An Indian Grows in Wicker Park

Dating Advice From Little Lord Fauntleroy

2009-02-18T22:04:00.004-06:00

Ah, springtime is nigh around the corner and it should come as no surprise that minds will give way to matters of the heart. No you silly goose, not cardiac arrest, but the act of being arrested in love!

I, Little Lord Fauntleroy, have decided to share a few share some tips and tricks to fetching the attention of a new beau or jo.

Firstly, dress-to-the-nines everyday. Only festal garb bedecked in the finest velvets and silks will catch the eye of a potential suitor. Women, only the most lavish French couture will suffice. Gentlemen, I cannot oversell the necessity of a fine codpiece. But, nothing unbecomingly stupendous, otherwise you'll not be cumming then, stupid.

Titter, titter, titty.

Now, once the proper attire and accouterments have been obtained, put out an order into the meeting market. Perambulate yourself to the closest salon/public house/emporium. Now it is time to offer your wares. But be wary of sycophants as they usually offer syphilis.

Cackle, cackle, cuckold.

Lastly, and most importantly, you must take your new playmate into your bedding chambers. Now it is time to consummate your bonking. While many prefer a contraceptive, most are receptive to hump like dogs

Guffaw, guffaw, Guy Fawkes

You have now been informed on how to date, now go forth and procreate.

Pooh-pooh, pooh-pooh, Turd.

The Comments I Made After Awesome Car Funmaker's Last Show.

2009-02-15T22:50:00.007-06:00

As we have witnessed Awesome Car Funmaker's last show, I would like to make a remission on the behalf of Ryan Corcoran. According to an article from the Isthmus, the name Awesome Car Funmaker came from some notion Justin had while in the bathroom... probably checking his glucose levels because he's a dirty diabetic.

This is untrue, not the diabetes, the name story. I used to be in ACF and have the story of the actual origin. I wanted the name of the group to be Funmaker because I was denied acceptance to an Indian pow-wow drum group because my last name was not Funmaker.

Funmaker. Rather common surname if you're Ho-Chunk, rather comical if you're not.

Myself, Ryan, Brendan and Justin all agreed Funmaker was a fantastic name. Andy Ioudechescu, the not Adam drummer, was the hold out on the name.

Andy was into racing and souped up cars. He owned a Beamer and a VW when we started the band.

I wanted to win him over on Funmaker, so I affixed Awesome Car on there to sweeten the deal and also to call him out as a douchebag. Well, the name stuck.

I lived, loved, toured and, honestly, adored these guys for a very long time. I met Brendan because he did an article on me for school. Let me reiterate that; I met him because he wrote about me for a class. That is unbearably endearing.

In closing, to quote ACF:

It is easier to leave than to be left.

But to also quote them:

Throw another log into the fire; the fire. Dinosaur. Roar, Roar, Roar.

25 Methodically Thought Out Things About Me.

2009-02-07T21:25:00.001-06:00

1. I was born on January 21st, 1982 after my mother was in labor for 46 hours. She resoundingly stated, "If he moves to Chicago and decides to start doing comedy, this birth was all for naught. I'll kill him."

2. Mary Brown does not know my current Chicago address.

3. When I was three, I lived in a city in Wisconsin called New Holstein. This moment remains the Sconniest I've ever been.

4. One afternoon in August, I was playing in my backyard in New Holstein. It was next to a cornfield that went on for acres. I disappeared from my mother's sight. The police were called and they sent a helicopter to look for me. The entire time I was hiding in a cupboard, y'know, as a goof.

5. Mary Brown does not want to know my current Chicago address.

6. In my fourth year, I lived in Boston for ten months. For many years, I considered it my hometown because I was a child and children are stupid.

7. In my fifth year, I moved back to Black River Falls where my parents first met. Most statements I made to other children started with, "Well, in Boston we used to..."

8. When I was five, most statements made toward me by other children started with, "Shut up queer, I'm going to kick your..."

9. By Kindergarten, I could read the newspaper and proudly shared this information with my other elementary school classmates. I was attending an institution of learning and I wanted to use my aptitude to help my peers.

