Saturday, April 5, 2014

Try and see it my way ...

Can liberals and conservatives be friends?

I believe so; and, somehow over the course of my leftist life, several of my best friends – people I love and respect – happen to be conservative.

One in particular sometimes frustrates me to no end, with views that border on frightening. He’s not just “don’t wear white after Labor Day” conservative, but so far right as to make the Tea Party appear rational.

And we are still friends.

To maintain a cross-political relationship does require a lot of work, though. Both parties have to have a strong belief in freedom of speech – even speech that they vehemently disagree with – and it helps to have an almost-superhuman ability to overlook comments or viewpoints that make you cringe inside.

And sometimes that isn’t even enough.

One of my closest friends is a frequent poster on social network sites, which means I often see many of his political diatribes which sometimes cause me to choke and sputter in outrage and disbelief.

Many of the issues we disagree on pertain to simple politics, where facts play little role. For example, he places the blame for the federal deficit squarely on President Obama’s shoulders, and absolves former-President Bush of any culpability.

There’s no room for compromise here. Our opinions are cemented in how differently we see and understand “the facts.”

I wonder about my right-leaning friends; for I know they are quality individuals; honest, hard-working and without prejudice. They are the kind of people you’d want to be your neighbors, your friends.

How can so many of my treasured friends hold political views so abhorrent to my own? Believe me, I have thought about this often. I think the answer is empathy.

Some of my friends don’t think the federal government should regulate businesses; but I say that was once the norm in America and we had 10-year-old kids working 12-hour days in coal mines.

That’s why I think the main different is empathy. Conservatives can’t put themselves in the shoes of the abused worker, because when they envision the scenario they see themselves as owning the business, never as one of the average workers.

A national issue now is whether businesses have to serve gay customers. Conservatives say a business owner should be able to decide what customers he or she will serve.

Again that stance is rooted in the inability to put yourself in someone else’s shoes. But I grew up in a pleasant small town in Rhode Island, and what if stores there could decide not to serve brown-skinned people? Guess what; my town only had two brown-skinned families, so 99.9% of the town – including my conservative friends – wouldn’t have been affected by such a change.

I have no doubt my family would. My parents wanted to buy a house once when one the community’s leading members said he’d have to check to make sure none of the other homeowners objected to a brown-skinned family living in the neighborhood.

The issue that my conservative friend recently railed at was assimilation; he basically said if you don’t want to assimilate into American society, you should just go back where you came from.

I can’t tell you how offended I was by that comment.

Now, I can understand how my friend could reach that conclusion. As I said, a lack of empathy is the culprit. My friend is a white male, so when has his ilk ever had to assimilate to anything in America? It’s easy to tell others to assimilate to your societal views, when it requires no change on your part.

His views on assimilation were especially distasteful to me, because I am an American Indian – a group of people who were forced to assimilate. Nor am I talking about things that happened hundreds of years ago.

My wife’s mother remembers the day she was “captured,” that’s the word she uses. In the late 1940s-early 1950s Navajos didn’t own cars, so when a car came down the road Indian parents warned their children to run into the hills and hide until the white people left. One day, my mother-in-law was too slow and the people in the car grabbed her, threw her in the back seat and took her from Arizona to Oklahoma so she could be assimilated. She was nine.

My father-in-law was only five when white government workers came to his rural Arizona community, yanked him away from his mother and sent him to Oklahoma.

They were children who did not speak English, who did not understand what was happening, who feared they would never see their families again.

It is a shame that my conservative friend, who believes in assimilation, lacks the ability to see it from another point of view. I have no doubt that he would think less highly of assimilation if some foreign government had pulled into his driveway and stole his five-year-old child away.


Sunday, March 30, 2014

Chairman Meow, the Fuzzy Tyrant

As my father-in-law, Reuben Begay Sr., backed his “Navajo Cadillac” up I fell in love with the reclining chair tied in the back. Even before the tailgate was opened my heart was racing, fantasizing about all the comfortable hours I would have sitting in m new favorite chair.

You see I like to sleep in reclining chairs, rather than a bed. Which may help explain why I have no children.

“Go ahead,” my wife, Sara, said. “Put it wherever you want.”

