Origin 1

You have come here to read a story that I have written and published, and I thank you.

Press play and read my tale for you.



I was always a nerd, still am. I used to build robots from anything I could find, whether old, tossed out stereo and television parts, vacuum and dryer motors, as well as fresh shit from Radio Shack. They knew me well there, spending money I made from my first job, selling holiday cards in a deal I made with one of those advertisers in the back of comic books.

My dad was a small town lawyer, and he defended people. Even though he passed away from cancer when I was ten, folks still tell me stories about how he helped them out.

They also told about his fondness for conversation, his enjoyment of beer, and that he would sometimes partake of the "smoke."

Why, one time, he got busted by the cops smoking with some of the young adults and he had to stand before the judge alongside them. Judge looked up from the documents, saw my dad, and then took his glasses off, staring at him.

"It really is you on these papers? I don't know what to say. Case dismissed."

My dad said, "Your Honor, Bob, I should not be treated any differently than anyone else."

Judge Bob replied, "if you were anyone else, then you would be treated like everyone else. OK, have it your way. Fine of $20. Now don't come back here again on that side of my court."

He was the guy you would call for bail at 2AM with your one call. He got paid back mostly with eggs and chickens and pies. He never got wealthy, but he was rich.

They called him "Ole Neighb," referring to "Mr. Roger's Neighborhood" on PBS. My dad was a red-haired Irishman who looked nothing like Fred Rogers, and it took a lot to make him show his anger, but when it did, you better watch out. After he took his anger out for a stroll, it would get swept back under the rug and pent up until the next explosion of rage.

Looking back at my own path, I am glad that he never saw what terrible things I have done.

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My mom wore cocktail dresses and white gloves that went up to her elbows. She met my dad while they were both in college. Being a full-blooded Penobscot afforded her the opportunity to see both sides of the racial tension of the sixties, because she looked like a foreigner. Of course, if there is anyone who is most indigenous to this land, it is a Penobscot.

They graduated with bachelors degrees, he got pursued his master's, and she brought home the bacon as a social worker. When Dad graduated, Mom pursued a Ford Foundation grant, and won it, becoming a Ford Fellow. My mom and dad took us two kids on the road, to visit Native Tribes across the U.S.A. and report back to the Ford Foundation their findings.

What they discovered and encountered so enraged my mom that she dropped her social pretenses and became a rabble rouser, so to speak. She became a political activist when she took off her white gloves and threw them away.

In her studies of the political conditions back at home, she discovered that the land near our reservation had been leased to the "wenooches," the whites, 99 years previous. For 99 years.

She wrote this down on a piece of birch bark and took it over to city hall, telling them that their 99 year lease was up, and it was time for them to get out. We wanted our land back.

This got in all the papers, and eventually became the Maine State/ Indian Land Claims Settlement of 1980.

And this is where these tales begin.

Next Time.
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These tales get written whenever the fuck I find the time.

Check back often my friend, or not. Your choice.



God Help You.

God Help Us All.




Here is a tune that my Dotta wants me to put up here. This is her antidote for my tales. It's her band-aid for your eyes.