Hiatus nearly over at BingoRage headquarters

Sorry folks. I have been a bad, bad bloggist since hunting season started...
then passed... then the holidays.

Merry middle-eastern deathcult messiahhood, happy solstice, etc. Will have new updates soon.

:Eric

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New canvas, with chalk sketch.

First grouse of season.

I sent the following message to my MP (NDP), about the provincial push to create a "harmonised sales tax" in Ontario. The federal NDP and Liberals do not suport the HST proposal, and the Conservatives are distancing themselves from it.

"One ramification of the HST debate that I have not heard elsewhere: Treaty rights. Currently, Ontario status Natives are not required to pay PST; but if taxes are "harmonised", then will First Nations consumers be forced to save receipts and seek reimbursement? Much of this spending will go unreimbursed and allow fed. and prov. government to avoid another treaty obligation."

Please click ``Read More`` for full post, from index page.

CutFoot Dances On

"Cut Foot Dances With A Beast"
- continued











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The old fire watch tower has been removed from its concrete pad at Pither's Point Park. This would make a great site for a sculptural installation; dontcha think?



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Another Native blog. This one belongs to CBC Manitoba reporter, Waubgeshig Rice.

My Bud, Ryan McMahon has been plenty busy. He's trying to get a sitcom, shot locally.

"... McMahon felt his proposed sitcom, currently with the working title, “Don’t Call Me Chief,” is something that could replace “Trailer Park Boys” on the Showcase network since that series will be going off the air.
“What we’re saying is that we got the thing,” he remarked. “It’s Canadian, it’s funny, it’s from an aboriginal perspective. But anybody in Canada can relate to these things, especially in a small town.
“For example, the idea of going to get groceries at the bait and tackle shop because that’s what some people do.”
McMahon even has some well-known actors associated with the project so far, such as Scott Thompson from “Kids in the Hall,” who would play the mayor of the small town..."

First Nation artist carves special healing pole.

Cool beaded hand sculptural project.

Check out the great photography of Nadya Kwandibens, from up in my neck of the woods.

Interesting artwork, Northwest coast designs, custom applied to new shoes. 8'th Generation.

Call for submission: 4-minute films about Native American Veterans. For NMAI, Smithsonian. October 18, '09, deadline.

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Tags: CutFoot Dances With A Beast, acrylic painting, Pithers Point Park, Ryan McMahon, Nadya Kwandibens, eigth generation shoes, Waubgeshig Rice, Canadian blog, First Nation, Native blog,Bingorage, Broken Vulture Art, blog,pics

CutFoot Dances With A Beast

Find Maisy and Shannon. Please take a look.

My bud, Ryan's immortal curmudgeon, Clarence Two Toes.

Inspiring Native author, Sherman Alexie, coming out with new collection of stories; WarDances.



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CutFoot Dances With A Beast

Creating the Background, July.





Yay! Throwing paint makes me happy.



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Interlude.

Adding human and "beast" elements to composition, September.



Pencil added. Beast acquires tail tuft.



A magic wind, added; in the Beast's wake.



Dude reacquires jaw... and a moon.



Looking kinda Elfen, or Vulcan.



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Moozo (Ahnishnahbeh, Algonkian]. Biggun. An "old one". Pic forwarded to me in email; Northeastern Ontario. [East of here, anyway.]






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Another awesome talk from the TED conference, about the emerging science of cymatics (visualisation of sound).



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President Obama presents 16 with Presidential Medal of Freedom, including Joe Medicine Crow.

Monument memorialises signing of Treaty 8, Sucker Creek First Nation, Alberta.

Rick Bartow, show; Snake Dance, Sept. 3rd – Sept. 26th, Froelick Gallery, Portland, OR.

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Tags: acrylic painting, CutFoot Dances With A Beast, native art, Ojibway art, dance, beast, pencil on canvas, moose, moozo, Clarence Two Toes, Canadian blog, First Nation, Native blog,Bingorage, Broken Vulture Art, blog,pics

First taste of Autumn linkypost

Local peace activeist Gene Stoltzfus with some thoughts on low-level racism ("Our Way of Life") in the Northern Ontario hinterlands. (@ Gene Stoltzfus website, PeaceProbe.)

"... in the late 50s as a student at Eastern Mennonite University (Virginia) I wrote and delivered a speech for an oratorical contest condemning segregation and racist thinking... After the speech a few people came to me to suggest that I may have stepped over the line and some people were offended by my speech. It was all very polite. Nothing like the doomsday, “Our Way of Life” protests I felt in Alberton last week..."

Ontario Aboriginal Housing Services launches FIMUR; Assisted Home Ownership Program.

Stephen Harper and Conservative governmentthreaten popular tax credit. This craven act extorts MP's to not vote against confidence vote and out-of-pocket Canadians to lobby against killing bill.

FBI investigating ads offering Maine Indian scalps.

"... The seller offered six scalps and related artifacts from a private family collection said to have been obtained by bounty hunters in the 1700s. Back then, bounties were offered for Penobscot Indians or for their scalps, Francis said. One proclamation, dated 1755, offered 50 pounds in British currency for every male Penobscot above the age of 12 and 40 pounds for their scalps... A 1990 federal law makes it illegal for museums to have Native American remains and requires institutions to return remains to their rightful tribes, said Jason Brown, spokesman at Bar Harbor's Abbe Museum, which is devoted to Maine's Native American heritage..."

Alberta, Shell try to quash aboriginal challenge to oilsands leases.

Canada's Sickest Lake. (Macleans.ca)

"... The putrid green mat, twice the size of P.E.I. and clearly visible from space, is jaw-dropping evidence of an ecosystem in deep trouble. Already, Lake Winnipeg, the world’s tenth-biggest lake, is in worse shape than notorious Lake Erie..."

57 Years Of Silence (WinnipegFreePress.com)

"... Only three years ago they found out their loved ones were buried in a mass, unmarked grave at the reserve, ending 57 years of mystery surrounding the crash there. Now, they've been given the answer -- or likely the closest thing to it -- to the mystery behind that decision, some explanation for why the bodies of the seven Inuit were treated differently than the 13 others, all white, all from Southern Canada, and taken with care and respect south to Winnipeg, then transported across the country to the hometowns for burial..."

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New York Times editorial, Waiting For Crazy Horse.