Well, I wanted to put it in the Jungle Room at
Graceland Mansion, but I didn’t think Priscilla Presley would be cool with that idea, so – like Sheldon Cooper, of “The Big Bang Theory” – I set it in just the exact spot. It was at a slight angle so I could watch TV, and yet carry on a conversation during the mundane moments of auto insurance, beer and Viagra commercials.

It was close enough to the fridge that I could make the trek for a cold can of Diet Dr. Pepper without missing what Judge Judy was saying; and situated in such a way that I could bolt out the door if a monster should suddenly crash through the living room window. Unless Sara was home; then I’d have to fight the monster while she ran away, even though said monster would probably end up killing me. Ain’t love a bitch?

But I didn’t care, I was willing to make that noble sacrifice for my sweetie pie. So until that fateful day when I have to square off against Dracula or some zombie, I planned to enjoy reclining in comfort.

“How do you like your new chair?” Sara asked.

Meow,” replied Tye Tye, our soft, fuzzy ball of mischief. His name is Tiger Tiberius, which we often shorten to Tye Tye. While Sara and I think of him as our beloved “son,” Tiger views us as “those pests that won’t leave my house.”

“Whoa, Tiger,” I interrupted. “You have your own chair, this one is daddy’s.”

Meow,” Tye Tye said, with a look in his eyes that seemed to say “We’ll see about that, chubby.”

I’m not saying that Tiger is spoiled, but before my new chair arrived, he had the most comfortable chair in the house, padded with his own yellow blanket, decorated with little doggies. He also has three cat beds, several blankets of his own, numerous birds and mice that either squeak or are filled with catnip and the only flavors of canned cat food that he deigns to eat.

Oh, and every day about 5 p.m. he leaps up to his own place on the counter and meows to let us know he’s ready for his daily bowl of whipped cream. It’s Redi Whip, extra creamy; he refuses to eat any other kind.

Talk about spoiled, Tye Tye makes demands on us that most cats don’t. For example, he enjoys the occasional olive, nibbling corn off the cob and McDonald’s sweet tea.

But don’t set seafood in front of him. He’ll sniff it and turn his back in protest. Tye’s the first cat I’ve met that won’t touch seafood. Well, I should say “won’t eat” seafood, he will touch it sometimes; he likes batting shrimp around the room no matter how often I tell him not to play with his food.

So that’s our Mr. Fuzzy Head.

Sara pampers Tye, and I like pretend to be a grouch, but I can’t resist petting him and slipping him treats when Sara isn’t looking. I can’t let her know that I’m crazy about Tiger, too, or that cat will completely run our lives.

First I went and got a blanket for my new chair. Then I arranged the shelf next to the chair just the way I liked it, so my soda and snacks would be close to hand.

Then I went into my office to get a book. I was looking forward to relaxing in my soft, new recliner with a god book. (I knew it was a good book, because I wrote it. Now, for a shameless plug: check out “Loki: God of Mischief” or any of my books at or

I walk down the short hallway, emerge into the living room and guess where Mr.Tye is?

That’s right, he’s stretched out on my Pendleton blanket, in my recliner and looks at me like he’s Chairman Meow!

“Hey, that’s my chair, Fuzzy Head,” I said.

He barely opens one eye, looks at me and yawns. Fortunately a water spray bottle encourages him to leave my chair.

I settle down to a great night’s sleep, only to awake at 3 a.m. and find a cat sleeping on my chest!

It’s going to be a tough fight for control of the new reclining chair, but this time Tiger Tiberius is going to find out that he’s no match for Lazy Boy.

And I don’t mean the chair.




Friday, March 28, 2014


Author John Christian Hopkins creates a world of myth, magic and mayhem in "Loki: The God of Mischief." (Blue Hand Books, 2014).

Cosmic warfare has been ongoing since time began, then -- faced with world destruction -- the wisest of the rival factions formed a plan to prevent Ragnarok, the "Twilight of the Gods."

When tabloid reporter Napoleon Marquard investigates a gruesome homicide he finds himself straining to believe what seems to be happening. Creatures and legends from the world's mythologies seem to be coming back to life in a race to decide the fate of the world.

