Monthly Archives: February 2014

Between Two Fires: A Lebanese-Ukrainian Family

Wow. Its great to see this kind of perspective on the debacle in Ukraine.

My faith in the protestors’ cause is redoubled. I am glad I backed them. Russia needs to but out of their old Soviet Republics. Putin, you lost Ukraine. Let the people choose who they want ruling them, please.

A White Boy in Downtown – Part 2: At the Trashcan Fire That First Night

I drove my 2001 Chevy Cavalier with the hanging passengerside headlight bulb and smashed bumper to downtown Fresno for the first time (other than for Jury Duty) in late January of 2012.

Why? You might ask. Why would a relatively affluent male WASP (white, anglo saxon, protestant) suddenly decide to go into such a dangerous, impoverished, and crime-ridden area?

Well, I suppose the root cause, dear reader, stretches back deterministically all the way to my childhood. So, because a life-story isn’t really necessary in this context, let’s just leave it at this: I wanted to try LSD or some other kind of “mind-expanding” drug in order to increase my creative and spiritual abilities.

What did I find in Downtown? Well, let’s find out together as I cast myself back in memory and time.


After an initial unsuccessful sojourn yesterday I know pretty much how to find free parking in the heart of Downtown. Passing the drab, dark stature of the Fresno Superior Courthouse and jails, streetlights play beautifully off the white paint of my Cavalier’s butt-imprinted hood. Occupy Fresno tents and signs lay, seemingly abandoned, to my right on the sidewalk of the Courthouse park.

I continue on smoothly thanking the Gods traffic isn’t horrific this time of night in Fresno. Sure, other cars pass by, but I’m so excited and anxious about attempting to buy an illicit substance from a genuine drug dealer for the first time that I just smile and crank the radio.

Brighter lights burst off the windshield and I squint a little before my eyes adjust. “CLUB ONE,” screams the casino sign on the corner of Tulare and old Van Ness. I smile more widely as the Chevy glides past into the relative darkness of Fulton Mall.

Once to H Street, I turn right. Finding an empty parking space is easy in Chinatown. No one really wants to be there other than bangers, hustlers, patrons, residents, and the owners of the shops and restaurants it seems.

I greet and pass by the few that are out in the area at this time. On my way down toward the deep dark of the industrial park on the North I begin to feel even more excited. I walk faster, both to stave off the chill of the night and the jitters of slight fear. Eventually I come across an old black gentleman.

I mention I am looking for LSD and he waves for me to come along. We walk toward the “Pov,” the Poverello House for the homeless and jobless, and I continue to make conversation. The man claims it is only about twenty for the tab of acid and I will have to stop. He succeeds in scaring me into staying away from the Poverello house.

I wait for half an hour just around the corner, hiding in the shadows of houses and trees lining the grungy, trash-heaped sidewalks. When I realize I’ve been played, I decide to venture around the corner.

Passing around the bend in the road to the left I am greeted by a dark street with what appears to be several squat encampments. Closest to me are clearly Mexican and Chicanos. I walk down the street toward the end of the Poverello house and its gates. I am hailed by a large, tall black man who I can’t see properly in the light of a washer-tub fireplace.

Apparently wearing a black leather jacket was a poor choice.

“You a cop white boy?” the man demands in a deep, booming voice.

“Fuck no, man. I’m just trying to score some acid,” I say.

I am invited to join the huddled people around the fire. Subjected to questions and scrutiny I am shortly asked to snort a tiny bump of coke from a key to prove that I am no police officer.

The coke is somewhat gross because of the drip, but it isn’t as repulsive as I heard it was.

After taking the little hit of cocaine, Teardrop, as I now know the first tall man to be, insists that even an undercover cop might snort coke. He demands I try crack. Perhaps it was the cocaine beginning to hit, but I feel very good and invincible. Shrugging, I take the pipe and follow his instructions.

I hold the lighter a little bit from the end of the “horn” and begin to inhale. It doesn’t taste bad at all. Except for a chemical flavor there isn’t much taste at all aside from an afterglow of butteriness.

It hits immediately and I understand why people enjoy the feeling, but the hit was no where near my best of the beginning days of my travels into Downtown. I feel faster, more intelligent, and elated. This is a form of flying.

I spend a few hours with Teardrop, just driving around to various hoods and to the motels. I am not offered another hit of crack the rest of that first night. Teardrop seems to want to keep me off the stuff when he realizes I truly had never tried the junk before.

After around 2 in the morning I announce it is time to go home. Teardrop demands I drop him back off at his particle board shanty and I do so before hitting the freeways to go home.

A.A. Milne Quote

A.A. Milne Quote.

Loving that one! 🙂 Thanks for sharing it.

Five fingers make a hand

Polytheists uniting? I love the idea.

Family History Research

So, I’ve always been intrigued by genealogy and family histories.

I recently got a membership for Ancestry.com where I’d only had trials before and I’m finding some epic family history.

Little Background:

My mother’s maiden name is Walkingstick. My full name, as my profile states, is Adam Kristofer Walkingstick King.

I am descended from this man directly, and am DAMN proud of the fact.

My ancestors (being Cherokee) fought the Eastern Creeks alongside Andrew Jackson before he was president. Then, upon returning home, they found their homeland ravaged, their women raped, and their children kidnapped or killed.

