2.25.2007

3.16.2007 homeward bound


Homeward bound on 3.16.2007 for Eric's funeral memorial. Hope to see you.

man in the moon

2.24.2007

you're strange

2.23.2007

tell everybody



Sasquatch
We was toolin' up the Kings Highway 63 in southern Ontario, Canada just south of Thunder Bay, listening to Canadian native rockers April Wine. Just at the opening line of "Say Hello" this frickin' sasquatch bolted out in front of my Nissan Titan scaring the be-Jesus out of me and my buddy, Herve, recently of Nogales, Sonora, Mexico. Herve quickly dinged the shaggy biped with an unopened Budweiser. I hauled it to a quick stop at a 45 degree slide and just barely missed squashing the sasquatch.
We roped the winch up over the cab and pulled the stinky bugger into the bed, figuring that as the first to capture a live bigfoot we would be rich, famous or both. Our immediate problem was our advanced state of intoxication. Who could we tell? Mounties? Hell no - they're cops aren't they? Who else? Jeez, we didn't know who held authority in this backwoods third world paradise. Bob and Doug McKenzie? No. We decided they were TV dudes and about the only thing good to come out of Canada aside from a beer or two (and not that bearpiss Moosehead crap). We decided to drive deeper into the boreal forest, start a fire, drink more beer and wait for our prize to awaken.
Awaken he did. Alleviating a serious case of "morning wood", he began to irrigate the truck bed and because the bedliner did not include drains, his effusive discharge began to accumulate and moisten his thick shaggy-dog style hair increasing the stink to an almost unbearable stench on any stink-meter. Herve fled gagging into the woods. I tried to figure out how to untie this stink generator with minimum damage to me and/or my truck or getting any sasquatch pee on me. Suddenly, my training came back to me.
I had studied collective behavior and crypto-zoology at the University of South Dakota during the sasquatch invasion of the Cheyenne River Sioux Indian Reservation in the early 80's. I quickly grabbed a flashlight, a camera, some trail mix and a pair of size 17 Air Jordan's I always keep behind the driver's side seat in my truck just for this eventuality.
I placed the Air Jordans on the tailgate just out of his reach, trained the flashlight on them and began flicking it on and off. This interested the freshly woken sasquatch. I used the flash from the camera to simulate an arena type setting and cranked Toto's Eye Of The Tiger over the 8 speaker Rockford Fosgate that comes standard with the the Nissan Titan 5.6 Liter.
The sasquatch calmly unfastened his binders, eyed the Jordans carefully and noted Herve's return. Herve, sensing a critical moment, popped the top on a Bud and handed it to the sasquatch. Twelve beers later, Herve and I and the sasquatch were gathered around a fire with the sasquatch sporting his new Jordans. About 2:00 AM, our stinky buddy indicated he had an engagement and motioned an over and out. I snapped the above photo as he bugged out.
We know it sounds unlikely, and the mushrooms we scored in Duluth may have affected our judgment and perception, but we're pretty sure this actually happened. Herve would back up the whole story if he hadn't been deported back to Sonora shortly after we reported our story to the Arizona Daily. I hear he's on college student kidney patrol for the local coyotes.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot, the sasquatch absconded on the Sam's Club trail mix and my Run Westy Run compilation CD. What a friggin' bi-ach.

2.22.2007

your love is gonna drown

The service for Eric Charles Eisenbraun will be held in Wall South Dakota at the Lutheran Church on March 16, 2007 at 2:00 PM.
Before he passed, Eric and I shared a lot of music, talked of football (he was a fierce competitor, whether friend or foe) and he often spoke of his love for his wife, sons and daughters. His death, like my mother's, was a tragedy for me and many others. A blow. Hard to recover from.

He liked this song ...


If I could open my arms
And span the length of the isle of Manhattan,
I'd bring it to where you are
Making a lake of the East River and Hudson
If I could open my mouth
Wide enough for a marching band to march out
They would make your name sing
And bend through alleys and bounce off all the buildings.

I wish we could open our eyes
To see in all directions at the same time
Oh what a beautiful view
If you were never aware of what was around you
And it is true what you said
That I live like a hermit in my own head
But when the sun shines again
I'll pull the curtains and blinds to let the light in.

Sorrow drips into your heart through a pinhole
Just like a faucet that leaks and there is comfort in the sound
But while you debate half empty or half full
It slowly rises, your love is gonna drown [4x]

Your love is gonna drown [4x]
Your love is gonna...

