And now:Ish <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> writes:
>From: [EMAIL PROTECTED]
>Date: Fri, 22 Jan 1999 19:42:10 EST
>To: [EMAIL PROTECTED]
>Grandfather,
>What is that lying half-buried in the sand,
>And the wind whistling through
>A strange tune?
>Those are Coyote's bones, grandchild,
>Calling, laughing, calling, crying.
>
>Poor Coyote! Let's stick a flower
>Between his ribs.
>Goodbye, Coyote bones.
>
> -Achumawi (Pit River Indian) incantations
>
>How can one retain the spirit of religious wonder toward life and yet not
be a fool?
>
>"Living among them, sprawling under the oak trees, watching the clouds or
a procession of ants, or a hawk perching on a dead pine, you gossip, you
talk about so and so and what a liar he is, or two old men start arguing
about who made the world, and a young fellow tries to reconcile his
knowledge of modems and their knowledge of medicine. Pretty soon you find
yourself drifting into their lingo, and even their ways of thinking. then
you catch yourself with a start; you remember you are a white man, and
supposed to be a scientist; and you wonder whether you are playing a game
with yourself. You try to explain thought to yourself. You feel puzzled.
You wonder whether you are dropping back into childhood and the wonder-time
of stories, and fairies, and miracles, and marvelous things. And then you
listen to another story of when the animals were men. . .
> -Jaime de Angulo
>
>In these stories he felt he had found one of man's earliest attempts to
make articulate the movement of the Spirit. . . .if the Pit River Indians
have no religious ceremonies, no priesthood, no ritual of any kind, and not
the slightest approach to any conception of Godhead, how can one speak of
their having any spiritual or religious values?. . . the life of these
Indians is nothing but a continual religious experience. . . The
recognition of life as power, as . . . something loose about the world and
contained in a more or less condensed degree by every object - this is
(their) credo."
> Jaime de Angulo
>
>Under certain conditions of mental stress an individual finds life in his
accustomed surrroundings impossible to bear. Such a man (or woman) starts
to wander. He goes about the country travelling aimlessly. He will stop
at the camps of friends or relations, moving on, never stopping at any
place any longer than a few days. He will not make any outward show of
grief, sorrow, or worry. In fact he will speak of what is on his mind to
no one, but anyone can see that he is not all right. He is morose,
uncommunicative. Without any warning he will get up and go. He shuns
camps and villages, remains in wild, lonely places, on the tops of
mountains, in the bottoms of canyons. Whenever anyone approaches, he
leaves, throws sticks and rocks at his friends. they spy on him and find
him running and jumping, shouting and singing, breaking branches, hurling
rocks at trees.
> The Achumawi never courts pain. It would never enter his head to imagine
that by making himself miserable and pitiful in the eyes of the Powers he
might gain their sympathy and aid. To him the mysterious powers are
whimsical spirits living in the woods, entirely indifferent to human
affairs. In order to gain their friendship, to approach them without
scaring them away, it is necessary to set aside temporarily and risk
permanent loss of one's humanhood. When you have become quite wild, then
perhaps some of the wild things will come to take a look at you, and one of
them may perhaps take a fancy to you, not because you are suffering but
simply because he happens to like your looks. When this happens the
wandering is over and the Indian becomes a Shaman.
> All white men are wanderers, in this sense.
> -Ibid. DOCTOR COYOTE RETURNS
>
> At daybreak, the light not yet sufficient to reveal color, a coyote lopes
across a grey meadow. Her head is down, her tongue hangs out, and her
teats are milkful. She pants past a black cedar, trots across a dry creek
bed of grey blue chert, grey-red jasper, greywacke. Her tail floats behind
her like a banner and her manner radiates joy in the life all around her,
and in her.
> She passes grey-green California poppies, lilac ceanothus, immense Valley
oaks whose lowest limbs are twenty feet up. She is so happy that when she
passes beneath a live oak from whose limbs grey Spanish moss swings in the
light dawn breeze, she leaps up and snaps at the stuff, catching down a
long scarf of it, which wraps around her muzzle and streams out behind her.
> Now she stops and shakes her head, paws at her mouth, trying to free her
face from the skein of Spanish moss. She uses one foreclaw like a dental
pick, but with little success. She's got the mess stuck between her teeth,
and her face in a grin, she shakes her head one time and lopes on uphill,
as the sun breaks over the trees behind her, lighting up the summer-dry
grass, the brown hills spotted with dark green chamiso, and all the tones
of green and yellow in the trees.