Anyone question why I am so violently and addictively Anarcho-collectivist now?

In Earnest,

Adam Kristofer Walkingstick King
AKA King Pollux, Lost Prince of the Old East Cherokee Nation

P.S. Anyone know how to get a Dawe’s Roll number quickly and simply?

Also, in case you were unable to see the content of the link above because you are not a member at Ancestry.com, here is the story (NOTE: I did not write this, it is the property of the users at ancestry.com)

Udalvnusti “U-Da-Lv-Nu-Sti”, is translated from the native Cherokee language to English as Walkingstick.The Walkingstick family ancestry is traced from the Eastern to Western Cherokee Nations. The earliest records originating during the destruction of Keowe, including several other South Carolina Cherokee settlements in the late 1700’s.
Walkingstick was still a boy when he came to the south side waters of Hightower in northeast Georgia. He was raised on Crawfish Creek about 15 miles from the old Hightower Town settlement in Forsyth County, Georgia. Walkingstick was a contemporary of the noted Cherokee leader White Path, and the two lived very near each other and engaged in similar campaigns for the Cherokee people.
When General John Sevier marched an Army into the Cherokee Nation in 1792, Walkingstick was one of a party of about 100 Cherokees who embodied to meet General Sevier and engage him in battle to save the Keowe villages in South Carolina, but they arrived too late.
General Sevier and 700 militiamen from Tennessee destroyed the villages along the Etowah River, and won a battle against the Cherokees there. Many of the women and children were killed, as most of the warriors were away engaging other white encroachments on Cherokee land.
The Cherokee and the Creek tribes had long been bitter enemies. When the Creeks sided with the French in the War of 1812, the Cherokees’ services were sought by the United States to aid in defeating the French and their allies. The Cherokees were only too willing to go against the Creeks and gain favor with the U.S. Government. This in turn began the Red Stick War. The climatic battle that ended the war occurred at Horseshoe Bend on the Tallapoosa river in present day Alabama. On March 1814, the Creeks held out against overwhelming forces at the Horseshoe Bend. Despite constant bombardment and fire their defenses could not be breached. Suddenly, a turkey gobble was heard, the Cherokee war cry then filled the air, the Cherokees had managed to swim the river and outflank the Creeks. The battle raged for hours as the Cherokees had turned the tide against the Creeks. The proud Creeks would give no quarter and asked for none in return. They were killed to the last man. Walkingstick was one of the Cherokees that fought at the battle of Horseshoe Bend in aiding Andrew Jackson quell the Creek uprising. In the aftermath, 557 Creek warriors lay dead. The Americans lost 32 with 99 wounded, and the Cherokees had lost 18 and 36 wounded. Moreover, one of the dead is listed to be the son of Walkingstick. Upon the conclusion of the battle, Walkingstick and the other Cherokees were discharged from the service of the U.S. armed forces. When returning home they found their country ravaged, pilfered and destroyed by the returning militia they had so willingly fought alongside. They found their homes and families had suffered much more from the hands of their white allies than from their enemies the Creeks. It’s hard to imagine the returning warrior Walkingstick bringing his dead son home to his wife only to find the soldiers pilfered their homes, stole their horses, etc. Unfortunately, this great victory propelled Andrew Jackson into the national spotlight and furthered his political career to the highest office in the land. Little were the Cherokee to know then the scheming treachery Jackson was capable of in his tenure as president, for Jackson turned a deaf ear to the Cherokees petitions to stay in their native lands. One of the Cherokee leaders said of him, “If I had known then (what treachery he was capable of) I would have killed him myself that day at Horseshoe Bend. At the end of the Creek War, Walkingstick increased his land holdings and became proficient in the ways of agriculture and business under the ever increasing white population. Note: In 1819, an unknown Walkingstick signed up for removal to the Western Cherokee Nation in Eastern Arkansas and Missouri. He later recanted his decision and remained in the Eastern Cherokee Nation. In the year 1821, Walkingstick settled on Sweetwater Creek about 10 miles from Buzzards Roost in what is now the western edge of Dalton, Georgia. In 1822, Walkingstick is a listed member and official for the Cherokee Republican Government representing the village of Hickory Log under Chief Path Killer. Elitsayi “E-li-tsa-yi” or Elijay was a larger traditional trading settlement in the old Cherokee Nation in what is now north Georgia. Walkingstick held an immense prestige in the area of Elitsayi, and he ranked high in the councils of his people as a diplomat between the Cherokee and the white man’s government. By the time of the removal to Oklahoma Territory in 1838, Walkingstick was the headman of the village of Elitsayi. Walkingstick along with a son are buried in the old family cemetery one mile south of Eluay. The grave plot today is in the Gold Kist Poultry Company parking lot. There are no stones to mark their graves. Only some old cedar trees are left to mark where the old warrior and statesman lies.

Word of the Day: Iridescent

Awesome Picture and word choice! 😀 Love this one.

Words of Margaux

ImageToday’s word brings some light and color into those gloomy winter days.

Iridescent [ir-i-des-uh nt] (adj.) or (noun):

displaying a play of lustrous colors, like those of a rainbow.

Example:

His iridescent eyes, like those of a cat, peered at her, luring her to walk toward her own death.

Feel free to submit examples in the comment box. Hope you all had an iridescent Sunday!

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