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RebellionJohn Horse and the Black Seminoles, The First Blacks to beat American Slavery.

Design a T-shirt for a chance at $2500.00; Threadless Tees.

Interview with Ojibway artist Christian Chapman, at Wawatay News.

Native artists to discuss identity issues Sept. 11 at Fred Jones museum; Norman, Oklahoma.

"Eight Native Oklahoman artists are gathering for a public panel discussion about survival strategies and identity issues during a special event at the Fred Jones Jr. Museum of Art Friday, Sept. 11. At 10 a.m., the artists will begin a session titled "Art as Identity: The Operative Principles of Affirmation, Accommodation and Appropriation in the Native American Artistic Pursuit of Self."

First Nation's retreat offers authenticity, elegance. (TheStar.com)

How to Make Your Own Peyote Stitch Toggle Clasp (About.com)

Canada Council award nets Regina gallery new art (CBC.ca)

"... MacKenzie officials chose to add six of the 11 pieces from Cuthand's "hauntingly beautiful" Trading series to its holdings. The series explores the goods and diseases that European traders introduced to the Americas. Individual pieces show the diseases — as seen under a microscope — rendered in intricate beadwork..."

Tusaalanga

"... is a dynamic website that brings Inuktitut learning to the world wide web. It was created by the Pirurvik Centre, an Iqaluit-based company dedicated to enhancing Inuit language, culture and well-being."

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Tags: Gene Stoltzfus, Peace Probe, Crazy Horse memorial, Tusaalanga, home renovation tax credit, scalps, Lake Winnipeg, oilsands, Canadian blog, First Nation, Native blog,Bingorage, Broken Vulture Art, blog,pics

Labor Day Night Late-Next-Morning post.

My bud, Ryan has been on a creative tear, lately!!!!
Check him out at ryanmcmahoncomedy.com. I think that his URL has finally settled down. Make sure to check out the Clarence Two Toes podcasts.

Check out the first installment of his improv vidcast, "Letters To My Daughters"...
Boys Suck.



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The YellowFace portrait's evolution

This canvas has beeen around for a couple months. I have posted about it, previously, but when my main image-hoster went "tits up in the Wabigoon", I decided to repost the whole process. The "current incarnation" picture at the end of this history, is not the final composition. I think that there will be beadwork, and more paint, added.

At first, I duct-taped the canvas to the wall, in order to paint it brown (red ochre). The tape failed and the canvas fell.



I took that canvas and stretched it onto my usual 1"x4" boxframe.





My first pass, was with an "Autumn Gold" type yellow.





Adding ear, teeth and white to the composition.



Ominous black stuff emanating from mouth.









Blue reflection stuff.



Bye-bye, ominous black emanations from mouth.



Bybye, ominous far side of head stuff.



Current incarnation. Sharpie outlining added. Beadwork and other stuff contemplated.



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Tags: acrylic painting, canvas, labour day, labor day, portrait, Ryan Mcmahon, Clarence Two Toes, Canadian blog, First Nation, Native blog,Bingorage, Broken Vulture Art, blog,pics

Leech Water story, continued.

This posting contains adult words and situations. It and the previous posting are the latest addition to my online short story collection, The Shitbag Opera. Visit, forewarned.

Cab Ride

I convinced Jesus to get rid of the leeches along the way. Actually; he "released them into the wild".

It is arguable that being released into a ditch that is only, theoretically, connected to a lake, isn't really "freeing the leeches". Especially from the leeches point of view. The chances of said leeches navigating far enough "downstream" in a sluggish current that zigzags a maze of culverts, weedy ditches and gravelly washes, that alternately run dry and flooded, before Autumn freezes them all solid and denies said leeches the luxury of hibernating in the mud or migrating to Miami for the winter, is remote. However... it has been a wet summer.

I decided to call Brian along the way, having decided that the risk of being publicly connected to Jesus at the 7-11 was higher than someone finding and connecting a call from my disposable cellphone. He agreed to meet us on the meandering riverside boulevard that ran from mansions to shitholes, as we traveled upstream, towards downtown. By day, it is home to nubile joggers in lycra sportsbras and retirees with toy dachshunds. By night, it's a cruise for junkies, cops-on-administrative-punishment, bull fags, teen shitbags and the clinically depressed. Dirty Jesus' wild stares and twitches stood out, even amongst this stew of perverts and nobody bothered us.

I like to presume that my own appearance did not contribute, much, to our pariah status. But, I imagine that I looked like some fallen, second-rate housepainter, out to score something cheap.

Brian rolled up on us, while we were perusing a beaver carcass, in the middle of the road. There aren't many beavers in the city. Not as far as I could tell, anyways. It stood out at a distance, and got stranger as we approached. DJ was totally freaked, never having seen a beaver, in person, before. The strangeness, for me, was seeing beaver out of context. There was little for it to eat, here, and no hope of damming the Mississippi River. The taxis driver-side window rolled down with a low electric hiss.

"Beaver out of context.", I said.

"Would you fuckers stop staring at the pizza and get in before the cops drift by?"

I count on Brian to provide rationality, in odd circumstance. We got in.

---

I had explained to Brian, on the phone, my desire to make it 'fucking impossible' for DJ to find his way back to my cousin's place, so we took the scenic route out of town. The cab slid like magic, between cop cars, crackheads and certain jailtime. I handed the mace over to Brian and it went straight into his utility bag.

"So... What the fuck have you dumbshits been up to?"

"Not much... Dirty Jesus, here, has been playing at public indecency, though. Theft and aggravated assault, too, with one of my bouncer tools. Nasty shit."

"Nice."

Dirty Jesus had taken the wise course of shutting the fuck up and not pissing anybody off, for now. I laid the whole story on Brian and he laughed his ass off.

"Jesus?"

"Yes, Brian?"

"Did anybody ever tell you that you are one weird puppy?"

"Well... all the time."

The dry, innocent way that he spoke, reduced us to tears of laughter. Dirty Jesus smiled and observed the circus, out the window. We watched the partygirls, homeboys, punks, skank tourists, whores and junkies partying in the alleys, the riverbanks, the back ways, cheap apartment-building porches, vacant lots and empty warehouses as we took the long way, out of the city.