Manipulating the events appears to be an incarnation of Loki, a Viking deity who would see the world submit before him -- or destroy it forever!

Loki: God of Mischief is available at or For more information or to ask about specials for large orders, visit BlueHand Books.orh

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

Back Home

Author John Christian Hopkins recently successfully concluded a short promotional tour for his latest book, “Carlomagno: Adventures of the Pirate Prince of the Wampanoags” (Blue Hand Books, 2013).

Hopkins, a member of the Narragansett Indian Tribe, returned to his home state of Rhode Island to speak at Bryant University in Smithfield, R.I. on March 6 and the Tomaquag Indian Museum in Exeter, R.I., March 8.

“Carlomagno” is an imaginative “what-if” blend of historical fact and fiction. It tells the story of an American Indian youth that is sold into slavery in the West Indies, escapes bondage, becomes a pirate on the Spanish Main and fights for a chance to return to the American Colonies.

Hopkins’ newest work is “Loki: God of Mischief” (Blue Hand Books, 2014) which only became available on Kindle March 4. A paperback edition will follow soon, Blue Hand Books founder Trace DeMeyer said.

Blue Hand Books is a native cooperative based in Greenfield, Mass.

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Okay, I admit it ...

The brave decision by college football star Michael Sam, to announce publicly that he is gay, has finally given me the courage to admit the truth about myself.

So, here goes. Drum roll, please.

I am a male lesbian.

Whew, I feel like a burden has been lifted from my shoulders.

You have no idea what nerve that took.  I’ve known for years that I was attracted to women, it was a sickness, I tell you. I had it bad when it came to women; tall, short, blonde, redhead (especially redheads!) athletic, chubby, long hair, short hair (okay, not so much short hair) black, white, Asian, Latina, Native American – even green-skinned women from Star Trek – it didn’t matter. If she was a woman – or would resemble one when inflated, I couldn’t stop my eyes from checking out her ass … ets.

Yeah, assets, I meant.

To keep my young, impressionable mind from decadent thoughts, I’d silently try to pretend that women were delicious Twinkies. I mean who could fault you for gazing lovingly at those golden sponge cakes filled with tantalizing crème filling?

But try as I might, I couldn’t make the ladies sponge cake worthy. In shame, I realized that, like most men, I wanted a Mrs. Butterworth in the kitchen and a Ho Ho in the bedroom.

I’m not sure if I’m ready for the backlash sure to come my way for confessing to being a male lesbian, or “lezman,” if you must.

I mean when Michael Sam announced that he was gay, within days it was the subject of sports talk shows, even a segment on the national evening news and various celebrities have applauded his decision. I bet People magazine is already planning to name Sam as its “Sexiest Gay Man Alive.”

But there’s still a stigma to admit you’re lezman.

I bet no celebrities will congratulate me, the guys on “Pardon the Interruption” won’t opine on how brave my decision to come out is and the national news programs won’t even mention me.

Matt Lauer won’t have me on for an interview, there will be no vocal support from Oprah and Brad will keep Angelina away from me (if he’s smart!).

A lezman stands alone.

I have a scarlet “H” on my back. I will always be looked down on as a perverted heterosexual.

But, I didn’t choose to be heterosexual. I wish people would realize that I was born this way. Who would willing choose to be a lezman?

I’m sure there are other male lesbians out there, they’re just not ready to come back into the closet yet. Think you might be a lezman?

Answer these simple questions:

Do you think “When Harry Met Sally” would have been a much better movie if it was called “When Harry Did Sally?”

Do women feel the need to remind you “my eyes are up here” when you’re talking to them?

Do you smirk every time you hear a woman use the phrase “Tit for tat?”

If you answered “yes” to any of those questions, then I’ve got some bad news, guys; you could be a heterosexual male, whether you like it or not.


Thursday, February 13, 2014

Mr. Curous: An amazing 2 inches?

Dear Mr. Curious: How can Atlanta – America’s 9th largest city – be crippled by two lousy inches of snow?


Ivanna Know

Dear I. Know: I know, right? The last time someone complained about two inches it was on my honeymoon!

