A Native American's Take On Thanksgiving

If I were a Native American, I might have this to say about Thanksgiving:

Dear White People (and all other people who give thanks to those who stole my land by eating Turkey):

My name is Dale, and I'm 1/8 Native American. I know 1/8 may not seem like a lot, but if my people were allowed the necessary means to raise a family in some other place besides a remote desert, I may have slightly thicker blood lines. You see, my grandparents and parents had to marry outside of their inner-circle because they had dreams of working at an establishment beyond the local reservation Radio Shack. Oh, and just to clear something up, I'm a Native American. Not an Indian, or an Engine as you rednecks like to call us. And you may think it's cute to call us "Indians: Feathers, not Dots." It's not.

I'm not trying to sound too bitter. I'm really not. You just have to understand folks: YOU STOLE OUR LAND! It's kind of difficult to see around that (especially around this time of year). You guys walk around with so much pride as you cook up those turkeys. OK, no big deal. Except you cease to remember that we were the ones who taught you how to kill those things in the first place! And the maize. Don't even get me goin' on the maize. Or as you call it, corn. Which brings me to another point.

Just because you rename something, doesn't make it yours. For example, you think all Native American names are so hard to figure out just because we don't have a vowel after every consonant. However, unlike your names, our names actually mean something more than some insecure, desperate attempt by our parents to a) live vicariously through us by attaching the same name or b) attach some trite name like Michael, in order for them to seem hip among their friends who are having children also named Michael. In your language, Pat means Pat. In ours, Pat means "fish" (something we must kill and eat in order to survive, instead of a sport we sell to ESPN as a Sunday morning TV show). "Shiye" means son. Not "Cal Weatherington III." By the way, my name is Dale which is shocking to a lot of my white friends. They all think I should have a name like "Squanto." That's fine. I say that makes a whole lot of sense, and if they had a Native American name, it would be something like "Pussytalk."

Again, I'm not writing this to sound resentful or bitter. It's just that you people, I don't know, STOLE OUR LAND! I know, I know. I shouldn't complain that much. In fairness, you've given us retribution such as arguably moderate strides in affirmative action. I mean, really, you stole our land, but now that my kids will get a small leg up on the SAT and a first-round bye to the Ivy Leagues, we should all be square. I'll make sure to remind them of their advantages when my future teenage daughter is hooking, and my 12-year old son is working security at the casino I manage. Hopefully, if we're lucky though, my son will gravitate to the steady income of hack road comedy. Undoubtedly, he'll get a steady dose of it on the weekends at the casino. If he's lucky, maybe a big comedian like Pauly Shore or Bob Saget will drop in and take him to the cocaine infested Motel 8s they reside in along their route through Tulsa.

Sorry, I'm not trying to ruin your fun. Have a great time with your families, really. Have fun watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. In fact, my family will probably watch the Parade that's sponsored by a major department store seeing as that's as close as we get to one. Wait, nevermind, we don't have a TV. I'll be happy as long as you can find a way to turn this day into a huge marketing ploy. I mean, you've sure done a helluva job with Columbus. That dude has his own holiday. Seriously, what the fuck did that guy do? Discover America my ass! First, it was the Vikings, then us, then Columbus. Besides, Columbus wasn't searching for anything. Columbus was like my drunk uncle: he just stumbled around, killing people in the process, until he "discovered" a place he could get a decent meal and not have to show ID.

Anywho, back to the reservation I go and the moonshine I brew openly and without federal regulation. Thanks White People (and all other people who give thanks to those who stole my land by eating Turkey).

-Dale

"The Black Taco"

Taco Bell has risen the stake on value, and sexual innuendo. Recently, the new "black taco" was introduced. Who's satisfied? Every drunk slug in America, by God.

And...sexual humorists across the continent. Taco Bell is glamorizing and making a killing off of one of the greatest frat boy jokes since the term "sorostitute" or, the black taco's rival, "the pink taco."

In the words of Jerry Seinfeld, "What's the deal with the black taco?" I could understand the already promoted red taco...representing fiery spiciness. But the black taco? What the hell does that represent? Maybe the answer lies in the full name, "The Black Jack Taco." But it isn't a 21 cent taco. It's an 89 cent taco. I guess the reference is to the fact that the BJ Taco is a "jackpot of a deal." Really...