---

"Okay, Jésus. It's time for you to earn Sanctuary.", says Brian. He's in cruise control, flying down some unlit backcountry road, cab-spidey sense doping out deer, drunk and raccoon around blind corners. "Give me the good word, Preach."

Dirty Jesus exhaled, eyes closed. He inhaled slowly, held it... and began to speak:

"Rose woke up in the bushes, covered in moonlight and bile... piss and dew. Her pains had faded to the low thump of fresh charley-horse. She was alone under the stars, but she was alive. She screamed at the stars until they shook and disappeared from her sight. They fled to the underworld, sought the forges of the Earth and quaked under Vulcan's cloak. She turned and walked into the city, void and vaccuum in her stare. Animals cowered. People ran, screaming, in their sudden nightmares. Streetlights winked out in her bow wave and Rush Limbaugh fondled himself as he waltzed the dragon, dreaming of liberal cities falling to the torch.

Concrete cracked and heaved under her broken heels. Lightning gathered in her face as she approached the strip. Ten thousand years endurance of patriarchy and posture blossomed in her gaze, unfurled and unmade the bars, the dance clubs, the yuppie cafes and university hangouts. Stadium seated micro-megaplex cinemas, dark and private texmex-brand shitholes, neglected public parks, sticky college dorms, alley and penthouse. All were swept away and made clean.

The places where old school motherfuckers made their old white man plans, ghetto dives where shiny black men shook on schemes and pipedreams, cedar bushes where sober old Indians quake in the presence of young drunks and paint-huffers, fancy oxygen-cafes where the triads carve up the boat people; all were swept away and made clean.

She would cleanse this place.

Everywhere Rose strode, she spat and it turned to plague and corruption that turned into Minnesota politics. She shat on a giant church and it grew. She pissed on the new library and it turned into a Walmart. She dripped blood as she walked and the drops became parking meters and pay-toilets. When she finally stopped, it all grew back before her eyes. It flourished in her goddamn cess and hate; as she stood there for sixtyty years, watching... astonished. In silence, she became as stone. One day, some fucking artist stuck a pipe up her ass and water now squirts out her nose inna a pool with those big colourful fish... Poi. That's what I know."

"Amen, brother. You're paid up." He rolled his eyes at me, then said "You, however, are racking up the points!" Brian punctuated this, with his best Brad Pitt head shake and eyeroll. "... Yeah."

One hundred and forty-eight minutes later, we rolled to a stop at my cousin's place. If I had driven there, myself, it would have taken under an hour. I am fairly sure that DJ would not be able to find his way back, in any daytime.

Do not put your dingleberries, down, there.

The cab rolled to a stop, 50 feet from the end of the road. The reason for stopping short, has a sincere look of finality. A gaping trench across the road, gravel berm on the other side and a tiny hand-lettered sign, strongly affixed to a huge, tarry, heartwood-cut creosote timber.

Brian sat on the hood of his taxi, smoking a cigarette, trying not to get worked-up. He had made the mistake of walking up to the sign to read it, even though I warned him not to do so.

The sign is written in a bold, black ink script. Probably written with a broad tip fountain pen. It appears to be penned on whitened parchment; dried, scraped, stretched and limed animal skin, species unknown. More than rawhide, less than leather. It is set in a waterproof shadow box, fronted by heavy glass; only a foot, square. It was the scariest document that I had ever read, up to that point.

I made the mistake of having first read it, in the wrong context. This, too, was the wrong context for Brian; arriving late at night, without invitation and a good pre-explanation of the sign. He knew, as well, that there was something "not quite right" about my cousin, Billy. Don't get me wrong. Billy's not psycho, or anything, like that. He's just very different than most people that you're ever likely to meet.

The sign is hard to read, especially to those who are not familiar with the cool medium of manuscript. It brings you into the intent of the scribe, in a way that is missing from the uniformity of typeface.

To whom it May Concern;

You are now 50 metres inside of my private property. If you go back to the large pine stump, you will see the clearly posted "no-trespassing" sign. I have many legally-owned firearms that are properly secured against theft, but easily accessible to me. I can see you from my position. I know that you are there. You left the safety of your pretty vehicle to read this sign; I know the yardage. There's never enough meat in my smoker.

: Landowner

When Brian returned to the car and took out his cigarettes. He wasn't shaking, but I could tell that he was concerned. I had tried to warn him.

"What the fuck have you gotten us into, Aaron?"

"It's not as bad as it looks... My cousin's a fucking genius. That sign can put the love of Jesus in somebody's heart, like nothing I ever saw. That's true. It's just a flaming piece of psychological art, though."

"Psycho art... I don't think genius is the word for it."

"Billy knows the local cops and game wardens. They drink beer and paw strippers, together. Any hunter or hippy that reads that sign, freaks out and goes to the local authorities is liable to get laughed-at and a trespassing citation."

"You're going to leave Dirty Jesus with poker-playing, swamp-billy cops?"

There's no way the cops will come out here. They're great friends with Billy... when he's in town. They can't sleep ten yards from a shower, microwave and espresso machine. They hate it, out here.

"They're yuppies, not cannibal hillbillies."

"What about the game warden?"

"He only shows up at deer season to make sure that Citizen Willam, here, doesn't have half a dozen deer hanging, within sight of the road. Billy likes to put his first kill up in that tree, skinned, if the weather's cold enough. Really wows the yokels, but the warden makes sure that it doesn't look like House of a Thousand Corpses, up here."




"I nearly crapped myself, when I got to the end of that letter. The whole woods-at-night, NRA nutcase and mutant-hillbilly atmosphere."

"Marshall McLuhan is smiling on your ass. Just imagine what your reaction would be, if your runnathemill quarterback and head cheerleader get lost, looking for the beach and read that sign; all the while their SUV is sucking up a litre per minute under a cloudy quarter-moon, they can't get email or Oprah on their crackberrys and it looks impossible to put their hummer inna three-point turn, right here. They're shittin' goldbrick, I guarantee.... They go away and they don't come back."

"I imagine that none of their friends ever come back."

Once, somebody had come back, while I was here. What a clusterfuck that night had become.

"Don't worry about it. Nobody up here knows us, nobody is gonna come here looking for Jesus, nobody knows that we're here... and, you don't have to stay."

"I think that it's noble. You feel like babysitting the Jesus, like the worst Mother Theresa impersonator, ever."