My first reaction when I heard about the snarled traffic was, “Okay, Governor Christie has gone too far!” But this is really a story about government waste. I mean the Union spent four years and millions of dollars fighting these people when all we had to do was equip each soldier with a bucket of snow?

Hopefully the weather will warm up and the snow will soon be gone with the wind!

Dear Mr. Curious: Why is Justin Bieber getting so much attention these days? What up wid dat?


Shawn Cassidy

Dear Cass: I emphasize with you, one day the idol of millions, the next … well, me. It seems these days Mr. Bieber can’t do ron ron anything right.

Or can he?

What if he is hoping to catch the eye of Kris Jenner? The Kardashian empire still has a couple of unmarried girls, so maybe The Biebs is hoping to snatch up one of them and star in his own reality show: “Leave it to Bieber.”

Dear Mr. Curious: I want to surprise my wife with a cruise, but I keep hearing tales of horror onboard some cruise lines. Is it safe?


Ty Tanic

Dear Ty: A relaxing cruise is the way to go, especially in the Caribbean where the chances of hitting an iceberg are minimal. Of course there is always risk involved, for example you can end up wrecked on an uncharted desert isle with a guy named Gilligan.

If your wife does get sick aboard ship, pretend its part of the special Love Bloat package.

Dear Mr. Curious: I am – er, I mean a friend of mine is – considering a run for president in 2016. The problem is that my husb – um, her husband – has lots of baggage. Is America ready for its first woman president?


Hillary Rodham X

Dear X: There’s an old saying, “Once you go black, you never go back,” so not only has America shattered the Black Ceiling, it is certainly ready to go one better – President Winfrey!

As for you – I mean, your friend’s – case, I’d say go for it. The Good Ol’ Boys on Capitol Hill have screwed up enough, time to give Capitol Hillary a chance.

Dear Mr. Curious: I was a late-night talk show host and was No. 1 in my time slot, but was still forced into retirement. Has this ever happened before?


Jaylen Oh

Dear Oh: To find someone forced into retirement while at the top of their game, you have to go back to 1934, when John Dillinger was forced out of the Public Enemy No. 1 position. Hopefully, you’ll enjoy your retirement more than Dillinger did.

Dear Mr. Curious: I know I’m still a great baseball player, but my team is making it clear it wishes I would go away. How can I continue to play ball?


A. Roid

Dear A.Roid: Buy a Play Station. You had a chance to be the greatest ballplayer ever, but chose, instead, to be one of its biggest cheaters. That’s The House That Truth Built.


Saturday, February 8, 2014

Me? McPicky? Nah ... well...

My wife, Sara, thinks I am a picky eater, but you be the judge. I’m sure that I’m not the only person who eats salad one piece of lettuce at a time.

I suppose our idea of what makes a salad is different; Sara likes cucumbers, olives, tomatoes and even those crunchy little bits of stale bread on top. Me? Well, I will eat a sliver or two of a tomato, if it has salt and pepper on it. But olives? I don’t eat things that look like eyeballs.

A bowl of lettuce is my idea of a salad. Well, sort of. It has to be iceberg lettuce. None of that romaine stuff for me. What I like is dressing on the side – usually French or Italian – and I pick up a piece of lettuce and dip it in the dressing.

Now, I ask you, is that so weird?

Thanks to Sara, though, I have expanded my list of acceptable salad dressings. I love Dorothy Lynch!

It’s probably easier to be picky these days than it was when I was kid. For breakfast we had either oatmeal – there was only one flavor then – or ate dried Brillo pads. At least that’s how I always thought of shredded wheat.

If a food is so hard that you have to soak it in warm water before you can eat it, I think maybe it’s not meant to be consumed. I tried taking a bite of bristly square without softening it up first and it felt like I’d bitten into a porcupine with all the little sharp pieces stabbing my tongue and insides of my cheeks.

Actually, today my favorite cereal is probably bite-sized  Mini Wheats. Maybe because you can get flavors, like strawberry, apple cinnamon, maple – and all of them with frosting!

When I was young Shredded Wheat only came in one flavor: canvas.