2.19.2007

listen


Can you hear it? Is it the barely audible chorus of wounded man-souls left on the cigarette-butt-strewn battleground of party-music by the new, improved Sister Sinead O'Connor of pop (AKA Britney Spears)? My friend Chelsea says she shaved her head because her "cornrows" hurt. Apparently, they weren't secured firmly to the gray matter deep within her air conditioned skull. My theory is that she's the only human alive that can hear a silent dog whistle and dang, they're selling like hotcakes lately. Poor girl. Maybe some more booze would help.
Nonetheless, as an unruly 13 year old boy from Pringle, SD, I still plan to make a play for Britney. As soon as I get my head gear removed and my rhymes down. Long live the queen of rotten-pop. I am beating a path to your heart.

many rivers to cross

By Jimmy Cliff
For Eric Charles Eisenbraun

Many rivers to cross
But I can't seem to find my way over
Wandering I am lost
As I travel along the white cliffs of dover

Many rivers to cross
And it's only my will that keeps me alive
I've been licked, washed up for years
And I merely survive because of my pride

And this loneliness won't leave me alone
It's such a drag to be on your own
My woman left me and she didn't say why
Well, I guess I'll have to cry

Many rivers to cross
But just where to begin I'm playing for time
There have been times I find myself
Thinking of committing some dreadful crime

Yes, I've got many rivers to cross
But I can't seem to find my way over
Wandering, I am lost
As I travel along the white cliffs of Dover

Yes, I've got many rivers to cross
And I merely survive because of my will...

2.18.2007

sunday funnies

2.17.2007

bones

2.14.2007

wake up

it's thursday
my friend went to montreal in canada from austin texas
and joined this band called
ARCADE FIRE
they're weird but this song
is great

trappers

wendigo


Hootenanny staff met a Mayan wendigo shaman in Temporal Canyon north of Patgonia, AZ. In the canyon brush firelight, the shaman conjured a spirit. It was a flat-soled, dog-faced creature that tossed rocks into the camp. Truly freaky but never scary. This wendigo meant no harm. I think he just wished we weren't there.

Here's some historical dope on the wendigo:
In the mythology of the Crow, legends say the Wendigo was once a warrior. When beset with an enemy the warrior could give his soul and life in exchange for the power to save his tribe. But once the threat was eliminated, the Wendigo is forced to leave his tribe and wander the countryside for eternity. This would mean there would be many Wendigo. The Wendigo depicted in these legends is a large human/lupine chimera usually with white fur. The skeletal Wendigo is usually Mayan in nature while the Crow one is farther north.

Native American versions of the creature spoke of a giant Spirit, over fifteen feet tall, which had once been human but had been transformed into a creature by the use of magic. The Wendigo is usually described to have glowing eyes, large yellow fangs and long tongues. Some Wendigos are said to be covered from head to toe with hair and has a yellowish skin. One story says the creature can only be seen head-on, because it is too thin to be seen from the side. Wendigo has a very large appetite for human flesh.

To Algonquian-speaking tribes of Native Americans, the Wendigo is a malevolent supernatural creature. It is usually described as a giant with a heart of ice; sometimes it is thought to be entirely made of ice. Its body is skeletal and deformed, with missing lips and toes.

The first accounts of the Wendigo myth by explorers and missionaries date back to the 17th century. They describe it rather generically as a werewolf, devil, or cannibal. The Wendigo was usually presumed to have once been human. Different origins of the Wendigo are described in variations of the myth. A hunter may become the Wendigo when encountering it in the forest at night, or when becoming possessed by its spirit in a dream. When the cannibalistic element of the myth is stressed, it is assumed that anyone who eats corpses in a famine becomes a Wendigo as a result. The only way to destroy a Wendigo is to melt its heart of ice. In recent times, it has been identified with Sasquatch or Bigfoot by cryptozoologists, but there is little evidence in the indigenous folklore for it being a similar creature.

Perhaps this myth was used as a deterrent and cautionary tale among northern tribes whose winters were long and bitter and whose hunting parties often were trapped in storms with no recourse but to consume members of their own party. It could be indicative of starvation that the Wendigo is said to consume moss and other unpalatable food when human flesh is unavailable. Its physical deformities are suggestive of starvation and frostbite, so the Wendigo may be a myth based on a personification of the hardships of winter and the taboo of cannibalism.