"Fuck you."

"Nobody, except your cousin."

"What?"

"Nobody... knows that we are here... but your cousin, right?"

"Yeah, sure."

I sure hope so, that is. He hadn't answered his phone, but, I know that he screens every call and listens to every phone message. Religiously, like.

"I mean... I'm pretty sure, he knows we're here." I was staring at a wobbling reflection, off to the side of direct headlight beams. "... That would be best." I was fairly certain that the wobbling reflection, was the worn, blued-steel barrel of a pump-slug shotgun.

"Fuckin' great"

"Whatever you do, don't make any sudden movements. 'kay?"

"Shit... yeah"

I could count on Brian to be cool, but Dirty Jesus was trembling in the back seat of the car, as per my orders. I knew, that the sudden appearance of a gun-toting anybody would send him into a paroxysm of twitches and tweaker babble that could cause a shitstorm of bad craziness.

"Brian?"

"Yeah?"

"Go sit with Jesus and hold his hand for a minute, would ya?"

"Ah. You gotta be fucking kidding me..."

"No."

"He stinks like crazy and nobody's ever seen him wash his hands."

"Buy me a minute."

"This is going to cost you."

"I know"

"Big."

"I know."

Brian deliberately got up and slid in next to Dirty Jesus, on my side of the car. He slowly, but firmly closed the door. I turned towards the welcome party and called out my cousin's name, then mine. I mentioned that I had a couple guests.

There was an immediate and sharp click of metal, a familiar whistle, then the jarring clack of a shell being cycled out. If I knew Billy, he probably turned the shotgun sideways and tried to catch it in his pocket.

"It's okay, guys. Get out of the car, already."

A strong flashlight beam cut through the trees, as he approached. More for our benefit and peace of mind, than his.

"Boys. This is my cousin, William the BatShatner."

"Nice handle, pops." says Brian."There must be some sort of story to it."

"Yah...", Billy says, "but let's get your car parked and get you guys inside and comfortable. Then we can talk." He looked a little sideways at Jesus, but got down to business.

We'd dragged out some timbers with a "come-along" system that Billy'd barrel-stashed in the bush and drove the taxi across the side-ditch. A big green canvas tarp, a few bushes and it disappeared. There was one way to get over the berm, few roadbound vehicles could manage it. No visitors were expected and I'd only ever seen Billy's jeep crawl over the barricade.

When my cousin was satisfied, he turned towards the house and told us to follow in his footsteps.

---

Brian, Billy and I sat at the kitchen table, drinking scotch like gentlemen and swearing like sailors... keeping just north of piratry.

Billy's telling a little post-bowl fairytale, about when were little. "So, I tells Aaron...'I made you a birthday present.' He says,"Where is it? 'It's hidden, I says.' I says."

Brian's grinning, loving the scotch and the talk.

"Billy.", I says. "It really does seem to get funnier, as I get older. Just not at the time."

"It was the greatest fucking prank of my childhood, cuz. It's just too bad for you, that it worked so good."

"Yeah, no shit. There are still people in that town that think I'm Michael Meyers or the Antichrist."

Brian blows scotch through his nose, laughing. We howl with laughter, like we just invented it.

After we get Brian cleaned up and pointed at his digs for the night, we all go out to smoke on the porch, next to the Jesus. We're not worried about waking him. He chose the blue pill... and is sleeping off a six-day jag. He'll be comfortable out here, and we won't have to deal with his ass, until tomorrow night. At the earliest. We leave a big bottle of water by his head and sit with a different, better scotch and Billy's good cigars. The night is clear and warm and Billy's got great mosquito screens. Everything's good and humane, in the night. Brian looked better than I've ever seen him... and I probably did, too.

Billy takes half an hour to tell Brian a story that should have taken 90 seconds:
He goatse'ed my computer video for my science fair entry, randomly inserting the goatse pic and speed metal background. He had volunteered to help me set up at the science fair, the day after the promised birthday present. He left the video running, in what I thought had been a single looped copy, but was actually a huge file, of dozens of copies of my video clip. The goatses and speedmetal only appeared in the final five clips, but with increasing tempo until it ended in a single, screaming goatse image that refused to go away.

He had locked me out of my own computer, somehow and I could not turn it off. A teacher came to her senses and unplugged the whole schlemiel. Up until that point in my life, I was unaware that I possessed schlemiel. The next six hours of my life became defining schlemiel. [Weird linkage, here.]

Brian stayed the night and promised to come back, fishing, sometime. He called our business settled and told me to look him up for some work when I got back. Billy must have made quite an impression on him.

---

"Don't leave your dingleberries in my chair, all night. The end bedroom's made up and I opened the heat vents in there, so use it."

"Thanks a million, Shitbag." We both smiled the fleeting smile of free and innocent men. "I'll probably get there, shortly, but I'm going to sit here, watch the deer and work this bottle for awhile... Beside... you know that I love to sleep out here."

"I know.. there's blankets in that chest...."

" 'Night."

"Gooo -nite."

Brian had taken the small cabin across the yard. It is tiny, but clean, warm and comfy. He'll be leaving in the morning, but I have decided to stay for a while. I think that it's time to reacquaint myself with the good folks of Bog River, MN.

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Tags: leeches, beaver, sanctuary, short story, fiction, trespass, Scotch whiskey, Minnesota,Native art, Canadian blog, First Nation, Native blog,Bingorage, Broken Vulture Art, blog,pics

Post-zoto? linky post

It seems like the team at Zoto have been moved to act. According to their temporary support page, they had a big hardware crash, but all is not lost:"

Last Wednesday we lost two drives out of our RAID controller on our NAS that houses all the photos on the system. This is typically a "VERY BAD THING"... I'm working on restoring the service on Amazon's services. I started moving photos and code over a few months ago, and we have about 80% of the photos backed up on Amazon's S3 storage service. Given I don't run into any boogers, I should have the service back up by this weekend, less about 20% of everyone's photos, and 100% of any photos uploaded in the last month..."

So, while current and archived blog photos hosted by Zoto are completely fracked at the moment, they may return. That would be less than catastrophic, while things recently looked apocalyptic. I guess that they do not suck so much, anymore, there. Maybe.