And I don’t like milk – unless you add “shake” to the end of it. I began to lose interest in milk as soon as I found out that brown cows don’t produce chocolate milk.

In fact I have always eaten cold cereal straight out of the box, no bowl of milk for me!

Since moving to Arizona I have discovered that I am lactose intolerant, so maybe that’s why I was never a big fan of dairy. I used to get sick maybe once out of every 10 times, now it’s more like I don’t get sick one out of 10.

It really becomes a problem when my stubbornness runs smack-dab into my intolerance. While I don’t like most dairy products, I do like sharp cheddar and Swiss cheese.

And ice cream. I love ice cream! If ice cream was made of poison, I’d still risk a bowlful now and then. Bowlful? Who am I kidding? I eat ice cream by the pint, or half gallon. I like Rocky Road, strawberry, butter pecan … it’s almost impossible to find an ice cream that I won’t eat.

But Sara managed it.

She bought me home cherry ice cream. Cherry holds a special place in my pantheon of oddities. I like cherry-flavored drinks, but not foods. When I get a sundae, I won’t touch it until Sara eats the cherry on top.

Sara thinks it’s funny the way I eat my Mama’s French Toast at Cracker Barrel. I cut off a small piece at a time and then pour syrup on that one bite. Come on now, if I poured the syrup right on top, my French toast would get all soggy before I could eat it.

And soggy is my Kryptonite.

No soggy bread. No juicy burgers, no enchiladas, no pickles next to my sandwich and no sloppy Joes. When I go to a restaurant, my motto is: if it’s dripping, I ain’t tipping.

A picky eater? I think not.

I’ve just gotten more selective than I was when I was six and ate the fuzzy caterpillar.





Sunday, February 2, 2014

Poem: Girls




I knew those bad girls

A few way too sad girls

Some were just no good

There were mad girls

And glad girls

Some that probably would.


There were mean girls

Way too lean girls

Many I can’t recall

There were green girls

Barely eighteen girls

None that made me fall.


There were some hot girls

A few which were not girls

Some melancholy blue

I knew racy tart girls

Good from the start girls

But there was only one you.


I knew some swell girls

The no chance in hell girls

And one that was taken

There were kiss and tell girls

Sweet perfume smell girls

A few may have been faking.


But I never knew, girl

Someone like you, girl

For the rest of my life

I’ll be true, girl

Will stick like glue, girl

Need you as my wife.


So with a sigh, girls

I say good bye, girls

Don’t pine over me

Thanks to all of my girls

But I won’t lie, girls

I’m happy as can be.


Sara is my brain girl

A dance in the rain girl

My angel, so sweet

She’s like a sugar cane girl

Walk down a country lane girl

She makes my dreams complete.


Nothing you lack, girl

You got the knack, girl

So listen when I say

Love you to the moon and back, girl

That’s just the true fact, girl

Love you forever and a day.

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

Sara: Tiger and the universe

By Sara Begay Hopkins (written Jan. 2, 2014)
I'm finally back to work. OMG...what a tumultuous New Year already! Are you ready to read about our mini drama?
Tiger, our beloved gray/white tabby boy cat, took off outside of our trailer at 1 p.m. Monday, December 30, 2013. Usually, he comes right back or comes back during the evening. (BTW - Tiger will be 6-years-old {human years} on Valentine's Day, 2014...and he was born at the Tse Bonito, N.M. "Tse Bonito Trailer Court.")
He didn't come home -- I left the door ajar a little. (Don't worry...we live in the "country," of the Navajo rez...and we are tucked away in an obscure corner -- we don't get any "traffic," of people...).

No Tiger on December 31, 2013 -- I had a day off and we were set to travel to Cortez, Colo. (Christjohn has a Rhode Island friend, Don Kirk, and his wife Ellen there...Don is from the little town of Ashaway, next to Christjohn's hometown of Hope Valley, R. I.). Don wanted us to come over during Thanksgiving 2013, but our white Nissan Sentra was out of commission. The blue Nissan Versa is having the same symptoms. (I'm waiting for my W2 to file my taxes, and I'll use my taxes to pay for the new axle and ball joints...sigh!). So we decided to do New Year's with Don Kirk and Ellen.