10. By Kindergarten, most statements made toward me by other children started with, "Shut up smartypants, I'm going to punch your..." I considered this an improvement over kicking, as children cannot punch very well.

11. In First Grade, my elementary school started taking part in "Tornado Awareness Week" and "Indian Awareness Week." At six years of age, I understood how racism is really funny and really sad.

12. While in First Grade, Brandon Puttbrese and I had a contest: whomever made the tallest sandcastle during recess would win Laura Brown's hand in childhood dating. While my sandcastle was easily the tallest, Laura starting seeing Brandon.

13. Laura Brown is a heart-breaking trollop and Brandon Puttbrese is a disingenuous prick.

14. In First Grade, my teacher said, "Its Indian Awareness Week, does anyone know what that means?" A student named B------ P-------- replied, "You gotta watch out for them Indians."

15. Brandon Puttbrese remains one of my closest friends. This is the first instance of what has become a regular behavior of self-loathing.

16. In Second Grade, we were given personal journals into which we could write anything we wanted; it was to be our secret diary. I wrote comically pornographic stories about members of my class I didn't like.

17. During recess, I was called inside and chastised for writing "garbage". I asked my teacher why she read my secret diary. Her answer was detention.

18. In Second Grade, I stopped trusting authority figures.

19. In Second Grade, my parents took me to Disney World during the summer.

20. After going to Disney World, I decided authority figures that take you on vacations can not only be trusted but incredibly valuable.

21. Grades Three through Five were uneventful except for my growth of pubic hair.

22. In Sixth Grade, I kissed Elizabeth Brandt in the basement of my church. Shortly afterward, I washed out my mouth. This would not be my first moment of heresy.

23. In Seventh and Eighth Grade, I got really into The Grateful Dead and Phish. I now know, like children, middle-schoolers are quite stupid.

24. Grade Nine through Eleven were actually eventful as a girl saw my pubic hair.

25. Since the Second Grade, I have continually wrote comically pornographic stories and as a result Mary Brown still does not know my current Chicago address.

Have You Seen My Parrot?

2009-01-14T07:49:00.003-06:00

Guest Blogger: George Aliga

Hi, my name is George Aliga! Oh Heavens to Mergatroyd! I have never heard such a compliment in my entire life! I cannot believe so many people loved my parrot. I walked down Michigan Avenue today and what is a typically twenty minute stroll turned into an afternoon; Children, the Elderly, German tourists; Everyone had to stop and talk about parrot: Amerigo Vespucci.
I think Amerigo is full of crackers. Did I mention I was carrying a package of saltines? Some people even said, "Polly want a cracker?"

I know its cliché, but the pure amount of adulation given to my parrot let me let it pass. I knew when I bought him at that pawn shop I was getting a deal but I never...Never thought he would become the object of everyone's praise. Even the people who didn't stop, at least gave a knowing smile...Knowing my parrot is awesome. I think to shake things up I'll get him a little cookskin cap, just like Amerigo Vespussci: a pioneer in rad.

My Best Holiday Story

2009-01-14T04:03:00.008-06:00

One of my most memorable experiences over the holidays happened at a cozy downtown bar where you find the daytime drunks and the evening idlers. Its a local dive that only serves beer in cans and pours it's mixers from a bottle (Your Coke is carbonated? Hey, lucky day!). Not only can you smoke indoors, but you're sort of expected to.

The decor falls within three categories:

Product Signage: Not sure what is on the beer/liquor menu? Look at the wall. With the abundance of tacky mirrors, half-lit neon lights, and stock car hood replicas you'll get a good idea of what libations are available. You might even find something they don't make anymore (Still brewing Rhinelander? I thought the Hodags took over the brewery.)

"Hey Rhinelander Area Visitor's Bureau, I have a scam you are going to love."

Things That Were Alive: The bar has never had a problem with mice or rats because there are enough taxidermic game animals to scare the shit out of anything not strong enough to fight a coyote. With foxes, deer and beavers (Local adage: "You always know what bar to find beaver at.") this place is a backwoods Field Museum.

Burnt Wood: No, not a fireplace, but a piece of wood that has been burnt in an "artistic sense". I don't know why it's locally fashionable to take a hot rod into wood, but this bar is a veritable treasury of pyrography through the ages.