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Scientists determine that ancient Maya practiced forest conservation -- 3,000 years ago(FossilScience.com)

New and reduced honouring of the Jay Treaty, by USA. Sure to change again and repeatedly.

Make your voice heard, Canadians! Check out the Canadian copyright consultation website and give your opinion.deadline: September 13, 2009.

What every American should be made to learn about the IG Torture Report [+and Canadians]. What a little drowning, smoke, threats of rape and torture unto death between ideological opponents?

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Stolen Native Art alert! Tony Hunt "Raven".



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Nenana artist grapples with ethnic identity. (Anchorage Daily News)

"In an artist's statement, Lord says that with the "Un/Defined Self-Portrait" series, "I attempt to challenge viewers' perceptions of what 'Native' looks like as well as demonstrate the flexible or shifting space I identify with as a mixed-race Alaska Native."

Good article about the disappearing art of "birchbark biting".

Native Art blog, Erik Wilder - Native Art Designs.

Sci-Fi film shot in First Nation language being filmed in BC.

Trickster artist pushes boundaries of Northwest Coast art. (VancouverSun.com)

New Chief elected to head Canada's Assembly of First Nations.

New Native film; A Windigo Tale.

Making Art Out Of a Plain Wood Fence. (JuneauEmpire.com)

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Bear trap in Quetico Park "rest stop".


New dam in Quetico Park? WTF?


stuff


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This is the second song, in the series; United Breaks Guitars.



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Olympic Venues to Showcase Aboriginal Art(TheEpochTimes.com)

Incan Painting of the Spanish Colonial Period(Curator's Corner blog) This was an especially interesting find. The Spanish "baroque" style of painting was transferred to Incan artists during the colonial occupation.

How to make paper beads. (Instructables.com)

Interesting beadwork post, illustrating how to bead bezels for crystals. (Inspirational Beading blog)

Navajo golfer, Notah Begay III, hosting charity golf event on August 24. Tiger Woods, Camilo Villegas and Mike Weir playing the Notah Begay III Foundation Challenge.

Journalist tips for using YouTube, productively.

Good article reviewing prehistory of the Great Lakes First Nations peoples. Ancient People of the Great Lakes (Heritage-Key.com)

International Indian Treaty Council newsletter. Upcoming annual conference in Panama, August 29-31, 2009.

Northwest Coast artist, Nicholas Galanin website. Easily, the most interesting pieces that I saw there, were the book-carving masks. Very cool.

Planet IndigenUs fest at harbourcentre in Toronto, until August 23.

Native American Music News ("Sponsored by Canyon Records.").

New, young Native artist off to Native Art school.

Visionmaker Video Contest; this year's theme "Elder Voices, Youth Choices". Deadline: Sept. 1, 2009

Fed crackdown puts tribal artifact dealers on edge (MercuryNews.com)

Review of Kent Monkman's "Danceto the Berdache". (The Artblog.org)

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First Nations women unite with farmers, cottagers to fight dump; defend water. (Indian Country Today)

Stop Dumpsite 41. Simcoe County, Ontario seeking to pollute its water; others think that this is a bad idea.

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Tags: zoto, jay treaty, canadian copyright, american torture, tony hunt, birchbark biting, Incan baroque, Nicholas Galanin, Kent Monkman, stolen art, Canadian blog, First Nation, Native blog,Bingorage, Broken Vulture Art, blog,pics

BingoRage Square-Zeroed by Zoto.com; Anurag Art and PhotoBucket to the rescue

It's grim news, BingoRagers.

My image-hoster, Zoto.com, has finally gone "tits up in the Wabigoon".
[Wabigoon, being a particularly nastily-polluted river in Northwestern Ontario. Documented in "A Poison Stronger Than Love".]


--Isn't this Amazon frame... sexy? and relevant?--

No-one responds to queries or forums there (Zoto) and I am beginning to feel like the last hopeful holdout. I imagine that this is what it must feel like at the end of society, when the last TV viewer cranks their generator and turns on their set, hoping to catch another robo-generated lineup of I Love Lucy, A-Team and brazillian soap opera reruns. One day there is no signal and we sigh, go outside and begin hunting our giant post-nuclear cockroach overlords.

Anyways.

I will have to start using another image-hoster. My archived blog-postings are next to useless, unless someone at zoto develops a conscience and tries to make the thing work again. And, the only good news, that I can see, is that I now have an excuse to post old pictures again and try to see them afresh. Perhaps it will give me an excuse to back and better document/describe what was going on with earlier pieces... but it feels like re-doing paperwork. And I hate paperwork.

So; if you are a new visitor... I beg you to return. There will be more stuff and the lame image-hoster may function again, for a time and the archives will have stuff. I will continue to make and post new stuff, repost and re-comment on old stuff and promise to build an AI to generate post nuclear stuff.

Looking at my Zoto account page ("Upgrade now!") tells me that I have 4172 photos uploaded (most, linked-to in my blog) and my account is PAID until January 2011. Unbelieveable. I would gladly pay more, but nobody is asking me to. The GUI is great, I love the way the whole service is laid out, but there is no hope left. I even found one of the founders on Facebook, but he isn't answering my pleas messages.

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Latest: Went down to Minnesota and hung around with the guys at Anurag Art. They have a new, official, website, AnuragArt.com. Please go and check it out. My Anurag fansite, Anurag Art Online, will continue to operate and function as a more variable/weird/random outlet for thems and us. Unfortunately, it has probably been harmed by the fall of Zoto.com, as well. I will post and re-post stuff there, shortly.

The Zackster, at Anurag, has built himself a new house and has started to gussy-up the place. He asked me to paint him a mural (to start) and gave me a pride of place in the cathedral-ceiling living-room, alongst the stairway.

The shape and placement of the piece suggested to me, the classic DuChamp imagery of "Nude Descending Staircase2". A great composition that heralded the arrival of Cubism (OK, OK; there are probably earlier exemplars. Use "comments" to expound.), but did not suggest (to I) his later weird shit, that seems to have more in common with punk rock and Dada. See signed urinal ("Fountain").

Anyways

The piece that I am working, for Zackster, suggests evolution, or devolution. There will be critters, werecows, crack-penguins, ecstasy, squid, tools and other bits. With a little taste of "Indian" (feather, not dot). Currently in a state of pencil-sketch and first-paint.