> Orioles, jays, towhees, and robins sing the daylight, and she runs uphill
to a fieldstone fence, an open timbered gate, a bay-tree-shaded lawn, a
long redwood deck, a redwood bungalow. She bounds up the two steps onto
the deck, drinks noisily from a bowl of water set there. Then she enters
an open French door, passes a Danish teak chair with a Navajo rug on it,
and a black cat, who does not wake up. She passes walls of books, and a
table where the computer is on, its blue screen lit, its fan humming. She
enters a bathroom, and flips on the light with her hand. She turns on the
electric toothbrush, and the water tap, and looking in the mirror brushes
the Spanish moss out from between her teeth.She inspects her face, clear
olive skin, merry brown eyes with pale blue rather than white around the
gold-flecked corneae, feathered dark brows, long brunette hair. She is
quite pretty, and one would guess she is a 40 year old white American
intellectual, maybe not of the academic professional class, maybe a writer
or entrepreneur. Something about her expression is too rebellious for
corporate society. She rinses her mouth - two teeth are missing, the one
behind each fang, or canine, on the upper jaw. She practices smiling with
her mouth closed. She has full, wide lips, proportionally elegant in her
broadjawed face, and a thin nose. She looks foxy, some might say.
> She replaces the electric toothbrush in its holder, takes the white
bathrobe from the wall hook, and re-enters the library. Beyond the closed
door a coffee pot starts brewing, a fax machine rings, someone's feet can
be heard in the kitchen. She sits at the computer and starts writing.
> I love the long skeins of Spanish moss, the grey-green hair hanging from
the live oak trees. It kills the trees, but it's a slow, painless death
with pretty effects, which is the best one can get from mortal life. The
relationship between the parasitic lichen and the tree is instructive.
> First airborne short grey threads like old man pubic hair appear on the
wet wood after a winter rain. The tree perceives the thin strands, but not
as an invasive harm, like the sting of an oak wasp, which causes the tree
so much pain that it makes a gall of scar tissue around the wound in which
the wasp has laid her eggs. No, to the tree the parasite's fine yarn is
like an additional thin membraneous filament against the weather, and not
unwelcome.
> All winter long the rains fall, and the grey threads absorb the water
and spread into soft little flecks, like the dark hairs on a roan horse.
By May they have turned into clustered tufts, like the curly coat of a
buffalo calf. Under these patches the tree is no longer respiring
efficiently through its bark and begins to feel a little short of breath,
like a smoker.
> During the long dry summer the lichens survive on coastal fog, bird
breath, and butterfly urine. The next November when the rains return they
begin their lengthening growth, no longer single strands but now divided,
branched and rejoined, forming complex nets.
> Every rain drop that catches in those nets is absorbed for micronutrients
and moisture. The tree chokes a little more, and the following May its
branches die at the tips, and the surrounding leaves burn at their edges,
like the fine alveoli in a smoker's lungs.
> The tree fights back, years pass, and the battle continues. But the
Spanish moss usually makes the error of killing its host. The branches dry
out and die, suffocated by its parasite's membranes, the grey-green hair
hangs down and sways in the breeze, and I sometimes jump up and bite at it
as I pass below, when the pleasure of its lovely swaying sight skips in my
heart.
> I always regret that. Spanish moss tastes like dessicated horse dung. I
have to shake my head to get it all out of my mouth and sometimes paw
wildly at the tendrils caught between my teeth. You try that without
dental floss, or fingers. But ah me, I am Coyote, and thus I have very
little control over my passions. Every soul, human and otherwise, is a
potential battleground between impulse and ideals, lust and reason. The
only winners are those whose programs achieve their visions. Presupposing
you have a vision. Without one, you're just prey.
> I still practice medicine, but my patient load these days is insufficient
to keep me from boredom. I also write a syndicated advice column for
Native Americans which appears in several newspapers and magazines, but is
most widely disseminated on line. I have another scamper training dogs,
and I have a post-construction cleaning business which employs women unable
to find other jobs. These are not uneducated, lazy or incompetent ladies.
They are carefully selected for their attitude, which is best expressed by
the old Spanish saying "I do not want your cheese, Senor, I just want to
get out of the trap."