But I digress, I was sitting at the bar waiting for my friend Marcus Lewis.

"An Incidental Minority composes Incidental Music."

The jukebox went silent; I could now hear the individual voices of the intoxicated crowd. Amidst it all, I heard a rasp that I will never forget. It was the old man next to me. The scrape of his voice sounded like he needed a tracheotomy about 25 years ago. His voice was the personification of sandpaper and cigarettes forcibly enjoined.

Lets try to recreate his voice. Sit in a comfortable chair. Now, growl in the lowest tone you possibly can. No, even lower. Ease all constriction of your vocal cords and let the pliable tissue of your larynx sit absolutely still.

Okay, take a steak knife and shred your trachea. Not your throat, silly; that would kill you. Just cut up the talking part. A few decades of smoking could pull this off, but a decent amount of inner-throat stabbing will work in a pinch.

Now that you've serrated your voice-box, your speech is probably close to the harrowing cacophony of syllabic grunts I had to hear from this guy.

But I, yet again, digress, the old man sitting to my left had two beers in front of him. Both were open and both were in use. I had an inclination that the woman next to him was his wife, but wasn't sure.

After I saw the pure disgust towards him in her eyes and words, I was assured they were married. That is just how married people talk; gazes of disappointment and liberal amounts of unrequited staring that mostly involve the question: "Why?".

After his apparent spouse left, I heard his abrasive voice:

"Gimme a shot of Wild Turkey...I don't wanna feel feelings anymore."

Afterwards he took a strong breath, held it and let it go slowly. Even when he received his shot, he sat and stared at it for a while; almost like he didn't want to take it. He knew how this snap of liquor would pickle his liver, numb his mind from reality, make him stumble home.

After much consternation, he swallowed it down quickly, picked up his coat and headed toward the door. As he was putting on his hat and gloves he exclaimed:

"I can't wait until I'm dead and outta this goddamn hell."

That was the last night I spent in my hometown.

Ten Things I Am Unlikely To Bludgeon Someone With

2009-01-13T17:00:00.002-06:00

1) A Cat
2) The L.L. Bean Summer Catalog
3) Unwavering Hope
4) The Screams of Innocent Children
5) God's Will
6) An Atom Bomb
7) The Better Part of a Hoagie
8) My Collection of Huey Lewis records (I don't own any Huey Lewis records)
9) Senator John Kerry
10) My Mind

Welcome 2009!

2009-01-11T23:26:00.006-06:00

Happy New Year! After spending far too long at home for vacation, I'm finally back in Chicago and have access to the internet. I did quite a bit of writing at home (in a small town there is little else to do aside from eat and drink; believe me I did both to excess) and am starting my Second City writing class tomorrow. I'm sure I'll have a library of terrible half-though-out ideas and lines that will find their way onto my Electronic Repository.

I hope everyone had a great holiday season whether you were put lights on the tree, lighting the menorah, lighting the kinara or enlightening us all on the non-existence of a supreme deity.

The Governor's Mansion

2008-12-21T14:32:00.005-06:00

I've always been puzzled about Governor's Mansions; especially when you are taking it over from an incumbent politician. You may have criticized how his administration misused government funds for person benefit, but then again, he installed this fantastic wet bar that is just ultra classy.

I know each new residence I've moved into has its own quirks. Most times the landlord is completely blind to it and of no help. Yet the former resident can always give you tip; like how Fonzie could start the jukebox with his elbow, except with how to make the hot water work.

"Aye, I got that dimmer switch to work."

But there is something that would be odd with a recently defeated rival, in an especially tempestuous race, calling their former rival.

"Yeah, sorry for stealing that election from your party. Why are all the "W's" missing from the keyboards?"

"Hey sorry for that whisper campaign about your supposed illegitimate child. Should the walk-in closet's tie rack be going so slow?"

"That's behind us now, want to work for my campaign?"

Happy Holidays!

2008-12-17T14:58:00.001-06:00

I Bought A Single Ticket To Les Savy Fav.

2008-12-17T12:23:00.002-06:00

One of the best concerts I've ever seen was Les Savy Fav at The Catacombs in Madison. Leadman Tim Harrington went off on what the Catholic Church was hiding in their catacombs, ran outside of the venue and shined a flashlight through the window.