Panel, left: Squiddy thing.



Panel, centre: Bird thingeys and fishy thing.



Panel, right: Human skeletal thingey with transformation thingamajiggy.



Entire piece, with "first paint" thrown (angle slightly skewed).



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Tags: zoto.com, zoto sucks, zoto blows donkey root, Anurag Art, Foundry and sculpture studio, pencil sketch, mural, native art, image hoster, fuck zoto, Canadian blog, First Nation, Native blog,Bingorage, Broken Vulture Art, blog,pics

BingoRage midsummer '09 studio update

Heyo, BingoRagers!
I know, I know...
It has been a while. But, rejoice; there are many pics, below.

There is also a little bonus: A short story by "yours, truly".
It is, however, a bit naughty. Bad language, "wild men" and adult situations, so to speak. So, don't read it to your kids at bedtime.
Kids don't read much, nowadays, so we shouldn't worry about them burning out their hippocampus on this posting.

I can't remember where I found the Sasquatch sign; will post if I can find source.

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Here is an important lecture. Canadian author and essayist, John Ralston Saul, makes the case that Canada is based not on the "European model", but on a "conversation with Aboriginal Peoples". I am not sure how long this CBC audio link will last, so listen, or download, immediately and listen at your leisure. CBC "Ideas" radio show.



Direct download
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(Pics click to enlarge.)



Sorry, folks. The giant "space-tick" on the side of the T-Bird's head had to go. See first set of "T-Bird/Sturgeon" painting, here.



Oh Christ. Not another "sky-snake". Can't we go five minutes around here without a dragon?



Wings?... That's original.



Aha! Pinkeye!
It's the leechy conjunctivitis, dicussed below.



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This "Old Man" mask has been around the block, never finding its right hue. Maybe I have finally found it.









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Rainbow and god-hammer, over Ranier, MN.



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Minus 3 000m.
Chalk, on black paint background, with acrylic paint additions and highlights.
Painted on masonite board. Clearcoated, for install.







"Dumbo Squid"; google it, if you don't believe me.



Installed, at SpiritFire Park.



---

JohnnyCat



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"Yellow Face" thing. New canvas. Will undergo change.









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Rushing River; West of the highway.



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Leech Water

Something loud disrupted my nap. It had to be loud, to cut through a light, rye hangover and the gyrating dream shadows of a recent ex, on the back of my eyes. She was in the middle of performing an act that I had never been able to persuade her of, before.

"Oh fuck."; I was made suddenly aware that I was sleeping, dreaming and fantasising, facedown, on a filthy carpet in the middle of a room. My eyes felt like they were flailing in a sack. A greasy, sticky sack. Sideways.
Thankfully, it was my own living room.

It was nearly midnight, according to the watch under the couch. A watch that I had been looking for, the last three months. The entire afternoon and evening had been spent drinking, smoking and sculpting. Mission accomplished on the drinking and smoking, but the small mountain of modeling clay in the garage still looked like a pile of rainbow turds that a baboon had been playing with, on a brown boulder, for only about three minutes.

Somebody was pounding at the door, demanding entry. After battling my way to a standing position, I freshened my drink with whiskey and orange pop. After the first tasty swig, I wandered towards the door, but stopped, to check out the visitor in a side window. I was momentarily repelled by the awful visage in the glass, I nearly gagged, before realising that it was a reflection. I lit a cigarette to quell the butterflies and flipped on the outside light.

The gentleman caller at the front door is known to me. He's called 'Dirty Jesus'. He's twitchy-lookin', tonight. More so, than usual. He was clutching something... dingy, off-white, in his grubby paws. The sickly yellow of the porch's bug light does nothing for his complexion, either. The doorbell rang again, followed by a pounding fist.

"What the fuck do you want?... Do you know what time it is?" I walked over and pounded on the door twice as loud as he had, to punctuate my voice.

"Hey man, I gotta show you this... This thing. Lemme in!"

"Fuck off. I'm busy."

"Busy?
Busy, what!? Jerkin' off and making ugly lumps uh shit that nobody wants?"

I took that bait without hesitation. I whacked at the chains and locks and ripped the door open with the full intention of stomping Dirty Jesus... With all the artsy love that I could muster.

I lunged out and jerked to a clumsy stop.
I was staring at the wrong end of a can of pepper foam. It was right at face level. That can had gone missing my from apartment a few weeks before, but I hadn't reallyreckoned Jesus as one of the primary suspects.
I had used that shit on guys before and I knew what it could do.


"You... fuck."
It came out as a hushed hiss.

I stumbled back, yanking on the door, but he stuck both of his scabby hands, my stolen mace and a dingey styrofoam tub, through the opening. The door smashed his leather-sleeved forearms, but he held to the can of pepper foam.

I might have disarmed him at that moment and avoided the rest of that wretched evening, but something, wet and warm, splashed in my eyes. I reeled back in anticipation of pain and stumbled over my rubber boots. I fell against and then through the broom-closet door. My vision wobbled as I blinked. I could see.

My eyes stung a bit, but not pepper-foam sting.

His head came through the door, eyes rolling around, searching for something. His trailing arm popped through the opening, waving around a small, poorly-sealed styrofoam tub. More drops of liquid splashed on the carpet.

"What the fuck!!", I yelled. The liquid in my eyes had begun to sting. Enough to make me squint, but not badly enough to keep me down. I had to roll over a pile of boots, squinting and consciously abandoning all remnants of dignity, in order to get up.

By then, Dirty Jesus had closed the door behind him and messily locked it. Also, he had trotted into the living room and homed-in on my whiskey-orange pop cocktail.

I call the recipe "Musty Prairie Tangerine". Pour, in order: 1) 2 Gills of Rye, 2) 1 Gill cheap orange pop, 3) Handful of fresh, clean ice cubes, 4) 6 dashes Worcestershire sauce 5) 1 Gill Soda Water (Bottled mineral soda water, preferable to soda gun).

I was rubbing my eyes, madly, yet took notice of my unwelcome guest's tweaking, hangdog demeanour. He was a mass of microscopic, marionette-like movements. His eyes had the unceasingly jerky blank stare of several days' missed sleep. He was using every last scrap of concentration to maintain. Wisely, I granted him the depressant and headed to the kitchen to make, us both, another one. My right eye is beginning to water and burn, however.