> Finally, I have a management consulting firm. I advise business and
industry clients on everything from increasing market share to avoiding
hostile takeover. The majority of their problems stem from their passions.
Usually it's a case of the wrong human for the job, but more than 90% of
the time the trouble they get into is just like the trouble Old Man Coyote
got into in the Old Time when the People used to tell stories all winter
night long, and the lodges filled with contentment to hear the teaching tales.
> You think I'm not qualified to consult on management practices in this
volatile, changing economy. But who better to inform Americans than the
original warmblooded groundwalker in this hemisphere, the original sinner
with money, power, avarice, covetousness, mischief, fornicating, tinkering,
wandering, restlessness, discontent, gluttony? Old Coyote am I and I never
die. That's a lie. I have been dead more times than I have fleas.
> Another fact contrary to what you have read in your American Indian folk
tales is I am not an old man. I am very female. Old Man Coyote was my
husband until I threw him out for philandering, whining, drunkenness and
bullying. That was years ago and he hasn't changed a whit. He hasn't even
tried. He thinks he's right.
> Old Man Coyote has an excuse for everything. He was that way when I met
him and in all the intervening years he hasn't learned compassion or
anything beyond his own appetites. The first million dollars he earned in
Murders and Inquisitions he got drunk for a week. That's his way. I threw
him out, dollars and all. That's my way. I don't want your cheese, Senor.
It is his nature to be unreliable and capricious, mine to be thoughtful,
conniving, cheerful, controlling, restless all night long.
> My children I love very dearly. Any woman among you will sing the story
of her breasts filled with milk, which smells like honey, and the pleasure
that croons through her when her paps are suckled, the scent of her young
in her nostrils, its heartbeat still part of her, the smooth, slippery life
where her babe's skin touches hers. But I, I have eight paps, and
sometimes ten young ones to pull and squirm at my teats, with their shrill
yips and hard little gums and warm, furry scent. Ah, there is no greater
pleasure than that! You males have been left out of life's deepest
treasure. But you do bear the greatest pain, in truth. I invented it.
> I do not refer to kidney stones, in fact more painful to the human male
than normal birth is to the human female. Of course, there is damned
little normal birth in America these days, and I am the original American,
with no license to practice outside this hemisphere. But take my word for
it, kidney stones bring one of the most severe pains consequent to a man
for the crime of simply showing up. It is rather like having hot rocks
stacked up in your urethra. But the greatest pain to any American male of
any culture in the hemisphere is a little condition I made up called
Peyronie's disease, commonly known as twisted dick.
> Peyronie's was catalyzed by my uncontrollable lust for revenge on Old
Man, and inspired by my beloved Spanish moss. It starts as cute little
accretions of plaque inside the penis' erectile tissue, and grows over
time, never experienced by the host as anything but pleasant extra
membrane, a nice warm layer against the weather, putting a little more
strength in his member. Until one night he goes to bed with a straight
prick and the next morning he wakes up with a knotted, twisting, throbbing,
writhing grapevine for a root, which causes him to rise screaming in pain.
> Why not? I thought one day while I watched Old Man pranking with a
virgin Hoopa girl. He was floating downstream disguised as a pine needle,
and she was washing acorns in the dark green Klamath River. Under the
enormous redwoods and cedars and Douglas fir that line the Klamath Canyon,
he swam down a riffle into her vagina, got past her fairly large cervical
os, stuck on an ovum and made her pregnant. While he squirmed through her
os I heard him giggling with glee across the canyon, where I watched on
Requa's grass hilltop, yowling my bitter protest.
> "May your dick be twisted as a madrone root," I howled. He only laughed
from inside her womb. In impotent rage I dug in the soft dirt, thrashing
away wild strawberry, crowberry, bunch grass. I smelled a root and pulled
and tugged with all my might, biting it til its fluids oozed out.
> "May your penis be as this spruce root," I cried.
> But the curse alone is never enough to effect anything. I sniffed the
air, smelled him unite with her and settle into the lining of her uterus,
and I threw back my head, lamenting and yapping. He turned his back to me
in her belly and went to sleep.
> I loped away then, and never stopped running until I came to Walker
Creek, all the way down in Sonoma County. There I rested, my feet bloody,
and drank for a while, and then I sank to my belly in the water. "Kill
me," I said looking up to the Great Spirit, but before Grandfather could
hear me I caught sight of the Spanish moss hanging from a coast live oak,
and my heart smiled.