If that wasn't cool enough, Hilary gave me whiskey in a coffee cup.

Well, my fantastic experience seeing them in a church has come full circle and I'm seeing them at another church, though this time by myself.

I'm rather particular about the music I enjoy and, for whatever reason, don't keep company with people who share similar musical tastes. Maybe that is how I'll know my soulmate, someone that digs Ronnie Spector, Les Savy Fav and George Gershwin.

Until then, I will continue to buy single tickets to concerts I cannot miss. Sometimes the only company you need is music, but I prefer seeing bearded men kick ass over crazy guitar riffs.

The Wheel of Destiny

2008-12-17T08:17:00.007-06:00

Prior to leaving Madison, Mike Schmidt and I were interested in starting a variety show/open mic either titled "Digital Underground Sex Packets Gut Fest '89" or "Hoopla"; I think "Hoopla" works better on a bill. Here are some random ideas culled from that session. Most of these categories were on the "Wheel of Destiny". Basically, you spin the wheel and accept your fate. The more detestable things happened to the resident comics.

"Guess Who Is Naked"
An audience member comes on stage and has to guess who is naked underneath a blanket being held up.

"Everybody Hug!"
The host brings everyone together in an embrace.

"I Want To Cut Myself with Sylvia Plath"
The entertaining aspects of this one have been lost in the ether.

"Cat Food or Vegan Cuisuine"
One of the resident comics is fed some form of pâté and must figure out what it is.

"Norwegian Joke of the Week"
An audience member is stuck reading three Norwegian jokes from an Ole and Lena book.

"Everyone Chants Your Name"
Instant fame.

"Let's Make an Excuse!"
We paint an audience member's face with a bruise or a severe looking cut so they have an awesome story to bring to work the next day.

"Convert A Sinner"
Pull over a person from the gay bar next door and have them kiss a member of the opposite gender; free drink.

"iPod Dance-offs"
A random song plays and you dance for fabulous prizes and free drinks.

"We Both Know What A Stripper Feels Like And We Should Share"
This will remain Mike's idea.

"Magician's Assistant"
Mike puts Chris Waelti in a bag and proceeds to pour in terrible things (rocks, grape Jell-o, two pounds of Carp). Towards the end of the jerkiness a perfunctory magic trick, completely unrelated to what was poured in the bag, is performed. Waelti continues accession.

I had a dream featuring Mike Schmidt

2008-12-16T18:34:00.004-06:00

(Scene: We are sitting at the end of breakfast in a diner. We have both finished our meals and are prepared to leave.)

Mike Schmidt: Oh, and I had sex with your Llama...but it was consensual. See ya.

Casey: Wait. You had sex with my llama?

Mike: (making a point) But it was consensual.

Casey: How can sex with a llama be consensual? Llamas don't talk.

Mike: He nuzzled me.

Casey: Nuzzled?

Mike: He rubbed his nose against my crotch.

Casey: (turning away) Jesus!

Mike: Casey, this isn't happenstance. Nuzzling is meaningful.

Welcome to Chicago, Mr. Brownbear

2008-12-01T17:12:00.011-06:00

Greetings-

This is the first in what will begin to be regular posts on my blog. Why the long stretch since my last post? I was wasting all of my prose on Missed Connections on Craig's List and an ill-conceived novel about this night I accidently took mushrooms and spent all day at Steve's Tattoo. Apparently, there is already a book about that called "The Illustrated Man" by Ray Bradbury and his text isn't just pages with the word "Funyuns" written ad nauseam interspersed with pictures that are just pen circles where the ink eventually tears through the paper.

So much wasted time.

I recently moved to Chicago after spending far too long in Madison. But my purpose in moving here wasn't simply for a change of scenery or fantastic live music venues. It was to do something incredibly silly that I throughly love: making people smile.

I've wanted to train at Second City since I was but a wee brave. I remember turning on my television long after my bedtime on Saturday, making sure to turn the volume down, so I could watch SNL. It was my comedy catechism: I would spend hours in front of my mirror recreating Dieter's awkward facial expressions; being a fat kid in middle school, I related with the mix of humor and pathos Chris Farley imbued in his characters; and I still find Wayne Campbell's sly, uncouth intelligence utterly brilliant.