So, guess what? I'm suspicious of the Black Jack. So, I'm going to do some research. Tomorrow, I'm going to talk with some folks who've had a BJ.

I'll ask them how it felt. I'll see if it's something worth getting sometime. If they felt guilty for it, or if they felt a bit of pride. At least in private. Did it feel warm? Was it gooey? Kind of dry? Possibly crunchy? A little crunchy can be good...if you're into that sort of thing. As long as the outside was hard. Real hard. Should I have it at home or right there in the parking lot? Did it last very long, or was it, as expected, quick and easy? How was the sauce? Did it make you spit or swallow? Did some slop on your face? As long as it was cleaned up. Was there bumpy stuff on the outside? I mean bumpy isn't necessarily bad...as long as it doesn't stay with you. Either way, it's a great source of protein. And remember to check for hairs. I can't tell you how many times I've received things like a BJ and gotten hairs mixed in. Remember, this is America, not Germany.

So maybe the BJ Taco is something of value. Or maybe some crude, childish sexual reference in order to get attention.

The Guy From Five For Fighting Has a Higher Pitched Voice Than James Blunt

I did my own pitch off in my apartment earlier today. Alone. Well, not completely alone. My dog and a handle of Kettle One were within an arm's length at all times while this ground-breaking experiment was taking place.

F.F.F.'s hit "Superman" vs. J.B.'s hit, "You're Beautiful." A steel cage match of effeminate male vocal cords. The result was a slight victory by F.F.F., and me wailing into a recently used and still moist hand towel. Why'd I put this experiment on you may ask? Because I have homoerotic tendencies? No.

Because, by God, I was bored as shit. Sometimes this happens, and you can't be scared to try things. It sure as Hell beat probing around on Facebook all day, or blogging.

Just Saying Hi

Because that's really what we do, for the most part.

We say hi. We do it in different languages. We do it in different ways. Sometimes we smile. Sometimes we scowl. Sometimes we look at the ground. Sometimes we look away. Sometimes we smile, scowl, look away, and then wonder why.

We sometimes care when we say hi. We sometimes mean it. We want to be genuine, but how can we? Some people plan their days around hi. Some people talk shit about hi. Some people write blogs about hi.

Occasionally though, hi can get you places. Hi can get you high. It can mean more than you expected, and it in that respect, take on a meaning which is more powerful than the words you spoke. Sometimes you meet a girl or a guy. Sometimes, the door to stardom or power opens...just because you said hi.

Hi is powerful.

But the results of hi don't matter. Hi, should be hi because it's hi. It's about being in that moment. Smiling when you meet someone. Hi can be played with or left alone. But it should be said.

So say hi. Who knows where it goes beyond that moment, beyond a smile, but a hi is a hi is a hi. And that's all that matters.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LanCLS_hIo4

How To Write Your Own Self-Help Book & Save The World!

You gotta love the generation we grow up in, huh? It’s pretty amazing. Everyone is an expert. Thanks to the advent of Myspace and Facebook, Ipods and Iphones, Youtube and Youporn...just me?

We now have 156,000 ways to express ourselves through scandalous pictures and emoticons.

In fact, I think we should all write self-help books. We should. And don’t think writing a book is that difficult. Each of us can just compile all the information of our various online profiles into one tight manuscript, something just a little thinner than War and Peace or Bill Clinton’s, My Life.

And then, after we write it, just before it goes off to print…we do the world a favor. We say, “Fuck it.” And we don’t print it. Instead we go buy 19 kitchen magnets and post it right next to that crappy picture your 1st grader drew. Because just like that crappy picture your 1st grader drew, while you might think it’s a loving piece of inspiration, everyone else just thinks it’s a piece.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZJtbEZThWag (a special dedication to the la lifestyle)

A Comedy Called Dying: Part I

When I think about it, I pause. And I lose myself. In the train of thought that accompanies something unattached, distant, abstract and yet, absolute.