"What the fuck did you splash in my eye?!!!", I yell, over my shoulder.
Dirty Jesus stood up and walked into the kitchen hallway. He stood there, vibrating. A slow mask of comprehension bloomed on his grubby, sunburnt face; then, a nervous half-grin. He doesn't say a damned thing.

"What... the fuck... is in that fuck-ing bowl?... In my e-y-e?"

He was standing in front of me, with his eyes and mouth open, but was someplace else. I waited and he came back in a minute. His face moved again. He breathed in, licked his lips and says... "Leeches.".




"Leeches?"

"Yeah..." He smiled, nodded, shrugged his shoulders, twitched his eyes and let out a short laugh, kinda all at once. "... leeches".

"Fuck!!!"

I bowed, roughly, into the sink, ramming my diaphragm on the counter-ledge. I run the cold water, opened my eyes and shake my face under the stream. It's a real bitch to open the eyes, but I forced them with my fingers and let the amazingly good tap water blur my vision. Canadian municipalities, of a certain size, love to rip up the streets and constantly upgrade the pipes. The water's great, but the air quality sucks.

I know leeches; I use them alot.

For fishing. They're scrappy live bait; hardy and effective. You can keep them in your fridge for months without feeding them, if you change the water and flush the leech shit out of it. The tepid nature of the liquid and burning effect of it in my eye convinces me that it was full of various leech excretions and may never have been refrigerated, since it left the bait shop.

Dirty Jesus is exactly the kind of fuck that wouldn't change his leech water. Too ignorant of the ways of live bait; no fisherman, by any stretch.

The cold, hard tap water makes my eyeballs feel raw, but better than burning. Both eyes are open, under the stream. Now, they are cool, no... cold. I had flushed them as well as possible, but would have to watch the mirror for a few days to scout for signs of some exotic, leechy conjunctivitis.

After the water stops, I squeeze the water from my long hair and wipe my face with the dirty dish towel. No paper towels. I felt waterlogged and greasy at the same time, but cleaner. My eyes no longer burn.

Dirty Jesus is no longer in the hallway. When I enter the living room with two new drinks, he is sitting in my chair, drinking the last two fingers of his Musty Prairie Tangerine.

"This is pretty tasty... Like one of those fancy salad dressings."

I place another in front of Dirty Jesus. He smiled and offers a pack of obscure American cigarettes. I took one of the smokes that he offered and sat down, across the table. He got comfortable on the couch. He knew me well enough to know that I wasn't going to toss him out... yet. I reached down with a napkin and picked up the pepper foam spraycan, without taking my eyes off him. It was about half empty.




"You dirty fuck."

"I had to borrow it, at your rent party, last month. Someone was gonna beat the shit outta me!"

"You borrowed it off my desk, without asking me or telling me about it." I managed not to snap at him, but had to remind myself to breathe, after saying this. I paused, leant back and closed my eyes while counting to ten. The little scared part of us that we all share, the monkey mind, wanted to scream at him. To punish him.
I regained my calm.

"Who was going to beat... 'the shit' out of you?"

I couldn't keep the hint of a sneer out of my voice, but I did not yell, or raise my tone, or volume.

"Your old lady."

This time, it was I that went silent and motionless for a minute. I chewed the information and its implications.

"You stole a can of extremely dangerous chemical eye, lung and skin irritant from me, because my 'old lady' was going to beat 'the shit', out of you?"

"Yeah..."

"Presumably... then... You were planing to spray my 'old lady's' eyes, face and mouth with this extremely dangerous eye, lung and skin irritant?"

"Yeah."

"Right. Now you are here... and you have brought my can of pepper foam back...
and it is half empty.

"Yeah."

"Right.
We've got a problem, you and I."

"Really?... What?"

I clenched my fist around the can and growled out "Where the fuck, is the rest of this can
-and- did you fucking use it on someone I care about, you fucking fuck?"

Dirty Jesus hesitated a moment, glancing up to check his memories, then says... "No."

I smile, warily, and then ask "Whom, or what, did you spray with this pepper foam?"

"I think it was a cop?... She may have been a cop."

I have, so got to, lose this can soon, tonight. Permanently disappear it.

"... Dirty Jesus?..."

"Yes, Aaron?..."

"Why are you carrying around a tub of leeches?"

"Well, Aaron... You ever get off while playing with jello?"

Now there was a question. "This has got to be good.", I thought to myself.

There may be a 'payoff', after all, for this evening's disgraces. There come rare moments, in our lives, when we can sit back and enjoy the cosmic joke. Precious clarity often found on those crazed, toxic shittrains that were our productive nights. If I could just chill, for a little while, I was going to hear a great story. Dirty Jesus was crazed and delusional, but he was a street-poet of the first water and a charmed adventurer. If you could create the right space in your head for him, he would fly you to the stars, drag you through the sewage and make you laugh through bloodied lips. Most people took a look at him and tried to put something else between them. Something wide and tall.

I lay back in the chair with my drink and cigarette. "No.", I said, " Tell me about it."

"Well ya see, there was this really creepy chick following me around the fishing tackle section at SportsWorld. I caught her looking at me, while I was feeling the plastic grubs. I love the way they feel between the fingers when you squish them. The dry ones squish real good, but the new, wet ones that come in their own pickle juice can make me come when I stick my hand in a big jar of these wet, fake worms in dayglo colours, floatin' in a big jar of stinking nectar that makes me, even me, wash my hands. There's no way that I can afford to buy one of these jars, ya dig; they're 20 bucks a pop. I imagine the day when I can bring one home; but, instead, I go to these big, fancy sports shops at odd hours, so that there are few customers or clerks around so I can wander to the tackle section, find the plastic grubs aisles and find a jar of my favourite grub colours... open it carefully, take a look around... make sure no one's lookin'. Then, carefully so's it don't spill on your clothes, puts my hand in. Just one hand, ya dig?
That japanese bug juice comesaspillin', overflowing, slowlydrippin', everstinkin'.
Don't get any on your shoes, your pants or your other hand.

Now; close your eyes and get to squishin'. Not too fast at first, loosen up, jes' swirl your fingers 'round, feel them gathering on your fingers. Now, gather as much, into a ball, as you can and slowly make a fist. Don't let any out! Slowly squeeze, feel it getting tighter, smaller, harder. Suddenly, pieces come squirtin' out your fingers, wriggling like they're alive.