You captivate my mind.

I thought this humor just happened, but further inquiry led me to the Second City style of comedy. Almost all modern sketch and comedy finds its way back to this institution. After trying my hand at sketch comedy in Madison with a modicum of success (The Onion AV Club said we "may very well be the most consistently funny comedy act in Madison"), I was encouraged enough to relocate and hone my craft of poop jokes and old-timey puns.

Delightfully vulgar

I'm young, I have no dependents (that I know of), and have medical and pecuniary support (Pina gigi, Great Red Father). Also The American Indian Center of Chicago is interested in hiring me in a position that I best see fit. The AIC is an intertribal community space that offers a variety of services and events as well as educational support for young Natives. I'm really excited to have the opportunity to be a community organizer in an urban setting, its going to be a lot different than the work I've done in the past with the Ho-Chunk Nation and Wunk Sheek at UW-Madison.

But most of all, my hope is that this training will take my gross-out doody jokes and turn them into subtle scatological humor. One can dream.

-CB

PS: I assure you this will be the last serious blog for quite some time.

Top Five Reasons Why Alcohol Is Better Than Caffeine

2006-01-25T14:17:00.000-06:00

1) Caffeine doesn't get you drunk.

2) I've never had a lot of coffee and woken up next to a stranger.

3) I shake when I drink coffee, I shake the day after I drink alcohol.

4) The coffee at bars sucks.

5) I've never been fond of money.

Indian Boots

2005-12-16T16:15:00.000-06:00

My father has been trying to "man me up" for quite a few years. After a trip to New Mexico, he came back with these thick leather boots as a gift. Here is how the interaction went:

Father: Casey, I went to New Mexico and all the guys on the Rez wear these boots. They're from a store like Farm and Fleet, except the New Mexico version.

Me: (completely unimpressed) Wow, thanks dad.

So my "Indian boots" as I had dubbed them, sat in my closet waiting for winter. The first snowfall came, I begrudgingly pulled them out of the closet. I slipped my foot into the left boot and found them to be surprising comfortable. For a month, I was happy that my father bought me these manly boots.

After about a month it all ends. My boots are seen on such hot celebs as Brittany Spears and Jennifer Aniston. My manly Ugg boots have become the number one fashion item for girls. Like a ship that somehow sinks and THEN bursts into flames, I've been caught utterly off-guard. Apparently the price of my boots shot up to $400 and now come in pastel pink.

Not too long after this paradigm shift, my father comes down to Madison for a meeting. As we walk down State Street, he notices the ubiquitous nature of the Ugg boots he bought for his son. The only problem is that they are affixed to the legs of not 'Sconnie men, but Coastie girls.

When I was in high school and I told my father I was quitting football to be in The Wiz (the hip '70s update of the Wizard of Oz whose film version featured Michael Jackson) it was over dinner. When I told my father that I had decided to become an ethical vegetarian, it was over dinner (chicken incidentally). It seemed only fitting that I tell my father the boots that were to impress an air of masculinity into my step had become the quintessential accessory for urbane young women. To make matters worse, these weren't Midwestern girls, but those Jewish American Princesses who weren't bright enough to get into Columbia and, by default, came to Wesconsin.

Word of my decisions to join the drama club over football and leafy greens over bloody flesh were met with looks of defeat. The Indian warrior in my father had yet again failed to instill the savage pride that is the hallmark of young Indian men.

But this conversation was different. After I told him that these boots were now "girl boots" he put down his forkful of prime rib and smiled.

I had prepared myself for anger, dismay, even accusations of homosexuality, but hadn't even entertained possible laughter.

For a few uneasy moments I just watched as he sat laughing in front of me, but not at me. My father is not one to add injury to insult, in all my years of below-average masculine output, he had not once derisively guffawed at my shortcomings.

He was laughing at himself. He had bought the boots. He had tried his best to make me manlier and even that failed. It wasn't him or me, it was Fate. Long ago, Fate had decided I would be flight not fight, left-field not right, Omega Male not Alpha.