In some stories a Wendigo will follow a lone wanderer for a long time. When the prey becomes suspicious and turns around the Wendigo always manages to get out of sight by hiding behind a tree. After a while the followed person starts to become hysterical and runs until he makes an error. The Wendigo then strikes. If someone actually survives a Wendigo attack they get the Wendigo-fever: after a night of nightmares and pain in their legs--indeed, the Wendigo itself often has no feet--Wendigo-fevered people strip themselves naked and run into the forest screaming.

2.13.2007

shucks, we're darned if we do


What is escalation? Should we escalate the fight in Iraq? Pin some of it on Iran? Hootenanny thinks that we're overlooking the boys we're asking to handle this shit. Hootenanny thinks we have two basic options and that neither is good.
Option 1. Provide the boys with the support and weaponry to get them home alive and unharmed.
Option 2. Get the boys home now, alive and unharmed.
Even the most high-school uneducated cowboy or indian knows that fresh water and family is more important than oil. Hoss Cartwright held things together when his little brother went on to fetch water for the right with Little House On The Prairie.
You might not understand this rant. We don't expect you will.
Let me put it this way.
When I was a little kid a war broke out between me and my best friend who lived on the other side of the road.
There was one battle. A fistfight in the garage that I lost and retreated from.
We went into stalemate.
We didn't speak.
Though we still lived a few feet from each other.
We were 12, but acting like old men.
Like politicians and world leaders. Prideful. Arrogant.
For years wasting every opportunity to be the friends we were before.

We're darned if we do,
But I'm afraid we're damned if we don't

Let's just bring our boys home

2.12.2007

patagonia pig hunt

This is how close we didn't get!
Patagonia is a town in Santa Cruz County, Arizona, United States. According to 2006 Census Bureau estimates, the population of the town is 825.[1] Patagonia was formerly a supply center for nearby mines and ranches. Presently, it is a tourist destination, retirement community and arts and crafts center.
The Collared Peccary (Tayassu tajacu) occurs from the southwestern United States into South America. They are often found in dry arid habitats. They are sometimes called the "musk hog" because of their strong odor. In some areas of the southwestern United States they have become habituated to human beings and live in relative harmony with them in such areas as the suburbs of cities where there are still relatively large areas of brush and undergrowth to move through. They are generally found in squadrons of eight to 15 animals of various ages. They will defend themselves if they feel threatened but otherwise tend to ignore human beings. They defend themselves with their long tusks, which sharpen themselves whenever the mouth opens or close.
Hunting is the practice of pursuing animals for food, recreation, trade or for their products. In modern use, the term refers to regulated and legal hunting, as distinguished from poaching, which is the killing, trapping or capture of animals contrary to law. Hunted animals are referred to as game animals, and are usually large mammals or migratory birds. By definition, hunting strictly speaking, excludes the killing -though similar techniques may be used- of individual protected animals, such as bears which have become dangerous to humans, as well as the killing of non-game animals, domestic animals, or vermin as a means of pest control. Hunting can be a component of modern wildlife management, for example to help maintain a population of healthy animals within an environment's ecological carrying capacity.[1]. In the United States, wildlife managers are frequently part of hunting regulatory and licensing bodies, where they help to set rules on the number, manner and conditions in which game may be selected for culling.

2.06.2007

lament

this is my friend charlie parr in london
charlie's making a living off his music now
not like the early mpls days up in his apartment on hennepin
drinkin' jameson and
scratchin' out tunes with terry while making up songs
about terry's hairy spanish girlfriend

i haven't seen charlie since a cold night in duluth
a few years back
these days he's got several albums out of both
original and other material
all good and all tuned to his crafted warble and footboard timing
suiting a scholar and an artist

he's lost a bit of weight from all the touring
but the clothes are the same and we hear from his wife
that he still needs to be reminded to wash
but he's a fan of dostoyevsky's the idiot
and he serves a proper master
supports his local independent record store
and drives an old truck

enjoy

skyway

paul westerberg

2.02.2007

sometimes people need beddin' down


Sorry I've been absent, but a friend flew in Tuesday night on his way to LA and needed a place to stay. So I picked him up, gave him a key to the 711 and a bed up front where he could watch the leaves turn brown on the Ficus until this morning when I took him back to Sky Harbor for the United Express LA connection.
It's good to see old friends and to have them stay for a day or two and toast you with stories of the northern homeland where game is still plentiful, maidens abound and the law allows you to shoot dope fiends on sight. Spin the wheel and roll the bones, we'll all meet in the happy hunting grounds on the banks of Bear Lodge Creek someday. Bank it.

2.01.2007

cat power

she's so much better since she quit drinkin'