If you do it right, it's a surprise and makes me cream my shotes."

"Dirty Jesus...", I interject, "You, are a profoundly disturbed human being.

"Yeeeaaahhh... I know."

"Why don't you just steal a jar?"

"That would be wrong!"

"Of course... Continue."

"I never got to cream my shotes, 'cause I heard a noise, opened my eyes and saw this really ugly woman staring at me from the end of the aisle.

I'm fucked and I knows it, so I pull a Heyoka routine: "I'm Okay! I'm Okay.", I shout at her. "I fell in, but I'm okay. I'll get a napkin." I pulled my hand out and make like I'm catching the drippings, but make sure not to get any more on me and started walking towards the bathroom. Well, I guess that I hadn't fooled her, 'cause she starts following me, but always a couple aisles over, not even pretending to look at the prices of coats, trail mix, or rifle brass. I don't see a walkie talkie, but she's talking to someone I can't see and what's my luck that there's a crazy lady following me from the tackle section of SportsWorld at 7 A,M, in the fucking morning? None, that's what. I looks down the store and see a couple monkeys in blue vests hanging around the bathroom door and trying not to look at me and 'oh fuck, I'm so busted'. There's no way to get out of this yuppie shit-hole aaannnd wash my hand of the damn sushi-juice..."

[Say "sushi-juice", three times fast.]

"and I'm gonna get it all over my clothes before this is over.

I know that you've covered yourself in fox-piss and sat on a rock, waiting for a stupid deer to come by, so you know what I'm talking about, you fuck, so don't you dare laugh.

So, I fucking ran. Cut left and headed straight to the closest emergency exit, but that pimply butt-faced lady cut me off and I ran towards the live bait kiosk, hoping that there was a back door to the 'employees only' section, where government law mandates an external egress, but was dead end. So I did the only thing I could; took out the pepper foam that you lent me and stuck my hand and a tupperware pitcher inna big leech tank to throw water at 'em."

"I did not lend you the pepper foam... Leech tank?"

"I didn't know it was the leech tank. Jest grabbed a handy container and stuck my hand in. I swirled my hand around... and it was just like the world's biggest jar of synthetic, salty, juicy, whale-flavoured flesh-bait that I had ever put my hand in, but without the dayglo colours or the stink.

It got too cold, actually. As the three employees entered the little room, I lost the feeling in my hand. My good hand.

I was jugglin' the can of mace you gave me, in my wrong hand, trying to get it to point right. The woman stares at my arm in the leech tank and she says 'My God, he's doing it again.' I figured that keeping my hand in the tank was giving me some sort of advantage in the situation, so I left it there... couldn't feel it no more, anyways.

'Don't come near', I says, "my hand's in there!'.

One of the monkeys said 'Maybe it's a suicide attempt... we should call someone.'
Then the girl starts to cross the room, sticking to the wall. 'Stay back!', I yells, but she keeps on comin' and says 'Let us call someone and help you', so I gave her a taste of the foam on her neck and mouth. She stops walking and blinks and wipes at the gunk on her face, then she drops to the floor, squealing and rolling like the tail you rip off a lizard...
If it could squeal.

The two monkeys stare at her, then they they stare at me, then they take a step into the room.

'I warned you!' I screams at them and rip my soggy, frozen hand out of the water...
and then things got weird.

I couldn't feel a damn thing, but the pale, firm appendage in front of me was covered in black globs that lay flat and weaved from side to side, dark boogers that hung and stretched and little tentacles that waved hello at us. Well, I nearly fainted. One of the monkeys ran screaming and the other just stood still as a rock and stared. The big girl still rolled on the floor but wasn't yellin' any more. 'I am leavin this shit-hole!', I yelled at blue monkey #2 walking towards the doorway of the live bait kiosk and monkey #2 backs into a corner of the little room, never turning his back to me. Then I run.

There are a couple more blue vests between me and the main door, but I shake leeches on them when they get close and I maced a big, tall customer in the doorway to keep 'em busy. Then I came here."

"... Oh my." I stood up and went to refresh my drink, fudging the measures. I took a slug and threw in an ice cube, for balance. I did not offer to top off his drink. I did begin to plot how to get him out of my place and stash him far away, for a couple days. I returned to my seat.

"Okay, DJ. This is how it's going to go: I am walking you to the 7-11 and calling my cabbie. He will take you to my cousins place upriver. You'll stay there for a couple nights. The cabbie will not give you the fare money. He will not take you somewhere else. He will not put up with your shit, nor will my cousin. I am giving my cabbie the rest of this pepper foam; he will get rid of it for me, but he will also use on it your crazy ass if you fuck with him.
Do you understand?"

It took a long moment. "Yeah."


My cousin owed me a shitload and didn't have any wife or kids to worry about. He also had a crappy cabin that would be like a fucking castle to Dirty Jesus. I have to remember to tell Brian, 'my cabbie', not to drive there in a straight line.

"Mix it up a bit, so Dirty Jesus can't find his way back there."

Him, I owe, huge. He's got enough juice with his cab company to get a legit car for days at a time, as long as the lease is paid, tank's full and no damage. He's also got a legit driver's license, legit hack license and no record. He looks pretty square, with Buddy Holly glasses and can pass for a banker with long sleeves covering his tats. Normally, he's expensive to hire out for special projects, but I find him things. Things that others cannot find, or would never touch. His wife loves my paintings. She has many.

"Tell me, Jesus... before we go; Where'd you get the tub and why did you keep some of these leeches, here?"

"I went down to the docks and picked up a bait tub that someone threw away. There was alotta them, down there. Tubs, that is. By that time there were only a few left hanging on my hand. I found a lid that fit and came here."

"Okay. But... Whyyy, did you keep the leeches?"

"Ooohhh.
I'm gonna teach them the exotic Ojibway Walleye dance."

"Oh. Good...
Let's get of here."

We left.

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Tags: acrylic painting, art, Ojibway art, Native art, short story, thunderbird, sturgeon, leeches, NorthWestern Ontario, fiction, Canadian blog, First Nation, Native blog,Bingorage, Broken Vulture Art, blog,pics