Though it still is emasculating to think that even if I found a way to kill a lion with only cunning and an obsidian blade at my disposal, the press would probably lose the photo of me standing over the slain beast and print an older stock picture of me completing a gingerbread house at the Ten Percent Society's Winter Solstice Party.

Still, I don't really wear my Ugg boots until it gets completely unbearable in sneakers. As the Romans said, you can't deny Fate, but you can push it back a couple of months.

Sexual Behavior in the Contemporary Ho-Chunk Male

2005-03-24T16:23:00.000-06:00

My first trip to UW-Madison was not for a campus visit or a football game. It was for a brown bag lunch featuring my father who is the director of my tribe's Department of Natural Resources.
I remember walking into the windowless meeting room and sitting down across from this Indian woman with grey hair, big glasses and lots of silver jewelry. I didn't know at the time, but I was standing in front of Ada Deer, the woman who ended the federal government's termination policy which would have effectively killed off American Indian sovereignty. No casinos, no reservations, no cheap cigarettes.
After telling her my name and age, she gave me a piece of advice: Marry an Indian woman. She hadn't even told me her name yet. This was more important.

There is an incredible amount of pressure for me to date, marry, and ultimately make babies with a Ho-Chunk woman. Although Ho-Chunk is preferred, any Indian woman.
I began with the story about Ada because she is notable personality you are most likely familiar with, but I have heard this mantra since puberty dropped my voice and other parts of my person.
"We are losing blood quantum." My uncle would say, referring to the dwindling percentage of Ho-Chunk ancestry our current members could claim. Quantum, as it is called, is important not so much culturally as it is legally. To be a federally recognized American Indian means you must have 1/4 Indian heritage. This is proven through birth records. Ostensibly, the Bush administration wants to change this number to 1/2 for no other reason than to lessen their workload.
To be recognized by my tribe is a bit trickier. Not only do you have to prove 1/4 Ho-Chunk heritage through birth records, but also provide a DNA test conclusively showing that mom and dad actually created the newborn Indian in question. The rigorous testing is to weed out imposters eager to cash in on casino profits. In my tribe, being Indian is rather profitable. As a student they pay for dorm rooms, books, and tuition.
The problem now is that our numbers are thinning. Personaly, I believe that in my lifetime we will drop the percentage to 1/8th. Every month the tribal newspaper prints the newest additions to the tribal roll. Its rare to see "full" under blood quantum these days. Even 1/2 is quite rare. Typically you can expect to see ridiculously small fractions that are just above 1/4 like 27/104. Sometimes I wonder how these assertions are mathematically possible with only two parents in the mix.
As a result of these thinning numbers we have serious pressure to "keep it in the tribe". When I was 12, I took this early warning seriously. I didn't know why. I hadn't even learned about the birds and bees yet. The reproductive process was still a foreign affair to me that made just as much sense as international tax code does to me now.
I mean, I have a white mother, but saw no problem with that at the time. A true testament of youthful ignorance. But this incident also reveals how early they indoctrinate this idea into a young person's head. I was more interested in exploring rivers and climbing trees than seeking potential mating partners.
Even as I grew up and began to fashion my own opinions, an undercurrent of that 12-year-old still remained. To quote one my tribe's employment procedures, I simply advocated "Ho-Chunk Preference". It's not discrimination. The policy states that if there are two qualified candidates of equal stature, the Ho-Chunk candidate can expect to get the job. But just like that hiring procedure, "Ho-Chunk Preference" can occasionally be used to justify an unqualified candidate.
That wasn't the case for my first love though. I was 14 and her name was Henu, which is the Ho-Chunk word for "first daughter". And that name wasn't just a front: she was full-blooded Ho-Chunk. I was totally smitten with her in a way that only a ninth-grader can be: She had breasts and wasn't too ghastly that I'd lose social capital, but not so pretty at to be out of my league.
When I had finally come around to the decision to ask her out, I asked for advice from the only guy I knew that experience with women: my father.

"Dad, I really like Henu. I think about her everyday."

Again, "henu" is the common Ho-Chunk name for first daughter.

"Well, Casey. You're going to have to be more descriptive. But let me tell you that I'm glad your not in love with a 'cunu'."

