Probably racist and definitely not cheerful.

When I was about 21 my adopted mom told me my birthmothers name. She also told me that she resembled Keely Smith, was about 15, and 'looked like some kind of Indian'.

That's my ethnic heritage in six words.

If you've hit my archives or been here awhile you know what kind of a life I had growing up, so it shouldn't come as any surprise that very, very early on I'd made the determination that I was going to have to do things on my own. And I did. I am about the alonest person you'll ever meet. I don't even have a race. Shit, I don't even have a pretend family of origin any more. The place I belong is 'not belonging'. And it actually doesn't suck.

It never meant anything to me one way or the other for years, being a member of the Somekindas. And then there was the fact too, that given my mothers limited and racist judgment, anyone darker than piggy pink who didn't have a 'fro probably looked like a Somekinda to her. I could be Sicilian.

You have to learn ethnicity. I learned mine from riding the #3 bus up Burnside seeing Indians passed out on the sidewalk. That was what I learned about Native Americans.

I wasn't one of these people. I don't even look like one of them. I look white. I know I look white because that's the first thing that everyone says when the find out that I'm not. The only thing remotely native about me is the faint hint of an epicanthic fold over my eyes. I could pull my hair back into a ponytail and wear a wolf sweatshirt and the only thing I'd look like would be an idiot with a ponytail in a wolf sweatshirt.

So I'm here on the brink of my 50's and I'm reading 'The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-time Indian' as a part of a county-wide library project. The idea is to meet in discussion groups at the end of the month and share our impressions. I'm not going to do that. I genuinely do not want to hear what a bunch of unemployed white ladies have to say about this book. I know what I think of this story: It's amazing and it broke my heart. Alexie is one of the best writers I've ever read. I can feel every page.

There isn't a single thing in it that I can relate to as a Native American. Not one. Not even if I knew for sure that I was Native American.

I wish I knew, and I hope I never find out. I need a fucking sandwich.

Blue Moose Calls Softly Compel The Cheese

More snaps-n-pix madness here at Paul!

This time dear old Nations has gone undercover at the Lynden Christian Thrift Store with her trusty digital and found a virtual Alladins' Cave filled with the lost treasure of the White People!

Actually it was four banana boxes full of old lp's.



Now is that a clever title or what? Come on now. Thats clever. Sure it is. Get it? You're a believer, right, but your ass is all flabby and you have those wibbly wobbly things all up under your arms so you want to get in shape, or, in other words,'firm up', right? So you can be a 'firm believer'? See? See what they did there?

Tell you what, my old Barbie dolls had more 'toe. No really. Remember? Barbie had the faintest little crease (I know, what kind of a big perv even looks at poor Barbies 'area', I know, I know, mea fricken culpa, I was a perverted little kid, yes yes yes.)

I think these dairy princesses reproduce by exercising until something falls off; and then it divides and pulsates and throws off spores until it turns into a Bratz doll.


God, really, we need to chat. Whats with this thing on my wifes' head? And don't tell me its a mystery; I can already see that. I tell you what; it's is putting a strain on my ability to believe in a benevolent Deity.



...No, you certainly do NOT need to understand. That's why they call it 'Blind Faith'. Which I own. I do not recall Jimmy Swaggart being part of the lineup. Ginger Baker, Eric Clapton, Steve Winwood, Rick Grech....yes. Something is REALLY OFF HERE. I need to stop thinking about it too.



This is really really disturbing, and therefore eminently worth clicking on to enlarge and examine.
I read the liner notes, and sure enough, Bride of Chuckie there is the one that does the singing on this album, as if the look of terror and resignation on the face of the cement deer weren't clue enough.
I have a terrible feeling that this manic little homonunculus is going to be featuring prominently in my dreams at some point in the future. And that the nice lady in the background there? will have her hand up little Marcy's butt the whole time.