Death scares me. But more so, it makes me wonder. I wonder about the crazy events that lead up to now, and the fact that I can walk and talk and think. I wonder if I've lived another life or if I'm going to live another one -- if so, I'd prefer something near the Hamptons. I hear the Autumn there is to die for!

I think about this a lot. Usually, I'm alone in my boxers drinking a cold Coors Light. I know my Coors is cold because it is Cold Activated. When the mountains are blue, it means my beer is as cold as the Rockies. Thanks subversive marketing campaign...now I want to drink and possibly live out my golden years in the great state of Colorado.

It's amazing what we have here. And maybe it's more amazing on the other side? Or the next side? Or maybe there is nothing on the other side? Or...who created sides? Is there a God? Why does He watch me all the time? I do weird things.

But do these questions ever end? Who knows the answer? Should I just not think about it? Should I think about it? Should I go to Church? Because if the crazy dude with the megaphone and hat yelling on the Promenade is right then at least I'll be in the clear! I wonder what an acid trip would do for me? Maybe that crazy dude isn't so crazy after all? Can I even grow a crazy man's beard? Probably not, my facial hair is currently blonde and grows at the rate of a New Jersey lawn.

Though I know these questions don't ever seem to have a period, the one thing I'm quite confident in is the fact that I am sure as hell not the only one to ponder them. Way back when, now and 200 years from now, the same questions have, are and will be asked. 200 years from now, I may know a little more as to the answers.

I hear the phrase frequently, "live as today is your last" or "live in the moment" or variations of these. Is that possible to do? I mean, if I lived as if today was my last, I probably wouldn't wear pants. Anywhere. Just nude. At the grocery store, on my front porch. Not at the dog park. I see bad things happening there.

Really, though. You can't possibly live in the moment all the time, or most of the time. I mean, maybe. But you wouldn't be the most productive person. In fact, you'd have to be like my old roommate. Where the parents buttress your finances and weed and reality tv suction you to a dirty, torn up couch, so much so, that you can see the ass grooves in the middle cushion. True story.

So, I'm left with questions. But I have to have some resolution. Something, I can say, 'ok this is what I think and now I can go to sleep. Now, I can go run. Now, I can read the paper (or now, internet aggregators).' Now, I can go function in society because this little game I'm playing with life and death and living and dying, well, it is fickle and fragile and logic only gets me so far.

So, I resolve that questions are all I have.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eejRZaL9-LQ This song makes me want to dance awkwardly.

When There's Nothing Left

2 arms,
each in the 90 degree position,
in the 90 degree heat,
ranging of motion,
and in motion.

Faster and faster and faster.

Sweat droplets peddle from the back of shoulders toward one another,
progressing like a flip book they join and race down the spine together.

The heart's appetite starves for blood,
wanting it more and more,
slowly and quickly,
struggling,
stealing it using those powerful engines attached to the hips
from that

damned, neurotic bobble head,
that rabbid barking dog that won't turn itself off,
that won't shut up or shut off,
that despises boredom and the duldrums of nothingness,
that hates itself for holding the other parts of the machine back,
that won't stop worrying and planning and thinking and stifling action.
Creating dreams and restraining the physical body of making those dreams actuality.
Where do the subconscious and the conscious marry? Where do they divorce? Why can't they just be friends?

And round and round and round the questions spin around
the mind's kinetic race track.

Just be placid.
Like the nothingness of an evening lake in those Georgia summers.

As the lungs expand and contract and pulse and yearn.
Faster and Faster.

The blood drains away,
withering,
from the top,
to the bottom.

The body teams together with all its parts.
Functioning in complete harmony,
like a perfect wave, rising steadily,
until eventually,
it collapses.

The fire is out.
Just the white flag of smoke.

And when there's nothing left
you sit there,
you lay there,
on the ground,
the green grass,
the blue sky,
the black sky,
the clouds,
the stars,
the sun,
the moon.
You sit there.
With that 'been-there, done-that' smirk,
eye lids lazy,
red-face and flush,
shoulders and legs that moved so intensely, so aggravated, with purpose,
now slouch and droop and fall in line with gravity,
because the light has finally been shut off for a few minutes.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0QtNSJLkurk -- and you are in the moment.