> "That's how," I said.
> I rose and jumped high into the air, and snapped down some Spanish moss.
"Little ones," I told the lichens, "listen to me now. You will just be
going in this creek, downstream, and then out to the ocean. There you will
go north to Klamath River, and when you see the pregnant girl without a
husband crying in the water, you will enter her womb and go and live in the
scrotom of the boy baby she carries. Then you will grow in a new and
different way."
> "But will it be delightful?" the parasite's pores asked.
> "Do not quaver," I reassured them. "It will be a life for you full of
delights. I know this baby boy, and he will begin to give you greater
earthly pleasure than you have ever known, even before he is out of the womb."
> With that I dropped them in Walker Creek and away they went downstream, a
grey-green fishnet stocking on the current.
> I lay there for some days, recovering my strength and concentrating on my
faraway vision of Old Man. I tuned my attention to him, kicking in her
belly. I felt her sorrow when she was cast out of the house she had shamed
and her cold when she went to live at the edge of the village in a fireless
shack. And finally I felt my husband shrink from the cold water in which
she was bathing, and I talked to the lichens, urging them on, and when they
were in her, and then in him, I spoke to him with my longest reaching dream.
> "You will just be waking up every day with an erection," I said. "May
you have many erections, all of them painful."
> The babe squirmed in her uterus but it was too late. The lichen spores
were in him, and he was in her, fated to be born a bastard Hoopa boy, with
no name, no house, and no honor.
> "You think you will be a great hunter, a great warrior," I told him.
"You will be. I will watch over you, and follow your career every day."
He tried to cover his proto-ears but the curse was already in his mind.
> Old Man grew up to be one of the Hoopas' greatest heroes. He saw through
bad medicine men's disguises and saved the Hoopas from raiding Russians and
invading Aleuts. But he founded no house, and could never bear children. I
made sure of that. After I struck, his wives deserted him and he lost his
fortune to the doctors who could not cure him of the horrible curse that
descended upon him one day, just as the sun was rising.
> He was just getting ready to mount his second wife, who was ovulating and
prime for pregnancy. I was sitting under a Sonoma County coast live oak
tree when I saw him from my trance. I jumped up and snapped down the
lichens from the tree, and held one end of the skein under my right foot
and twisted them in my teeth the way you'd wring out a washrag.
> His screams woke the whole camp. Peyronie's disease is excrutiating.
The agony is in precise inverse proportion to the amount of pleasure I have
received from all the suckling of all the babies and all the trust he ever
made in me. His bed mate jumped up and ran howling from the house, afraid
a Bukwus had gotten her husband. She ran to her auntie, who ran to the
doctor woman, who ran to the house.
> Old Man was writhing by the door, holding on to the cedar totem pole,
clutching at the carving of his personal kindred spirit, the Raven. The
doctor observed his condition and she immediately tied him to the house
master post with a cedar fiber rope. His best friend was impressed into
service, and tied Coyote to his canoe. Still he howled at the horror and
groaned over his groin.
> All the doctors between the Klamath and the Trinity River tried to cure
him, but it was no use. Finally they got bored with his noise and his
incurability, and one morning Auntie Flounder cut his bonds and he ran off
into the Marble Mountains screaming, and never returned.
> Every succeeding lifetime he has been born with the same condition,
because I have never called the lichens out of him, and he still doesn't
know until the moment it hits him whether he will have it this lifetime or
not, and whether I will care enough at any moment to watch him and twist
the lichens.
> He could have his penis surgically straightened, as he can afford it, he
and his millions. But he won't. The consequences of the surgery are
lifelong impotence and a shorter joint. Now here is the sweetest part of
my revenge. That condition that I, Doctor Coyote, wished on him, which
Doctor Peyronie, a white man of European descent, discovered and named for
himself, of all the peculiar appetites, that contortion would go away all
by itself if Old Man Coyote would just let it alone. All he's got to do is
not think about it, and it will go away.
> It is not a cancer. There are no squamous cells bloating and shining to
warn an observer that the slide under the microscope's lens contains lethal
seeds. There is no bacteria, no virus invading his body, nor is there any
diseased tissue in his penis. There is nothing but a twisting constriction
of some plaque, the same stuff that gets between your teeth. If Old Man
Coyote didn't believe in the pain's power, my ability to cause it, and all
the rest of his idiotic magical thinking, I could twist the lichens til
blood ran out of my breasts and it would have no effect on him. He need
only relax, not think about it, and the constriction will run out of energy
and loosen.