But, we didn't have Tiger. I made a makeshift box "house," (shelter) that I covered with a trash bag and I put a flannel pillow case in there with an old towel for "comfort.") on our dilapidated rust-coloured wooden porch attached to the trailer we rent in Fort Defiance, Ariz. I also put another box out and I put Tiger's dry food; wet food and water in that second box. I prayed Tiger would come home.

We left for Cortez, Colo. during mid-morning December 2013. We were there around noon and we ate at this quaint, "organic," veggie-centered place called "The Farm." I really wanted their salad and their squash soup. (Last time I had that was primo!)

Christjohn, the meat eater, was hungry when we got to Cortez, Colo. and he ordered the "organic basil chicken pasta." They didn't have that delish squash soup so I got the "organic chicken tortilla soup," and their green salad with Ranch. OMG -- Delicious, too.

We enjoyed our food, and we found our hotel and the people are friendly there. We relaxed and took a mini nap and called Don Kirk.  He told me that he and Ellen were running to the store, and he'll call me back on when to come to his house in Cortez.

I stretched out on the bed, and started to doze because my sleep was fitful the night before. (I kept waking up -- I slept in the living room -- looking at the door and "Tiger's Chair," hoping he'd be home.

At 3:30 p.m. Don Kirk called and said to come over.

Christjohn and I told Don that we would pop over to the Cortez Walmart and pick up some items that we said we would bring like potato chips; ice cream {for the apple pie that Ellen baked} and diet soda. (Christjohn and I don't drink full blown soda...).

We used the generous gift card snailmailed to us from my ole college friend, Vern Gran Patino and her husband, Gil Patino. Vern is San Carlos Apache and a descendent of Geronimo. Gil is also a college pal and he is Mexican, but each are awesome people.

So anyway, we used that gift card, and we found Don and Ellen Kirk's little tiny house. It was cute! I can see why Don doesn't open his home to overnight visitors. It is a tight squeeze.

At any event, we had hot dogs; baked beans; potato salad and the apple pie with ice cream. (that was Christjohn's favorite part -- apple pie with ice cream!)

We played "Yahtzhee," (I don't know if I spelled that right...); we opened our Christmas gifts to each other and we watched a DVD about Cortez, Colorado.

Christjohn and I love Cortez, Colorado and the surrounding area. But, Christjohn noted the "snow scenes," on the Cortez, Colo. DVD.
"Don, I really thought a lot about moving to Cortez, Colorado, until I saw those snow scenes," Christjohn told Don with a laugh.

Don said, "We don't get that much snow, John..."

I don't mind snow, but I don't like driving in it all, is what I thought to myself.  I didn't say anything negative about snow in Cortez, Colo.

Then we talked about Cortez, Colorado's job market and where are the jobs.

We visited and played Yahtzhee until 11 p.m. and Christjohn's eyes were bleary and red-eyed. He couldn't take it and he wanted to return to the hotel room.

So did I!

I'm glad he said, "Are you ready to go?"


We hugged Don and Ellen, and I drove us to the convenience store for bottled water and green tea. I think Christjohn got himself a Diet Dr. Pepper.

We crashed! I know I dozed off as that "New Year's Celebration," was on the motel room TV.  But, I slept good.

I got up in the new year, and we got ready to return to the Kirks for their New Year's Lunch that Ellen prepared for us.  We were there at noon. Ellen so generously prepared John's favorites -- meat loaf with ketchup sauce; corn and apple pie. For me -- baked potatoes with the fixings. It was like a home cooked meal. Very lovely.

Ellen packed up leftovers for us -- thick slices of meat loaf; 1/2 a huge baked potato and rolls and chocolate chip cookies. Holy cow!

We returned to Fort Defiance, Ariz. around 4 p.m.

No Tiger.

I started to get sad when I started to realize that Tiger has been gone (MIA) for three days!

I kept the front door a little ajar, and I slept in the living room. I wouldn't even say I slept at all. (!) Even Christjohn slept in the living room.

I decided to chant and pray during the "mystical hours," (midnight to 4 p.m.) for Tiger to come home.

