were REALLY OFFENDED. I hope you finished your comment with a sharp little bang on the keyboard and moved right along to something with content more appropriate to a Native American Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, or claiming sovereign nationhood.
I am so very, very sorry.

Sunday, May 27, 2007

Weeds never sleep

Late summer in the Willamette Valley was like living at the bottom of a dirty hot tub. Each August a weather condition known as an inversion would squat over the valley like a fat lady in polyester pants and everything would steam and wilt and stink. The humidity simply could not be described. You could see it. Distances were vague, foul and pissy yellow, and the air tasted like mown grass and car exhaust.

Very few people had air conditioning. It was expensive back then, and after all, it was Oregon and you'd only use it that couple of weeks out of the whole year. Instead, people used to sit outside late into the night and wait for the air to cool off, usually in vain...smoking and drinking beer, listening to transistor radios and talking in the darkness. Even at 3:am the metal of the lawn chairs still felt warm and the leaves of the trees would stick to your skin if you brushed against them. I remember the stars even looked hot. For the first few days the kids viewed this as a real treat, being able to stay up until wow-o-clock in the morning, although after about the third hot, sticky, miserable night of it you just endured. It was just too hot and too thick to play. We'd sit around on towels feeling headachy and slow while the humidity soaked our thin cotton clothes and secretly envy the little kids who got to scramble around in the grass naked until they fell asleep in a crabby pile.

I was in by myself watching television one night, some black and white horror movie, when my father and mother came tiptoeing in from outside all whispering and nervous.
"Come look out the bathroom window." said my mom.
"Why?" I yipped. The white must have been showing all around my eyes. Watching monster movies at 3:30 a.m. cast my imagination in the direction of alien spaceship landings. Let it stay out there! I don't want to see the damn thing!

But my dad and mom were insistent, and I was curious because of all the whispery-whisperyness, so I went with them. We all tiptoed down the hallway (past the open front door facing the same direction) and crowded in around the toilet to peer out of the tiny bathroom window.
Some distance away a white figure was glimmering between the apple trees. I almost swallowed my tongue.

" Take a look at that. Is that a person? Someone's over there! Why don't you go take a look?" my father said.

Why don't I WHAT?

" Why don't YOU take a look!" I said indignantly and got hushed and shhhh'd.

"Because its, we think its, its probably your grandma. We think it is, it might be. Just go see."

This made as much sense as everything else up until this point had, which was none.

" Go on, go on now, go see. Get out there and go see!" he insisted.

I still didn't get it.

" We think she's out there walking around. Just go say hi and ask if everything's all right," explained my mom.

" Why don't you?" I said.

" Oh, we, we, we don't want to embarrass her, you know, we don't wanna make her feel bad or anything like that. You go. She won't thing nothing of that. Just go say hi."

OK. It was almost 4: am. Now why would a 7 years old be out roaming around in the yard at 4:am?* This is not the usual time for casual 'Oh, hi!' type chance encounters between old ladies and first graders. I dug in my heels, now convinced that I was being set up to star in another contrived 'cute' situation that I'd never hear the end of.
My father got stern and my mother got angry, and I got sent outside.

Well, it looked like a lady, out there in the apple trees.

I got closer. Intermittently the figure bent over for a few moments and then stood up. I could hear things swishing.

I stepped out past the iris border and into the open, and there stood my grandmother, sure enough.

Now I will never forget this picture: The moon, the stars, my tall grandmother, barefoot, wearing only a white silk slip, her long white hair loose down her back, holding a shiny butcher knife.

" What are you doing up?" she said, flinging aside a handful of dandelions.

" Mom and dad wanted me to ask you what you were doing" I replied. "We could see you from the house and they were scared to come over."

This cracked her up.

I wonder how it might have looked to another person, this elderly woman in flowing white holding a knife and laughing, and the moon overhead.

" Go tell em' to come over!" she laughed. " I couldn't sleep cos the house is too hot so I thought I might as well come out and garden!"
I turned towards the house and yelled as loud as I could "Hey Mom! Hey Dad! She's OK! Come over!"

My father was in an absolute lather of embarrassment. He was stammering out his usual 'what will people think' comments, telling her to get inside and where's your slippers and what in the heck did she think she was doing and why didn't you put on a robe and somethin' could happen to her out here in the middle of the night!
"Oh who cares? I'm covered!" she laughed. This whole thing just tickled the heck out of her. "And I've got a knife, see?"

This was the same woman who took a 'sleepy eyes' dolly head and stuck on a tree limb near her front door in such a way that the breeze would move it and make the eyes blink (which never failed to crack her up.) So this explanation seemed perfectly reasonable to me and still does. Hell, its hot, it's the middle of the night, nothing's on television, why not garden? What was she supposed to do, rob a convenience store?

Now I look back and recall the fantasy story that my parents had concocted about my grandmother pining away after the death of her last husband a year before and getting senile etc etc. It had nothing whatsoever to do with reality. The reality I remember was, that once he was in the dirt and the crying was over she hit the ground running and never stopped, always had plans, always had projects, always had visitors, always smiled and laughed and joked and sang. She was damned relieved to be rid of the burden of caring for grandpa's evil demanding ass and have her life back and she'd told people as much. I know that in the same situation nocturnal yard care is the very LEAST of what I'd be up to.

We all trudged back to the house as my grandmother waved bye with a big grin on her face. "We got to watch her, you know, got to watch out for her now that dad's gone"" said my dad. "I tell you what, I don't think much of that. It don't look right, you know" he continued. " People might not think we take good care of her or something."
" Oh don't worry,", I said. " She's got a knife."

*that didn't start until I was eight.