> But try to tell a man not to worry about his pecker. Old Man Coyote has
spent every day of the last 400 years trying to cure his cock, and every
night of these same four centuries caught between rage and despair. This
alone causes me to laugh every day.
> Usually I am hearbroken rather than amused at my people's magical
thinking. I'll tell you what I mean. A woman leaves a drum propped up on
a stick outside the sweat lodge, and the west wind comes up and blows the
drum into the fire. If she is rational, she says "The wind blew the drum
into the fire. I was careless of the direction of the wind when I propped
that drum up on its beater that way." But if she is a magical thinker, she
says "The drum jumped into the fire." And all the women around her agree
with her iteration, that the drum jumped into the fire. Believing the
words, they then believe the concept, which of course is backward.
> That's what's wrong with believing everything is alive. Everything is
alive, but not everything alive has will. In fact, very few people have
will, let alone drums. The average salmon running upstream to spawn and
die has more intent and vision than the average American worker. I have
thought about this for ten centuries, and I know no other explanation for
the mindless style in which most people live.
> Well, but that is an ignorant pre-technological savage's thinking, you
are just saying to yourself. But in the latter part of the 20th century at
Johns Hopkins University a brilliant researcher named Dan Cohen was
studying the behavior of E. coli, the wholesome human intestinal symbiote
which occasionally migrates to the host's bladder, where it does terrible
harm and causes severe pain. After several months of tracking E. coli
migrations, observing the causes of their happiness and their distress,
offering them different growth nutrients on different petri dishes,
presenting them with different enemy bacilli, making minute observations of
their behavior, taking detailed notes, and doing much midnight thinking,
one night he threw up his hands and declared "It's all random! E. coli
move because they want to."
> There is no observable reason for E. coli to leave their happy homes and
jobs in the human intestinal tract and move en masse to the bladder,
urethra, kidney, or anywhere else. They just want to.
>I had nothing to do with it.
> What then is the sane human to do? You can live by the Rosicrucian
admonition to consider each event that happens to you an emanation of God
to your soul. But you'd have to be conscious of the dual nature of
reality. There's the incorporeal benevolent spirit world which, like an
economist down a well assuming a ladder, you can assume to exist, your own
personal and unique cheering section created at birth for each sentient
being. Then there's getting up, going to work, taking foolish orders,
forecasting the market, driving in traffic, and generally filling 80 per
cent of your waking hours with aggravation.
> That's an emanation of God to your soul, all right. It tells you to do
something different, something that doesn't irk you so much. But you're
trapped by your limitations and responsibilities, those subglobose weights
depending from your heart. Human life is conditioned and unfree. What are
you going to do? Ask Dr. Coyote.Where is the joy in writing this? My
heart is sinking. I wish I were feeling happy, alive and free, and that I
had the marks of wisdom all over me. It's all I can do to lift my hands
and type. Why bother? What's the matter with me? I am bored and no
longer even restless. Let me have a dream.
> I shut my eyes, try to meditate. Hard to do with computer screen
afterimage, fan's cycle setting up distracting rhythm. What do I love well
enough, to write about in depth, to study and articulate in enormous
lifelike detail? what in the world makes me happy? Being in a
semi-meditative state, not by effort but by it's spontaneously occuring -
which proves it is a part of my nature. Are all adult humans simply trying
to recognize the observant, harmless self they were as children, so that
they can be reassured they are still who they were? Without it, they can't
go on?
> I have an office on Cascade Drive in Fairfax. It's in the last house on
the road. My study door opens onto a hundred foot long deck, and beyond
the deck is a thick screen of ash trees, rose bushes, rosemary, peach,
apple, iris, and oleander. Beyond that is a typical California inland
stream, dry from May to November, a flood from November to March. Beyond
that is my garden, and just past that is fifteen hundred acres of trees,
brush, woodland, sagebrush, scorpions, rattlesnakes and chamiso.
> Yesterday morning, a client came to me whose problem seemed enormous to
him. That hubris, lack of perspective, always tests my patience. I want
to tell him "You think you have problems? Women working a twelve-hour day
at an after-tax return of five dollars an hour to keep their kid in day
care have problems. Not you."