I was already emotional because it's like losing one's child -- or at least, for me it is. Tiger is like my baby -- my child.

Christjohn even got emotional during the evening, and he was blaming himself. I told him not to do that to himself and I told him, "It is supposed to be like this because what if Tiger ran away in Page, Ariz.? That wouldn't been worse...because we are four hours away. And Mom (my mom) doesn't need that extra is frazzled with Ben's injury..."

Before the sun went down, we drove around our little neighborhood and down Highway 12 to look for Tiger. We went toward the Fort Defiance I.H.S. and drove around the streets...No Tiger remains.

"Thank God," Christjohn and I said in relief that Tiger was smart enough to avoid Highway 12.

We were relieved that, at least, Tiger wasn't on the road.  Christjohn and I told stories about Tiger, and we cried.

I decided not to go to work January 2, 2014, and I called in I told my supervisor, Freida, "Family Emergency."

I was emotionally drained, but I prayed from 1:49 a.m. to 3 a.m.  I prayed to the Universe.

I did cry and I was sending Tiger my prayers to tell him I loved him unconditionally and to come home. I was exhausted by 3 a.m.  I was in no shape to go to work.

By some miracle, I woke up at 8:30 a.m. I was tired, but something kept me up. I decided I wanted bagels and cream cheese, so I got ready and went to our Arizona Reservation grocery store, "Bashas'."

I bought the bagels and cream cheese, and chicken drumsticks for dinner.

I returned around 9:45 a.m. (I also drove around that little strip mall area feeding the stray rez dogs...our leftovers that were my mother's -- but we didn't eat everything she packed for us...because I'm not suppose to cook after my "Bow and Arrow," prayer...).

Christjohn and I were talking...I still had all this food from Bashas' in the grocery bags on the table.

Tiger jumped through the little crack in the door!
 I took the worn wooden cat door holder out of the door, but I kept the door a little opened. Not as wide because it was COLD.


Me and Christjohn were in shock. Four days of NO TIGER!

I picked Tiger up who smelled of sand and burnt wood.  I checked his paws; his ears and his fury body. No wounds -- no blood. He's OKAY!

OMG, I hugged him and cried.

I asked Tiger, "Where have you been?"

Tiger responded with his "Meow!"

I told Tiger, "We missed you badly!"

That day was the happiest, greatest day. I have so much gratitude for my little family of Christjohn and Tiger.  Throughout the day I felt "shell shocked," and Christjohn felt the same way, too.

Wow, it's been an emotional roller coaster 2014 already.

Here's another at midnight...Christjohn goes to the ATM bank machine to get money from his Social Security Disability monthly payment. ($ is posted monthly on the 3rd of the month).

After we visited the Tse Bonito, N.M. Bank of America ATM after midnight early this morning...I noticed there was a "tumbleweed-like" looking thorn stuck to the driver's front side tire. I brushed it away, and it came out, but the thorn had stuck/dug into the driver's side tire, and the air was hissing out.


Flat tire waiting to happen.

So, my dad is on his way to help us change this tire. We don't have a jack or tools to change a flat tire. (Mental Note -- Christjohn and I need  a flat tire changing kit...). Our neighbors aren't friendly at all, too. (I miss living in Wisconsin where people are nice, helpful and friendly -- not here in Arizona...sigh!).

Sigh! There it is...I called in, again. I told the supervisor in charge -- Eugene Esplain -- I had a flat tire, and I will be late. I got here around 9:44 a.m. and trying to catch up on emails; messages and etc. 

Hopefully, the coming days are better...I'm still reeling in from this emotionally draining Tiger Episode...I haven't adequately thanked the Universe...I'm here at work checking my zillions of emails and catching up...Happy New Year! Hoyan to my Oneida frens

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

2013: A tear in my beer

Well, 2013 started off on a sour note right from the beginning, or do I mean ending? You see I was counting on the world coming to an end, as predicted by Quextifizzle Fo’schizzel, my Mayan Psychic advisor.

So you can see why I hadn’t bothered to think of New Year’s resolutions for 2013. When New Year’s Eve came at the end of 2012 and me with nothing resolved for the coming year, I got desperate.