You can just guess what "cunu" is Ho-Chunk for.

"Henu Decorah, Dad. That's her name."

"Oh, Henu Decorah. Daughter of Sam. Whose brother is Weston...Who..."

This is the point of the conversation where I would usually drop out. Older Indian men have the tendency to figure out every last person that someone is related to. They usually come just short of mentioning Cain and Abel. By 15, when I told my father about my friends, I would usually just say they were white and that would be the end of conversation.

"Well, Casey. I have some news for you."

My dad had just taken me away from a daydream with me and Henu sharing a malted milk and holding hands; a gentle picture that innocent children believe to be love.

"Henu is related to you. Yup, second...no. First cousins. Yeah. She's family."

The malted milk spilled on the floor as I held hands with someone who could very well be my sister. My gentle picture of love had turned into a lesson about incest. I protested it. I had him check his facts, but it was true. Upon further reflection it makes sense. In 1842, after being forcefully removed from Wisconsin to Turkey River, Iowa. Our federally-alloted village numbered only 750 members. Even accounting for quite a few stragglers, that is not a large number. It is as if a college dormitory was all that was left of a civilization and they had to repopulate. You're going to end up making a few mistakes. The Ho-Chunk clan system, like many Indian clan systems, was put in place many moons ago to keep such an event from happening. Keep your hand in the right cookie jar and your kids won't end up being their own grandpa. But after 150 years, things get pretty strained and clan lines begin to blur.

Recently, I've actually thought of starting a Ho-Chunk personals service similar to Friendster or My Space. The Nation would host a personals site for tribal members to meet and hopefully continue the lineage. To sign up all you'd have to do is by authorized by the enrollment department. I think it's a great idea, but I'm totally addicted to networking websites.
For the time being. I am not actively seeking a Ho-Chunk girl. I know about every Indian in Madison and after 5 years I've exhausted those options as well. Instead, I've been actively seeking Jewish girls. I'm tired with my tribe. I figure I may as well try theirs. Plus, I'm certain that I wouldn't end up dating my first cousin.

Five Things I Dislike

2005-03-19T20:43:00.000-06:00

1) Furries. Disgusting excuses for human beings. In hell they are only one ring above pedophiles. For those that are unaware of this sub-culture, they are folks that are into anthropomorphized animals. You know, like Bugs Bunny or Mickey Mouse. But don't let that lead to you to believe that this is innocent. Some "furs" believe that they have animal spirits stuck in human bodies. This notion seems to be co-opted from the American Indian animal-clan system, except bastardized by white guys who have problems talking to girls. If that hasn't turned you against them, you should know that furries enjoy dressing up in animal costumes and having group sex in "furpiles". Christ, I need to go wash my hands after typing that.

2) Dogmatic Madison Liberals. If I hear another white-ass Madison liberal tell me Gov. Jim Doyle is a Republican in disguise, I will seriously deck them. If you don't advocate the most radical stance possible, you suddenly become a neo-conservative. The Republicans have both the assembly and senate. It's a numbers game. If your squad has 3 people and the other squad has 16 you don't start a fight, you try and compromise. Do you know how fortunate we are to have Doyle? Remember Tommy Thompson? They won't be happy until Wisconsin becomes a socialist republic. Just because it the most far-left decision doesn't mean that its right.

3) Wisconsin Oneida. As a child, I always called them the "O-need-a" because they "O-needa" go back to New York. No good carpetbaggers. The Ho-Chunk were here when they showed up and we'll be here when they leave.

4) People who metaphorically show their hand. I recently read an article in the local student paper where the journalist readily admitted that he had no authority on the subject of his article. Yet, he still proceeded to espouse his advice on the subject. If you are an idiot, keep it to yourself. Not only is it personally in poor judgment for someone to admit they have no clue what they are talking about, but its condescending to the party who is told this information. Suddenly, you are too stupid to comprehend their ignorance.

5) The Amish. I don't actually hate the amish, but I'm safe from reprisal because they can't use the internet. Unless they are one of those "cheating amish". I'm talking about those Amish dicks that always ask you for a ride into town, but never pay for gas because they don't believe in it.