> He sat down in the gold teak Danish chair with the orange Navajo blanket
on it and threw the black cat and the purple pillow on the floor. I sat at
my desk and looked at him curiously. I give good listen, I am told. My
gold-brown eyes widen and my face stills. I take you all in, without
appearing to judge.
> "The voters of San Francisco are unwilling to approve my stadium bond
measures," he said. "Women voters in particular are against it. I need to
turn them around."
> Eddie De Bartolo is a Cleveland, Ohio hood the local Mafia called in to
run the `49ers when it was thought that handing the team over to Joe Alioto
would look a little too arrogant. In the arrogance contest Eddie makes Joe
look like a humble man. Eddie thinks the people of San Francisco should
loan him the money - and how they get repaid is not stated - to build a new
stadium because as he told the Chronicle this morning, "I deserve it."
> I thought back. Eddie tried to screw the Indians of California not long
ago. Vengeance is mine, I said to myself, thank you Great Spirit.
> "You know," I told him, "your situation is reminescent of that of a -
someone I used to know."
> I thought back to the Old Time. Old Man Coyote was going over the grass
when he met a girl out alone. "Hello, pretty little girl," he said.
"Where are you going?" She was too well-bred to answer him, though, and
kept walking.
> Old Man Coyote's ego instantly jumped to the fore and knocked his common
sense away. He started following her, dogging her, to try to make her talk.
> "You going North?" She said nothing. "You going South?" he trotted
along behind her but she put her head down and kept going about her
business. "You going West?" She did not speak. He ran up ahead of her,
turned around, and blocked her path. "Maybe you're just on your way to my
house," he said, putting his arm around her.
> "I am not," she said, and tried to dodge him, but he curled his tail
around her and she was swept into it.
> Satisfied that his will had prevailed, Coyote trotted along and forgot
all about her. But the girl he had picked up was actually Louse. Pretty
soon his tail commenced to itch.
> He wagged his tail against a tree, but it still itched. He dragged his
tail along the ground and it still itched. He jumped in the Bay and swam
around, but when he got back on solid ground his tail itched worse than
ever.
> "I'll fix you," he said and he laid his tail on a log, got a rock and
pounded his tail off.
> When he recovered, he got up and trotted away but he hadnt gone but a few
yards when his left hind foot commenced to itch. He stopped and chewed on
it, the hairy space between the pads, but it still itched and now it burned
like fire too. Shrieking in rage he stuck his foot between two rocks and
beat on it with a stick until it came off.
> Limping along, without a tail for balance, his head started itching.
Undaunted, he knocked it off his body, and it rolled downhill into a town.
The head began to yell and demand attention.
> The People came out to see the talking head.
> "Bring me all your beads and all your money," the head demanded. So the
people went off to their houses and returned with all their beads and
money. It was a big pile.
> "Now leave it here for awhile," the head ordered them. "I will be right
back."
> The head rolled out of the town, and hurrying to the place where it had
hacked itself from its neck, it reattached itself to its body. Then Coyote
limped back unbalanced, dragging his crazy ass to the town.
> "Boys," he told some of the town head men when he got there, "bring me a
blanket for carrying off all this booty."
> "Well," the chief told him, "there's one over there, outside, down by the
water."
> Coyote went looking for it, but when he got back, the people had taken
all their beads and money and gone home. Coyote was left going around town
as usual, begging for food, with an itchy head, an itchy foot, and a lousy
tail.
> "So that means you've got a precedent?" Eddie demanded. He looked around
for an ashtray and seeing none put his cigar back in his pocket.
> "I think so. I might first propose that you rethink the question of the
women's vote."
> "I was told you were a fixer. I come here because they say you can pick
up the phone, get the job done."
> "A client, even a busy man such as yourself, needs to know what he's
getting. Yes?"
> He fidgeted. "Yeah, sure, alright, whaddya got? I frankly haven't got
all day, you know."
> "Of course you haven't. You also haven't got the women's vote, and if
you get it there'll be a price attached. It's not necessarily one you want
to pay because the feminist lobby in San Francisco once they've got an
entree to you will never let go. It is much the same as having a very
persistent case of lice."
> He laughed uproariously.
> "I can see you aint no feminist," he shouted. "That's pretty good, that."
> "Yes," I smiled, feeling my fangs growing longer in my face.
>
>
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Tsonkwadiyonrat (We are ONE Spirit)
Unenh onhwa' Awayaton
http://www.tdi.net/ishgooda/
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