Not trusting the lyin’ Mayan, I decided to hold a séance and seek advice from The Other Side. My plan was to place wagers on longshots and cash in by betting against the odds.

The Spirit of the Past was Babe Ruth.

“So, 2013 eh?” The Babe said. “Put your money on the pubs.”

Babe’s mouth was stuffed with hot dogs so instead of ‘pubs’, I thought he said “Cubs.” Oh, well.

The Spirit of the Present was Dennis Rodman. “The Obamacare roll-out will go smoothly. As my good friend Kim Jong Un said ‘if you like your dictator, you can keep your dictator’!”

“Duck Dynasty” star Phil Robertson was the Spirit of the Future. “Not a  single homo here. I told them queers will go to hell!”

“This is hell,” Mussolini said. “But the trains run on time.”

Obviously the spirits didn’t help, so I decided to use my abundant skills as a professional journalist to identify things to bet on in 2013.

First was a sucker’s bet. I was sure that there would always be Twinkies …


As you can tell from my compact, if rotund, 230-pound body I obviously work out. I like doing crunches – my favorites are Cap’n Crunch and Nestle’s Krunch.

So I was in the gym one day – not to work out, just to use the rest room – I spotted this young woman shaking her butt in a mirror. I couldn’t take my eyes off her butt until the security guards yanked my face away.

“I’m Miley,” she said.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I call it twerking,” Miley replied. “Bet on it being the next big thing.”

I didn’t know who Miley was, I figured she must be on “Jersey Shore,” because they all seemed like a bunch of twerks to me. Anyway, I was sure that butt twirling would never catch on.

The next thing I know, everyone was twerking off to Miley.

But there was one thing guaranteed to happen. Prince William and Kate were going to have a baby. I could recoup my losses by correctly guessing the name of the new royal heir. People thought it would be something stodgy, like George. But, with Blue Ivy and North West out there, I knew the young, hip royal couple would come up with a cool name.

So I bet on the baby being named Moon Unit Windsor.


As 2013 drew to a close it looked like it was going to be a major disappointment. Looking ahead I saw promise on the horizon. Most people seem to think Hillary Clinton will win the 2016 presidential election.

Like Hillary could ever beat Texas Sen. Ted Cruz. He’s the All-American boy; who could resist a man born in Canada who thinks the American president, born in Hawaii, should go back to Africa?

That’s the kind of logical thinking we need in Washington.

Just when it looked like Lady Luck was going to pass me by in 2013, my old friends at Fox News (I finally said it without smirking!) saved the day by announcing it was a proven fact that Santa Claus was white. I could sell a picture of Santa to the National Enquirer for a gazillion, billion dollars!

In Alaska, I found some elves roasting a reindeer over an open fire.

“We’ve had to eat the reindeer since Congress cut our food stamps,” one elf said.

I explained that I was looking for Santa.

“Forget the North Pole, then,” the elf said. “We only use that when we have strippers over.”

Turns out that rising fuel costs forced Santa to sell his castle and move to an igloo in Aleknagik. I was shocked when Santa opened his door.

“You’re blue!”

“You would be too if you had to spend your life living in the Arctic,” Santa explained.

Santa let me take his picture, but every time I tried the photo came out blank.

“Of course it did,” Santa laughed. “I’m a fictional character! I can appear to be any color someone imagines me to be.”

Santa said Fox News would get a lump of coal this year.

“But, I’ll make it a white lump.”


more about John C. Hopkins

John Christian Hopkins is a member of the Narragansett Indian Tribe, a descendant of King Ninigret, patriarch of the tribe’s last hereditary royal family.
Hopkins is a career journalist who has worked at newspapers across New England, in New York, Florida most recently in Arizona. He was a former nationally syndicated newspaper columnist for Gannett News Service.
As a child Hopkins slept clutching books to his chest and dreamed of becoming an author.
“I’ve never wanted to do anything else but write,” Hopkins said.
Though proud of his native heritage—among his ancestors was Quadrequina, brother to Massasoit and the one that introduced popped corn to the Pilgrims at the First Thanksgiving—Hopkins is determined not to be pigeon-holed as a native author, but as an author who happens to be Native American.

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